My Mother's Clothing

Part 2:
July - December 2008
Click here to view Part 1: January - June 2008
with full introduction to this yearlong photo essay

 

 

These Shoes Are Made for Walkin'
(or, Nancy Sinatra, Sans Boots)
Lemon-lime and white striped sleeveless sheath dress, white patent leather pumps, July 6, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Doc Green's for lunch, Perimeter Mall for a movie

This is the most real photo thus far in the My Mother's Clothing project, because it's the very first photo that wasn't posed. This is actually me walking back toward the camera after I think the shot has been taken! When you're photographing outside, you can't always hear the tiny shutter click, and my poses were all looking away, so I wasn't able to catch the camera's red warning light. So ... even though there were some other really nice shots that I liked, there was just something about this one I couldn't resist. And it seemed to fit the theme better than the others. I had that famous Nancy Sinatra song ringing in my ears all week long, because even though I do not have the benefit of my Aunt Karen's amazing white go-go boots, there's something about this lovely striped sheath dress that reminds me of Daughter Sinatra and the swinging '60s.

Like the photo, the dress was a bit of an accident and a rather interesting exercise in the art of Plan B this past week. A rayon and cotton knit, and the doppelganger of the dress in "Five Feet High and a-Risin' " (bearing the same Beeline tag), the dress was originally striped in white and a vibrant lime green. After it was cleaned, some of the lime dye had bled into the white as a sort of turquoisy blue. I knew I had to get rid of that, but my good-ole bleachin' trick was going to be especially tricky business with this one. Oh ... how to color within the lines? Would it even be possible? ... No, it turns out. Bleach travels. And though applied carefully with a syringe, it traveled well into the lime and turned it lemony. So the whole dress went into a bleach wash. I had no idea what I was going to be drawing back out of the water, but the dress looked terrible as it was, so anything was going to be an improvement. What I got were white stripes that glistened absolutely clean -- no stray dye on them -- and the other stripes now colored in a swirly lemon-lime. It's a very tie-dye look, and it fits the era of the dress. Disaster averted. For the most part.

When Mother wore boots, it was only for the deep Michigan snow, and her hemlines were considerably longer than Nancy Sinatra's were. Still, I can imagine this dress walked into quite a few fun parties.

 

Let's Not Get Carrie-d Away
Pink soft flannel skirt, July 13, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: The Mad Italian for lunch
Click here to see an older shot of BRB in this skirt, with Lois

I was faced with a real dilemma this past May 30. That was the date the movie "Sex and the City" hit theaters. "Sex and the City," from the book and the HBO series of the same name, with its four free-spirited, fashionable, smart, big-city-living, designer-shoe-loving, Glaceau-sipping, precocious females. Promiscuous females. Wowzers, if Mother always thought Bobbie on "General Hospital" was a tramp, what on earth did she think of Carrie and her three pals? But it wasn't the Mother thing that ever would have caused my dilemma -- it was the Southern Baptist thing. Would it be "against the law" for me to see the film?

Deep inside every female, I'm convinced, there is the need to feel pretty, to be girl-like and free-spirited, like Carrie and Crew. Hanging over the head of every female, though, is the idea that this is a bad thing. As someone who strives to follow my Heavenly Father's Word, yet still wants to be a girl, I have to ask some difficult questions, much like the ones Carrie typed into her laptop for each of her newspaper columns ...

Is the appeal of the "Sex and the City" lifestyle simply about not being constrained to the rules of a male-dominated society? Is it about pitching the aprons and hand-mixers and the roles and rules of the '50s? About "working out," as my grandmother used to call having a job outside the home? Because it's certainly not about the sex thing; sex is considered by some to be simply a tool for a bigger purpose. So ... when it comes right down to it ... is it all about power? Would Carrie and Crew be considered feminists? Or are they just girls who wanna have fun? And what is fun? What is feminism? Is it a belief that men and women should be regarded as equal in society, or is it, as some men fear, that women are trying to take over the world? And where is God, in all of that? Does He think women should cover their heads (1 Corinthians 11:5)? Does He think women should submit to all men in society, or just their husbands (two verses up)? And wouldn't that first idea justify misogyny? Is a woman really only worth 30 shekels to a man's 50, as stated in Leviticus 27:2-4? (And wouldn't the gender that actually carries the children be worth more? And is it wrong of me to ask?)

Does God still love the feminist? Can a feminist truly be a Christian? Or is feminism merely the female half of humanism? (Because we know humanism is not Godly or Biblical, right?) All in all, does feminism -- or just plain girlishness, or Carrie-ness, if you will -- stop promptly at the church door? Or just at the Southern Baptist church door?

There is a magazine here in Atlanta called skirt!, and their July issue focuses on the "F-word," feminism. Gotta love it. I enjoyed reading through it, because (another difference between my mother and me) I have always loved exploring issues surrounding the state of being female. They quote Socrates as saying, "Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior." Was he just a scaredy-cat? A misogynist? Timothy Leary said, "Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition." Meow! Alanis Morissette put it simply, "I see my body as an instrument, rather than an ornament." Now, I believe God would certainly jibe with that -- He wants us all to be instruments of His peace. He certainly doesn't want us to be just ornaments, whether we are male or female.

Can you enjoy the spirit (and the shoes) of "Sex and the City" even if you disagree with the sexual promiscuity displayed therein? That one, I know the answer to: Yes, actually, you can. But can you watch "Sex and the City" and still be a Christian? If you were to remove the sex factor from it, and name it simply "Girls and the City," would it be OK? Dare I ask ... Would it suddenly become Christian chick-lit?

So the big question is ... can I be a girlie-girl -- and a Christian? Can I wear Mother's soft, straight, flannelish, girlish pink skirt to church? With spiky designer heels? Right after I sip my Glaceau, and mix up some eggs with that vintage, still-working pink handmixer that Mother received as a wedding gift in 1959? I shall assert ... Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, and yes. If Mother didn't appreciate being girlish and pretty, she never would have owned this wardrobe, after all. And she was no "Run-Around Sue," that's for sure. Things (and people) are not just black and white, night or day, one or the other, in this world -- there are lots and lots of shades of gray. And pink.

Still, methinks Mother might have cringed a bit at this week's whole column. So I guess ... let's not get too Carrie-d away.

 

Biblioteca
Lime and white terry cloth skirt set, white sling pumps, July 20, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Starbucks, Whole Foods Market

I had planned to call this one "Lime and de Coconut," but there really is no tie-in between Mother and Harry Nilsson's 1971 hit song, other than the fact that she was around in 1971, would have heard the song and maybe was even wearing this delightful skirt set. It's 100-percent cotton in a well-worn terry-cloth weave. It's simple, light, with no lining and a frayed tag. The sling pumps are one of many pairs of white shoes Mother had from that era. I wore them a lot as a teenager, along with the skirt of this outfit.

Mother and I shared a love of books. Like me, I doubt she ever got rid of a single book she owned, even the occasional duplicate. Each book I get receives the seal of my own library -- the initials "BR" and the date on the inside back cover -- and remains with me for life. I even kept every book from my college literature classes (along with the notes, always planning to "redo" the class someday without the pressure of exams!) and every other college textbook that the MSU Bookstore or Student Book Store wouldn't give me a decent buy-back on. Like me, Mother had so many books that many had to go into boxes and into storage. She actually had very little bookshelf space at the house, whereas I have the blessing of these custom bookshelves, swallowing up two big walls of my den, which afforded me the seeming luxury of finally drawing decades of books out of my own storage in the attic at the old house just a couple years ago.

To me, a book is a world to explore -- a journey, a chance to examine the culture around us, and at the very least the precious, unique perspective of another human being. Yes, I write them, so I'm partial, but long before I wrote, I read. I read the best and I read the worst. Many authors have influenced me, such as Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allen Poe, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Marsha Norman, Elmore Leonard, Terry McMillan, even the aforementioned Carolyn Keene collaborative and their Nancy Drew.

Writers, and often readers, are deep-thinking souls, and each and every book is an opportunity to indulge that search for meaning.

 

Just Yellow
Yellow cotton blouse, yellow wool skirt, yellow sling pumps, yellow gloves, July 27, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Georgia Premium Outlets in Dawsonville

I was looking for an opportunity to showcase these prolific purple plants, which have been flourishing in a couple different spots around the house this summer. The only name I've heard for them is derogatory toward a certain people group, so I won't include it here (a horticulturalist, I am not!), but I can tell you that these guys blossom with the most delightful little lavender petals at their centers. What better way to bring out their beauty (though you have to click on the closeup view to catch the sweet little blossoms in this shot) than with the opposite color of purple: yellow.

I've kept this clean, simple cotton shirt, with buttons all the way up its back and embroidery all the way down its front, in my closet all these years. I have only worn it a handful of times, however. The skirt is something I wore a lot as a teenager. I particularly recall wearing it with my turquoise-blue Gloria Vanderbilt polo shirt, which has a little yellow stitched swan emblem on the front, to the Bogey's club in East Lansing around 1988, with my boyfriend at the time. I felt so stylin' in that ensem. I also wore this skirt a lot with a yellow loopy cardigan you'll be seeing one of these weeks. I did put this skirt into my closet at my parents' house when I went to college, though, finally retrieving it again last year. In some ways, I consider it the mate (the doppelganger -- remember that thing Mother did) of the pink skirt of "Let's Not Get Carrie-d Away," since it's the only other one of Mother's straight-to-the-knee wool skirts that is a summery pastel color. This one has a strong pattern of vertical lines in its fabric, however. And boy was it heckin' hot at the outlet mall in northern Georgia that afternoon.

The sling pumps, complete with rich yellow heels and tiny rhinestones at the toe, are fab. They're marked "Harmettes by Harman." Too bad they're past the point of repair. One strap had broken a couple years ago, and I found a way to rig it with a pin, but then just after I put the shoes on for the shoot, the other strap broke. Sigh ... The white patent pointy-toed pumps ended up standing in for them -- literally -- at church.

 

Sweet Pea
Pink lace-overlay suit, pink gloves, August 3, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Michael Carlos Museum at Emory University for an exhibit of ancient Nubian art on loan from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

When I was a little girl, Mother had a nickname for me. It was Sweet Pea, in reference to the flower for the month I was born, April. (Her flower, of course, was the lily of the valley -- see the May 11 installment.) The nickname only stuck when I was a child, though; I was considerably less sweet as a teenager. 

I used to like wearing this lovely, lacy suit on Easter. I've always considered it a heavy gun, a real showstopper, and it's still in great shape. I most often wore it with the buttons on the back, as it looks quite snazzy like that, even though the darts indicate that buttoning up the front is correct. The two pieces are simple pink cotton with a lace overlay. The buttons are smooth plastic domes, a bit faded over the years. In cut, this suit is very much the mate of the suit of "Grace Kelly in the 'Hood," but in fabric and style it's actually closer to a white suit you'll see soon. This one still bears a union label. 

The three-tier table, by the way, is a family antique and was always around in our old farmhouse, usually in the front foyer.

 

Collections
Lavender cardigan, August 10, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: DSW, Applebee's, Filene's Basement, Caribou Coffee

What is it about human nature that enjoys collecting things? Things are just things; they're of no real value, in an eternal or spiritual sense. In fact, Jesus warned us against accumulating too much stuff; see Luke 12:15, for instance. It does not glorify Him, and you truly cannot "take it with you," after all. But what is it about collecting things that appeals to us, that seems to add joy to our lives? The thrill of the hunt? The sense of accomplishment, as you add a new piece to your pot? The sense of completion? The illusion of control? From a sociological perspective, it's a most intriguing study, this pursuit of collections.

This is me with one of my collections -- my Batgirl collection. When I was a little girl, I had various heroes to look up to. The Bionic Woman, and Supergirl, and at least a couple of Charlie's Angels, were blondes. Wonder Woman, as portrayed by the amazing, never-aging Lynda Carter, was a brunette. But Batgirl ... Batgirl was a redhead. She was the hero I looked up to. The defender of the innocent. The crusader for justice. The fighter for good in a world that is inherently evil. I am on a slow, steady path of not only collecting every comic book appearance of the flame-tressed Barbara Gordon Batgirl (I may get there by the time I'm 99 -- I'm in no terrible hurry, maybe a new addition every other year or so, these days), but I also am on a quest to collect each and every Batgirl action figure out there (same timeframe, basically). Here, you see the 24 Batgirl figures I currently have, ranging from the 1972 Mego of my childhood (I put a lot of wear and tear on that dear doll) to the hot-hot-hot Elseworlds Thrillkiller Batgirl I nabbed at this year's Motor City Comic Con in my beloved Metro Detroit. It's a fab collection, with the most valuable piece, both intrinsically and sentimentally, at its heart: an original production cel from the '90s "The New Batman Adventures" episode "Holiday Knights," a gift from my boyfriend a decade ago.

None of these things I will "take with me," but if they make my earthly journey a tad more enjoyable, perhaps in some way they're worth it.

I inherit my love for collections from Mother. She collected, during her lifetime, the following items, in no particular order: Hummel figurines, clocks, jewelry (particularly anything with emeralds and amethysts), Danielle Steel books, Agatha Christie books, Faye Kellerman books, Jonathan Kellerman books, Kathy Reichs books, Norah Lofts books, Phyllis A. Whitney books, Victoria Holt books, Phillippa Carr books, Catherine Cookson books, Susan Howatch books, Velda Johnston books, Mary Stewart books, Constance Heaven books, Rona Randall books, Patricia Cornwall books, Sue Grafton books, Mary Higgins Clark books, Janet Evanovich books, John Grisham books, Iris Johansen books, Coca-Cola merchandise, Michigan State University merchandise, sequined or applique sweaters, sequined or applique sweatshirts, carousel horse music boxes, Jonathan Byron bird music boxes, crystal vases, those children-in-overalls farming figurines that I'm thankful I actually don't know the name of, Snowbabies figurines, Jessica Willcox Smith figurines, Santa Bears, Omar Sharif movies, Rutger Hauer movies, Elizabeth Taylor movies, Danielle Steel movies, Avon yearly commemorative plates, Avon porcelain bells and eggs, a lot of other stuff I'm forgetting right now, and just one extraordinarily patient husband.

Perhaps you're thinking clothing is another item on this list! This lavender cardigan has remained in my own wardrobe for 20 years. With mother-of-pearl buttons, ribbon reinforcement along the button lines, and a ragged tag that says "Ban Lon by Royal Grace," it's steadfast and loyal, even if it is in a color that looks atrocious on a girl who's as redheaded as Barbara Gordon.

All of Mother's collections made for quite a challenging 2007 for me and my brothers (just visit the Mother's Treasures website and you'll know what I mean). The bottom line? Collections are for the here and now, for the enjoyment of the present. Collections are highly personal; their beauty is in the eye of the beholder only. Collections are not for beneficiaries. You truly cannot take it with you.

I've learned a lot in the past year, in helping settle my parents' estate. It's caused me to streamline my belongings. It's caused me to curb my penchant for purchasing. It's also caused me to draw up a new will. Perhaps that one particular person will get a good price for these lovely Batgirl figures.

Or maybe they will get along just fine with all of his many action figures!

 

Tiff & Co.
Turquoise suit, August 17, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: El Azteca for lunch

I guess it's rather girlish -- rather female, if you will -- to like finer things. Mother liked some finer things, much to the chagrin of my practical-minded dad. I went through my own years of indulgence, my years of trippin' off to the Somerset Collection in Troy, Michigan, for that little turquoise box, but that was before I became a Southern Baptist. ... Well, OK ... that's a silly joke of mine -- it's not about the denomination, I know! But perhaps that comment is in deference to Mother, as well, since she tended to see denominational lines quite clearly. (More on that in a future week, when I unveil the amazing white confirmation outfit!)

When I pulled this suit out of the garage rafters, I thought, wow, that's the Tiff & Co. blue! It is the exact doppelganger of the suit in "Congratulations, Kitty, With Much Love, Lois," just a different color and different button treatment. These mother-of-pearl buttons are etched and sculpted with a starburst pattern. Like the other suit, it still bears its basic, papery-white tags, indicating an acetate / nylon blend for its ribbed fabric. And as with the other suit, I don't think Mother ever wore it. She evidently bought them both at the same time and stuck them away.

The lamp is a family antique, exact origin unknown. I jokingly call it the Lamp That May or May Not Be Tiffany, because it bears no markings but has raised a lot of suspicion over the years. (And that's a different Tiffany from the jeweler, I'll note, but a Tiff nonetheless!) A female relative of ours many decades ago received the lamp as a gift from the family whose house she cleaned, if I remember correctly. It sat on the painted-white oak dresser in my pink bedroom in our new house for a couple decades, and before that, it was in the front foyer of our old farmhouse for many years. The marble-inset circular table that's holding it here can also be seen (barely) in the vintage photo to the right of me in the "Valentine" shot (where it's holding a yellow cat!).

I really wanted to use one of the shots with the lamp on, because it's in excellent working condition, but those photos seemed too dark. I posted the one that corresponds to this shot in the cutting-room floor of My Mother's Clothing, at my Facebook author's page, so you can decide which one really should be in the project and which is the "also-ran."

 

Traveling
Navy wool dress, August 24, 2008
Shot in Leamington, Ontario, Canada
Where it went that afternoon: Hair Dare Dukes Weekend charity fundraiser
Click here to see Lois in this outfit.

Here's another wool item with shrinkage that precludes it from an appearance at my Southern Baptist church -- so off to a book-signing it goes! Its thin and lightweight, actually, OK for some August heat in Canada. And I wear it differently than Mother did; when you click on the link for the vintage shot you see that she wore pants, too. No tags on this one (of course!) and just a delicate white lace border on the cuffs and neckline. In the back, it has these two big bows at the waist (you can see them better in one of the "also-ran" shots on my Facebook author profile page).

Mother owned this wedgwood blue Skyway luggage set all her life, since she was a very young lady. It's tough stuff, surviving many trips and still in fine working condition (even the tiny locking mechanisms). Each of the three pieces bear her initials, L.A.B. She liked putting those initials on other things, as well. I will utilize those initials, myself, for what I will call "The L.A.B. Initiative," the 100 copies of my third novel, Enie, mentioned on BillieRae.com. Actually, my initials were almost L.A.B., too. Mother had her heart set on naming me Lisa Ann Bates, so that the two of us could really be a pair, but Daddy intervened to name me after my cousin, Billie Rae Murphy, who died of cancer as a teen in the early '60s. I'm glad he did. I've always liked the originality of my name.

 

Indelible Trust
Lime-green silky knit set, August 31, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: downtown Atlanta for a drink at Caribou Coffee and a meeting at the Marriott Marquis

This filmy, silky blouse and skirt set is what one might delicately term ... delicate. I remember attempting to patch it as a teen, as its intricately spun pattern snags and pulls apart easily. Its lining is acetate; its facing rayon, the tag still says. There are no photos of Mother in this outfit, but I suspect she wore it when I was a toddler: As I sat in church this morning and looked down at my lap, I had a strange sense of familiarity -- as if I'd looked down on a lap wearing this outfit before!

Mary Magdalene is the Biblical figure who has always fascinated me the most (besides providing a key element to my second novel -- and inspiring the collection of art shown here). She is proof of the Lord's awesome redeeming power, of the idea that no one is beyond saving. Though there is no Biblical support for the idea that she was a prostitute (and some maintain that this "theory" is largely a misogynist construct from early church fathers who were threatened by her honored place in history), we do know from Scripture that she was, at one time, possessed of seven demons. Who knows what those demons were. Some theorize that the demons of ancient times are known by more scientific terms today. Schizophrenia and other mental illnesses, for instance. Whatever the demons, He most assuredly drove them out, and thereby created in Mary Magdalene an amazing testimony. It is said that those who have experienced the greatest darkness often have the greatest light to share. I guess that's why I find it difficult to respect those who've led easy lives. It is our suffering, after all, that makes us stronger ... that gives us our own amazing testimonies.

 

Dichotomy
Fuschia knit skirt set, fuschia gloves, September 7, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: to Cumming to meet a friend for a Harley ride (at which point, a change of clothes!)
Click here to see Lois in this outfit.

This outfit is no doubt the companion of the skirt set of "Lily of the Valley," probably purchased at the same time. The skirt is the exact same fabric, same length, same style. In each, the piping matches the fabric of the skirt. Each has some satin lining in the top piece. This one is a real sweetie-pie, and so Jackie-O, like much of Mother's wardrobe. You can see in the vintage shot that she wore it for one of the family church directory photos. I love her choice of the leaf pin -- I couldn't quite find that same effect of a strong gold contrast among my own pins (she discarded that leaf pin over the years).

Life  is full of dichotomy. Pairs. Opposites. Contradictions. Black and white. Night and day. Light and dark. Sometimes there is gray area -- or pink -- between. I had actually planned on naming this week's feature "Pinky, No Blue Boy," after the famous pair of paintings. Another pair of opposites that go together, like male and female. Like this fashion and its companion fashion.

Whereas Mother loved that familiar wedgwood blue along with emerald green, when I was a kid, my favorite color was pink. I painted the walls of my bedroom in the new house a strong bubble-gum pink, much like this skirt. I remember the old Love's Baby Soft commercials back then -- pink is not scarlet red or pure white, but in-between. Sweet, like a girl. (Hanging on the pink walls of that bedroom, by the way, were replicas of "Pinky" and "Blue Boy" in decorative frames.)

Of course, when I grew up, my favorite color became red.

 

 Breathe
Wedgwood blue and white cardigan, September 14, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Home, actually

All roads lead back to blue, here at the My Mother's Clothing yearlong photo project. And we certainly don't stray from Mother's beloved wedgwood blue, in particular, for very long. Here's a fab cardigan sweater that I've worn consistently all through my adulthood and now boldly wear in this Southern September. They do tend to air-condition here, after all, and the modern white skirt I wore with it served to lend it more summerification.

I've never seen another piece like this sweater, and I love it all over again every time I wear it. It bears standard white, two-hole, mother-of-pearl buttons down the front, and its thick fabric is no doubt wool. It simply lights up the skirt of the "Zilwaukee" fashion, though I also often wear it with a powder blue straight skirt.

 

 The Confirmation Took, Thanks
White lace overlay skirt set, September 21, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Petsmart, Toys 'R' Us, Starbucks

Mother was a staunch lifelong Lutheran. That's no surprise, given she was of German stock. She was a member of two different churches over the course of her life: Grace Lutheran in Saginaw, Michigan, where she was confirmed as a teen, and Redeemer Lutheran in Owosso, Michigan, where I was confirmed as a teen. She wore white for her own confirmation, I remember her telling me back in 1981, when I was confirmed (see it here -- Farrah hair and all!), though I don't know if it was specifically this white outfit she wore or perhaps one of the three other white outfits in the My Mother's Clothing collection. This one is truly a beauty, and I honestly doubt I've even worn it since that day in October 1981. I think I decided then to keep it pure and preserved as my confirmation outfit. It's the doppleganger of the "Sweet Pea" outfit with its lace overlay and straight skirt, though it has satin beneath the lace rather than cotton. This one actually still bears a tag (Houston, we have a tag!!!!!) from the old Alden's catalog.

When you are raised in the Lutheran church, confirmation is formally called the "affirmation of baptism" -- that moment you get to acknowledge that yes, you are choosing Christ for yourself, since you were baptized by sprinkling as an infant (Lutheranism being an offshoot of Catholicism, after all) and didn't understand what on earth was going on back then. At Redeemer, we had a two-year program of instruction during the junior-high years that you "graduated" from to be confirmed. I completed the program in one year. I had been working ahead in the materials when my friend Nancy (daughter of Mother's friend Kitty) suggested the acceleration. That meant we got confirmed together, though she is a year older, and as a gift that day she gave me a sterling silver pendant with praying hands carved in acrylic (Nancy -- I've always kept it inside a goldtone locket that Daddy gave me many years ago, but I got it out to wear today!).

Though I'd attended church all through my childhood, confirmation was the more-official launch of my lifelong spiritual journey, just as it no doubt was for Mother, who read her Bible religiously (for lack of a better word) right up to her illness last year. In fact, the dark-green, leather-bound Living Bible she kept on the table beside her favorite wedgwood blue wingback chair in the living room was so falling-apart I could barely keep it together to read her favorite poem by Dietrich Bonhoeffer from its tattered bookmark at her funeral. Now that Living Bible sits on my bookshelf, the middle shelf shown above, between the red Lutheran hymnal of the '70s and the white zippered leather Bible that originally belonged to the cousin I was named after, Billie Rae Murphy.

Yes, the confirmation took, for both of us. And it's the reason funerals mean something entirely different for me in my adulthood. It's also the reason I don't visit graves. "There's nobody there," as one of the characters in my third novel puts it. Funerals -- and graves -- are only for the benefit of us who remain. And as the verse from 1 Thessalonians at the bottom of this page says, we have far greater things to think about.

 

 Shoesy Floosy
The last of Lois' vintage shoes, September 28, 2008

OK, let me just say one thing, first of all: The shoesy floosy is me, not la mia mama. I'm a floosy for shoesies. My current count is 65 pairs. Of those, 23 pairs are Candie's, my favorite brand. And 17 pairs are the vintage shoes of Mother's that you find on the floor here.

You've seen a few of these already in the My Mother's Clothing project, but I wanted to spend one week on just the shoes to highlight the other truly fab pairs that won't get matched with an outfit. Take the amazing black and white spectator pumps, lower left. Note the low-heeled brown crocs, buckled brightly, middle right, which would need their soles reglued to be worn again. The black spiky pumps, lower right, are ones I wore hundreds of times throughout my adulthood and finally wore out. The red velvet and black leather sling pumps, upper right, I can rarely match up with a red and black fashion, which is probably a good thing since their straps dig into the flesh like no shoe has a right to. The red "perfs," as Mother called them on the side of their box (see her many other notated vintage boxes here!) are another pair I have worn liberally and finally just-plain wore out. They had a companion pair -- darker red pumps with a cool red buckle on the front, which are back at the farm. Also worn out and not seen here are the simple brown pumps and the simply fantastic navy patent pumps, all pointy toed and spiky heeled. I really miss those.

With the exception of the silver strappy things, all of these are good-ole '50s shoes, wonderfully classic examples of that stylish era. Some came from the Alden's catalog. One special pair of Kay King shoes, which Mother referred to as "glass slippers," and one of which is front and center here, is part of the collection at the National Museum of American History at the Smithsonian Institution. I was stunned to see the shoe there, behind the glass, on my 1996 trip to D.C., labeled as a glimpse of 1940s and 1950s American culture (see my poor-quality photo of it here!). I'm sure the folks all the way down at the Air and Space Museum heard the cry of "That's Mother's glass slipper!!!!" I was just as stunned, unfortunately, when I pulled out the shoebox this morning, to see I only have that one of the two shoes myself right now (ummm .... Veronica???? we had a great time doing try-ons during the estate sale in Michigan last year). Rather ironic, I guess. These heavenly sling pumps are clear plastic with a fan of rhinestones at the toe and clear acrylic heels studded in rhinestones (see a better view of the heel in the cutting-room floor shot). Yessiree ... Fonzie's jacket, Archie Bunker's chair, and Lois Ann Bates' glass slipper ... what a wonderful world we live in.

The shoe shelves are custom-built for me. Five shelves up, nine pairs across. It holds most of them, with spillover boxes above. Unfortunately, you can't see much more detail with the closeup click; I had been taking photos for my blog on Friday and adjusted the photo resolution on the camera down off the usual thick setting. So this will hopefully be the only photo in My Mother's Clothing -- grainy as it is -- that's not 2048 pixels across. Rats. What can you say when you're a shoesy floosy? You get distracted.

This week's installment breaks form in another way: It will be the only photo that does not show the clothing I wore to church that morning, in this case an ivory vintage dress from an older friend in northern Michigan. But you can see the shoes I wore, at least: the ivory Candie's pumps, second shelf up, second pair from the right. Just so we keep on track.

 

 Dawn Doll
Blue and green silk dress, October 5, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Northlake Mall in Atlanta

In the early 1970s, Topper Toys released a brand of doll called the Dawn doll. She was only six inches high -- about half the size of a Barbie doll -- but just as fabulous. She had fashions galore in every style and color. She had cool friends of various ethnicities and genders. She was the right size for the typical 1-inch-to-1-foot wooden make-it-yourself dollhouse. She was amazing, a doll anyone could love. A doll anyone could afford. And then she was gone.

I remember that the Plaza Drug Store in Owosso, Michigan, carried Dawn dolls. That's the only store where I actually remember seeing them. And I remember distinctly when they disappeared. The very last Dawn doll item I ever got from Plaza was the "Twinkle Twirl" hot-pink dress with silver trim -- and hot-pink tights and shoes. The Dawn doll fashions came packaged on a card in a thin display box. I treasured that last one so much that I kept the art on the box, along with the tiny fold-out catalog that Topper enclosed with their Dawn products (you can see these items better in the two cutting-room floor shots, along with some other vintage Dawn goodies!).

Mother and I went shopping a LOT when I was a little tyke. It was our favorite occupation, actually, throughout my childhood. And I loved it when we went to that Plaza Drug Store off the M-52 highway. Because then I had that opportunity -- that hope -- to find a Dawn doll or Dawn fashion on the shelf. As if, after the dolls had clearly stopped selling, they would somehow magically reappear. As if perhaps a store employee would find some forgotten cache of them in the back and pull them onto the shelves. As if.

When I was a kid, after the Dawn dolls had left the shelves (which was about 1973, by the way), I engineered a trade with my grade-school buddy Jenny. She probably thought she was getting the better end of the deal, because I bartered away some big-ole Barbie-sized dolls in the exchange. But her Dawn dolls -- in abundance, including the rare and precious Dale -- were of greater value to me (Jenny had even stylishly trimmed down Dale's 'fro -- decades ahead of her time, she was!).

There's a Dawn doll contingent, nowadays, with this fabulous invention we call the Internet. You can learn more about that avid following here  and here. The people who are putting together this material are probably my age. They probably had their own Plaza Drug Stores, where they waged their own searches for this beautiful, elusive, short-lived mini version of the Barbie doll.

When I first saw this clockstopping blue-and-green silk dress, another garage rafter refugee, I thought, now there's a fashion a Dawn doll would wear. (I thought the same thing of the ".4711" dress, by the way, and almost featured it as the Dawn doll dress.) The funky greens and blues, the zany pattern -- it speaks of the early '70s, though my guess is that it dates a decade or two earlier. It's wonderfully silky. It's also billowy in the back, as you can see a glimpse of here. It's straight to the knee and it's crazy difficult to get into, having a zipper only stealthlike on the left side. The wide sweeping collar is wonderful, as are the three-quarter-length sleeves. The unyielding belt snaps tight in the front. I love the dress, pure and simple. And this is the first time I wore it, to many compliments at church this morning. It's another one of the fashions in this collection that I know Mother did wear, because it shows wear, but I can't imagine where! There are no pictures! I guess I'll just have to create my own history with it.

You know, it's funny, the things our brains hang onto. Jenny, I can remember exactly which of these 12 dolls were yours and which were mine, after all these years. I can remember that the very first doll in this procession was my original blond Dawn -- here wearing her trademark blue and white halter minidress. Though the other blond Dawns I have were made as exact duplicates, I can tell my original by the shape and look of her face. I also know that the second doll in the procession is my prized redheaded Glori. Mother was always very conscientious to find me dolls with red hair, like my beloved Raggedy Ann (recently recovered in the farmhouse basement and to be featured in a future shoot). Can you believe I remember which dress came on Glori? It's not the one she wears here -- it's very ragged, and I sewed it up a few times, it's so precious. Glori may have been the first Dawn doll I got; she was right in there with my original 1972 Mego Batgirl doll featured in "Collections" above.

Wrapped up in dolls are dreams, I guess. Dreams that only a little girl can understand.

 

Power
Tan tweed suit, October 12, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Cheesecake Factory for lunch, DSW, Home Depot

"What a strange power there is in clothing," said author Isaac Bashevis Singer, winner of the 1978 Nobel Prize in Literature. If I didn't know better, I might have thought he had last week's dress in mind -- it gets the award for most compliments so far among these fashions. Not only was it showered during the morning's church services, but the lauding spilled over into the next day at the church office, then this morning, a week later, a lady I've never even met stops me in the restroom to tell me she loved the dress I had on last week. Hmmm ... strange power, indeed. Clothing, after all, can be simply functional, or it can be expressive. It can serve a rather benign purpose, or it can tell a story, reveal part of our personality. Perhaps when we determine we like a particular piece of clothing, it's because it strikes a chord deep within us, it hits some note that makes sense to us, on some level -- or on many levels.

This is what I might term a powerful suit. It is "tweedy," like the suit of "Tweedy-Pie," with tiny flecks of color (particularly orange) in its lightweight fabric. It bore shoulder pads long before "Dynasty" was a gleam in Aaron Spelling's eye. Its ornate, engraved brass buttons reinforce the military influence of the front of the jacket. The jacket is silk-lined, though not the skirt. I wore the skirt of this set for years before I could find the quirky value of the jacket; now the two never part.

And the hat? I'm certainly not a hat person, but I couldn't resist. It just arrived from Michigan a couple days ago (thanks, Bro and Brenda), along with the other glass slipper mentioned above (!) and a doll you'll see in an upcoming week. Hats, gloves, purses, shoes. Mother brought them all together in seamless coordination in her many outfits. And hats like this did have their heyday in those fabulous '50s and '60s, after all. But just so ya know ... I didn't wear this pale-blue chiffon beauty to church.

 

 

Full Circle
Black sheath dress, red and black sling pumps, white gloves, October 19, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Gold Rush Days in Dahlonega

Sometimes I think my life has come full circle. I'm a Deeee-troit Yankee who's now immersed in the Southern Baptist culture -- in the South, no less. I'm a corporate girl who grew thick skin and learned to speak directly in her 20s and 30s, but now I swear I can feel that skin thinning right back down again as I'm tiptoeing around, trying not to be too-terribly obtrusive. I still feel like that corporate bird at heart -- just out of my element now. But is that really it -- or is this where God is saying I belong? Dunno. But even Mother, with her oft-bawdiness amid an otherwise tame life, might have felt like a fish out of water here.

This black dress, to me, is all about coming full circle. When Mother wore it, the hem was at the knee. She called it a sheath dress. With its survive-all polyester fabric, bullet-straight shape and sleeveless design, it was simple, functional, dare we say even fashionable. You could just picture the long white gloves of Audrey Hepburn setting off that lack of sleeve. When I was a teen, Mother would sometimes host the girls from her church Bible study group at our house. She would ask me to serve them lunch, and a couple of times we thought it would be a fun joke for me to dress up like a maid. This was the dress I wore, and I wore her white circle blouse, featured in "Brunch With Noritake," underneath. I also wore the low-heel patent-leather pumps seen in "Shoesy Floosy," and back then they still had both bows intact! What a French maid I was. A French maid with her hem so properly at the knee.

Which brings us further along in that circle I mentioned. One time when I was attending a black-tie event in Detroit, I felt the need for a little black dress. Oh, the humanity -- that lovely Hepburn-esque sheath dress became something else entirely! Besides hacking the hem, I gathered that aforementioned sleevelessness on both sides. The result? Click here.

So here we are, a decade later, and what was I doing last weekend? Pulling that dress out of the corner of the closet, holding it up in the mirror and shrieking at the stupidity of ruining a perfectly good, Southern-Baptist-ready dress. How was I going to wear that thing to church? I have no more Sunday out-of-town book-signings this year that would forgive a minidress. But I HAD to include the dress in the project! And I had to preserve the vision of the project, as well.

It was Verda who pulled me up and around the rest of that circle. And Verda has no idea. You see, Verda was the ex-mother-in-law of Lynn, who would clean my office at the hospital system in northern Michigan a few years ago. And one time, when Lynn was chatting with me as I was there working after-hours, she said she was going to bring me something. That something was a trunk full of clothes -- some fabulous vintage stuff included -- from Verda, who had just passed away. Verda was about my size, Lynn told me. Among Verda's things were a handful of colorful slips. One in particular was like nothing I'd ever seen: so richly red, my favorite color! And with that fantastic finely pleated ruffle at the bottom. So yes, this red ruffle guarding my propriety is a beautiful slip, far too exquisite to keep hidden, anyway. Crazy. Almost as crazy as cutting that poor dress in the first place.

So thanks, Verda. And Mother, too.

 

 

Pumpkin Kathy
Orange hand-knit sweater, burgundy-brown wool skirt, October 26, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Shopping, McDonald's

Ahhhh ... late October. In Michigan, the leaves are flying and the heat is on in the house. Bro says it's quite chilly up there. Here in the South? Well ... it's a little cooler at night. Still, having grown up in Michigan, I'm conditioned to think October equals the debut of wool for the season. Are you ready for a fall harvest of six consecutive weeks of wool skirts? Mother had 'em by the bushel; that's for sure. Each has a unique color pattern but the same shape -- shooting straight to the knee. You've already seen two of them: the turquoise and white skirt of "Kathy" and the black tweed skirt of "Kathy Studious." Why don't we continue that theme now by pairing this third wool skirt of the collection with -- you guessed it -- another sweater hand-made by Mother's friend Kathy.

This Kathy original is thick and cabley, and I didn't receive it from Mother until my more-recent adulthood. It's a little pilled-out but still wonderful. And warm! The skirt? I've only worn it once or twice; it's one of the smaller skirts of the collection (yes, I'm fond of breathing). It has one real pocket on the right hip and a bunch of layered mock pockets the rest of the way down. It's in great shape -- no moth attacks -- with belt loops and a matching wool belt. Its brown woven texture shows a lot of burgundy, with faint white stripes that look more like white noise.

 

Black and Blue
Black, gray and blue striped wool skirt, gray and black pumps, November 2, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: QT for gas and a drink, then home

There are those days when we feel a little black and blue. Bruised. Battered. Tossed around. Dragged behind a pickup truck. Under siege. Whatever your cliche of choice is. Sometimes when I'm feeling a little black and blue -- whatever the reason -- I actually wear black and blue. This is a good skirt for such an occasion. I've worn it consistently through my adulthood. I often wear it with a cobalt blue sweater. It's nice and lightweight, with a zipper up the left side and a quirky little thin-flapped pocket on the right hip. I think all of these straight wool skirts were very typical schoolgirl skirts for Mother in the '50s. Picture this one with bobby socks, saddle shoes and a lambswool sweater.

 

 

 Never Underestimate the Enduring Appeal of a Fuzzy Sweater
Yellow mohair cardigan, brown wool skirt, November 9, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Krystal for a Holiday Milkshake (Mint Chocolate Cookie),
QT for gas and air in the tires, grocery store

“Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most.
That people are basically good; that honor, courage and virtue mean everything; that power and money,
money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love ...
true love never dies. You remember that, boy. You remember that. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.
You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in.”
– Hub, “Secondhand Lions,” 2003

When I was a senior in high school, the teacher of my government class, Mr. Oberlin, said to me one time, "You tend to see the good in people." He didn't mean it as a compliment, at least I don't think he did. Mr. Oberlin liked to evoke reactions in students, though he never picked on me as he picked on the more obnoxious seniors. But when he said that, I very much had the feeling that it was simply an observation he felt it important I know, a sort of a warning.

Well, Mr. Oberlin, those words stayed with me, there, tucked deep in my subconscious at times, through college, through my 20s in Lansing, Wisconsin and Saginaw, through my 30s in my beloved Detroit and northern Michigan and beyond, through my career, through my coming-of-age, through my coming of power ... even to my losing that power again in the light of God's sovereign grace. "You tend to see the good in people." Is it a good thing, or a bad thing? I think I liked the statement when I first heard it, then at times through the skin-thickening of the corporate world, maybe I had far less use for it. Or maybe not. Why not see the good in people? Why not choose the light rather than gravitate "to the dark side," as Kate, my coworker at The Detroit News, once joked?

Last weekend, I watched the 2003 movie "Secondhand Lions" on cable. One of the old eccentric uncle characters, played by Robert Duvall, whose wild stories of an adventurous life his nephew desperately wanted to believe though he was told otherwise, delivered the above dialogue. To me, right now in my life, that dialogue means, do I get upset and disappointed all over again when someone smilingly lies to me or screws me over, or do I just let it slide? Do I act "as if," to use the mantra of addiction counseling, and treat that person as if what he or she just said was the earnest, innocent, sincerely presented truth? Or do I throw up my hands all over again as I see that these "Christians" I do ministry work with are no better than the heathen I shared the big-city newspaper biz with? And do you know just how many times I have wished to go back and dwell among the heathen, who were at least direct and honest about themselves rather than hypocritical?

OK, I do digress ... What I've decided, through everything I've seen and heard in 40 years, through all the lies I've been told, through all the disappointments I've borne, through the knowledge that Jesus Christ is the only human being who will never let me down (everyone else will, at some point -- I even let myself down, after all) ... is that life is far too painful on the realist. Sometimes we need the illusion to keep moving on. But is that just the cynic in me, to call it an illusion and not any chance at reality? Is it really being a chump to believe in the good in people? Or is it better called by another name ... dare we say ... faith?

I know there were moments, deep in my hedonism in downtown Detroit, where I took comfort in the words of my high school government teacher. When I felt that, hey, I wasn't that far gone. The big city hadn't changed me that much. I still had that part of me that was a small-town farmgirl, believing in the good of people. I wasn't that hardened yet.

So never underestimate the enduring appeal of a fuzzy sweater. Fuzzy equals nice. Fuzzy equals soft, not hardened. Fuzzy equals friendly, pretty, sweet, bright. A fuzzy sweater brings out the "good" in people, perhaps. A fuzzy sweater appears sweet
-- and really is; a fuzzy sweater is true. And whenever I've worn this one -- which is a lot -- I've always experienced its timeless appeal. See my 11th-grade school picture in it, for instance. It still bears a tag: 80 percent wool, 10 percent mohair, 10 percent nylon, hand-made in Italy. With it here is a brown wool skirt with fine, multicolor stripes, which I recall wearing in high school, as well -- probably even in that government class -- with a dark-red sweater of my own that was knit by Kathy, and with Mother's vibrant, rich, dark-red pumps, which unfortunately couldn't make the "Shoesy Floosy" photo.

Oh, and that uncle in "Secondhand Lions"? (Have you seen the movie? Spoiler alert -- stop reading now if you haven't.) Everything he told his nephew, about his wild adventuring days, about his fight for what was right and for his true love, about his stand for what he believed in ... All that stuff was true.

 

Quid est Veritas?
Gray and white plaid wool skirt, gray gloves, blue flower hat, November 16, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Caribou Coffee, then the movie theater to see the new James Bond flick

Now is that a great hat, or what? Actually, it's not so much a hat as it is a big veil-y thing you put on top of your head (sorry, Mother!). But with its silk blue roses and sewn-in star sequins, it's a delight. What a fashionable lady must have worn such a lovely thing back in the fabulous '50s! And what did she wear it with? Probably an equally lovely dress, rather than this toasty-thick wool skirt, which is heavy on the comfort, light on the glam.

Like the other wool skirts in the My Mother's Clothing collection, this one has just a little bit of something that makes it different, other than the color. It's got that thin double-pleat down the front, with a tiny flair at the hem. The complementing gray gloves still bear a tag that reads "Lee Begman."

In Mel Gibson's movie "The Passion of the Christ," the moment I appreciated the most was when Pontius Pilate muses to Jesus, "What is truth?" I felt that the actor cast as Pilate was a fine choice. And there's more to that moment than meets the casual eye, on screen or in Scripture. Had Pilate grown jaded in his leadership? Was he a man simply too accustomed to witnessing certain disappointments in life? WAS there no truth, from his perspective? And just from this awkward position of condemning an innocent man, or in general? I guess this week's theme revisits last week's, and the idea of the fuzzy sweater -- and what we choose to believe in. To me, truth is like a brilliant turquoise blue amid the gloom and doom of grays, blacks and whites. It's the thing that is more fervently sought because it's harder to spot. It's also more difficult to maintain. It's in the minority, it is rare, but it is much more rewarding when found. It hides so readily. (Sometimes it hides under a bushel!)

Is truth really relative to one's circumstances or situation, as some believe? No, it can't be. Real truth is the ultimate, it's constant, and it's not dependent on a human being's whims. Human beings, after all, fail. And really, as Winfried Corduan, a religion and philosophy professor at Indiana's Taylor University, said, "Either I missed the bus, or I didn't miss the bus. Either this is Friday, or it is not Friday. Either I have eaten lunch, or I have not eaten lunch." Truth is absolute, and only the Lord can be the keeper of it. All the more reason to seek it. And embrace it.

 

Raw
Black patterned wool sweater, black and gray wool skirt, November 23, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: QT for (you guessed it) fuel and a drink, grocery store, then home to get ready for a photo shoot with ***real*** photographer (and writer and producer) Todd Fischer
Click here to see Lois in this sweater.
One of the major themes I've been trying to get at, in this yearlong photo essay project -- and I'm sure you've gotten it -- is the idea of being real. The idea of truth, as explored the past couple weeks. I find myself often praying for the Lord to reveal the truth in a given situation. That is why I choose to leave these photos as-is, straight out of the camera and onto the web page, without any kind of adjustment. That is why, essentially, you don't see hearts or flowers or lots of frilly things in my home decor but rather strong, basic colors. That is why I will always dearly love my Detroit and its grittiness and lack of pretense. Its rawness.

I've enjoyed so much finding new little spots around the house where I can take these photos, then tying them into the various thoughts and themes. I had been looking for just the right usage for my beautiful red bathroom since I had used my other bathroom (the "Batroom") for the "Hey You" shot back in January. I did also take some shots in the Batroom this week; see the cutting-room floor. But this simple black and gray striped skirt -- No. 5 in the six-week series -- and what I call the "deer hunter's sweater" seemed to cry out for some bold red contrast rather than the Batroom's yellow tile. This sweater has the distinction of being the only item in the collection that was not only Mother's -- it was Daddy's, too! Check out the vintage shot. I think Daddy wore this ultra-thick crewneck in high school. It bears a tag: "Jersild 100% virgin wool, Neenah, Wis."

The spring 2006 issue of Atlanta's Image Magazine quoted recording artist Rebecca St. James, in the wake of her release "If I Had One Chance to Tell You Something," as saying, "I hide no more behind the mask, and what you see is what I am. It's reality." The magazine calls this "raw conviction." I like that. I also like that a friend of mine is considering launching an awareness campaign aimed at debunking how our society views female beauty. I like that this friend is male. I like the Dove "Campaign for Real Beauty," and I absolutely love videos like this one that offer you a peek behind the veil (they lift up her neck and enlarge her eyes -- did you catch that???? This is not reality!). I like that Jenny McCarthy had no problem sitting on a toilet seat for that Candie's print campaign a few years back (and those are Candie's shoes I'm wearing here, by the way, and I did sit on the seat in a cutting-room floor shot!). I like the Hanes Her Way commercials depicting women who aren't paper-thin. I like the "Stars Without Makeup" features in tabloid mags. I like web features like this one, and I had a very similar experience to the one it describes when I recently took my own 10-year-old niece and her friend to the mall.

I like that I've never put any kind of coloring in my hair. I like that I've never had plastic surgery (which you can certainly tell, by my nose and my breasts!). I like that I've had an aversion to hosiery since I was a teen. Heck, I even like showing the burglar bars of my house. I like not knowing which fork to grab first, and I quite frankly refuse to learn. I like wearing white any time of year. I like not being limited by others' opinions and rules that aren't from God's Word anyway. I like the fact that if I were a famous celebrity, the tabloids would be running this shot with a headline saying I'm bulimic, even though I'm not. I like my oatmeal, grits and toast plain, no butter or sugar or cinnamon. I even like getting emotionally kicked in the gut now and then, as I was at the end of this morning's church service when the assistant pastor introduced his niece and her healthy, perfect infant, who had been diagnosed in the womb with a serious, debilitating condition. I like feeling.

I like challenging the illusion. I like it raw.

 

 

Helen
Gray, blue and white striped wool skirt, November 30, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Wild Ginger for lunch, Sym's, Discover Mills mall, Whole Foods Market

Back in the mid-'90s, when I worked for The Saginaw (Mich.) News, I wrote a column for the Tuesday Family page about my grandmother. Her name was Helen. The doll on the right, which is from Mother's childhood, may have even belonged to my grandmother, too, as it seems old enough. And did I give it the name Helen (which I wrote across the top of the doll's dress), or did Mother? Uncertain. Unimportant. She's a porcelain-limbed doll with lots of wounds and cracks. But she's still here, despite three decades stuck in a Michigan basement. And with her this week is the only remaining Raggedy Ann doll from my childhood, along with the final installment of the six-week wool skirt series, a gray and white striped number with faint blue dashed lines and a cute little pocket flap on each hip. It has two thin tags that say "Peerless Sportswear of Boston."

That Family page column discussed something rather startling that I had realized about my grandmother. It wasn't that she was a good person and an all-around peacekeeper; I already knew that. It was the fact that the way she chose to live was actually the better way, the stronger way, even though it appeared passive and weak. How mighty is he (or she) who chooses to keep silent rather than add a bad word to the mix, who chooses to be the river of peace that runs through a situation, who chooses to remain on good terms with everyone, no matter the circumstances. Or the consequences.

Of course, from that job in Saginaw I went to Detroit, and from what I observed there sprung my first novel, "Rubi," the absolute antithesis of all things Helen. I had learned why being a Helen was so good, perhaps, but had not yet learned to embrace Helen-ness. Even so, that standing-in-the-middle thing slowly began to catch. And what an uncomfortable place the middle can be, at times. How much the enemy you are when someone cannot manage to pull you over to their side! Helen must have taken a lot of guff, there, in the middle. Standing in the middle requires a sturdier back, a stronger constitution, as it gets pretty gusty and cold out there. To be swayed this way or that by the whims and opinions of others is the much easier way. Pastors stand in the middle. Counselors stand in the middle. Teachers stand in the middle. Hopefully parents -- as well as grandparents -- stand in the middle. I was thinking about all of this, this past week, then a friend of mine in the ministry took it a little further when he talked about the times in life when we are in a storm and we just stand. Rather than pushing forth like an offensive player, we just stand, he said.

I realize, looking back now at this past week, that the Lord offered me an opportunity to just stand in a situation. I have been learning this practice, in the past couple years, and I have been getting better at it. But I reverted, I fear. I pushed instead of stood. It's still unclear to me whether I did the right thing. I suspect I didn't. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself (because believe me, I'm harder on myself than any of you could ever be). But what I've learned is that "standing," and being in the middle, is all about letting the Lord handle a situation instead of stepping in with your own ego, instead of needing to have your own say, needing to be heard, needing to defend yourself. The Lord does have far better judgment than we do, after all. And He sees the big picture -- all the details -- while we see only a slice. In the situation this past week, it was the other person who ended up "standing," thereby bringing me in line, too.

So ... to Helen. And to the influence she had, however small, however great, however ongoing, on both Mother and me.

 

 

13
Gray and blue plaid wool dress, December 7, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Mad Italian for lunch, then downtown for a Christmas presentation at the Atlanta Civic Center

Just as he died, Teddy Roosevelt is reported to have said, "Put out the light." Poet Emily Dickinson, so deeply enthralled with death and gloom throughout her writing, evidently said, "The fog is rising." According to a Christian magazine (though I could not substantiate it in a web search), committed atheist David Hume said as he was dying, "I am in flames." Writer Victor Hugo reportedly stated, "I see black light." And Johann Wolfgang von Goethe? "Open the second shutter so that more light may come in."

The early morning that Mother died, the Lord had me conveniently ushered out of the room. I had been staying in the next bed at her hospice for several nights, driving home to Bro's place for a few hours during the day where I could catch a wireless signal and keep some work going on my laptop. I would return to the hospice each evening, watching TV, talking, whatever. We had no idea when it would happen. It could have been weeks, or hours. But that particular night, I left early, for some mundane reason, and slept at the farm instead. I was only midly upset, after the call came that next morning. I had witnessed the names she'd called out in the nights leading up to that, the names of several people close to her who had died before, called out in her morphine-induced slumber in the exact order in which they had departed. Grandma, Grandpa, for a while, then Daddy and Mommy, then Janette, then Julie ... each repeated over and over. I was curious to see how the Lord worked in her actual moment of departure. What name would I hear then -- Daddy's? Would I see anything, or is that a crazy thing to wonder? But I knew it was God's choice that I not be there, for whatever reason He had. Maybe about her, maybe about me. I do not need to know.

I'm quite convinced, though, that Mother was able to make her own choice of March 13 to depart. Those of us who knew her had to be amused. We had been keeping her informed of the days and dates in the hospice, despite the discouragement of the heavy morphine. Being a woman who had three or four clocks in every room of her house, she was nothing if not very aware of time, anyway. And even though she had been fighting to stay alive with all she had, 13 was, indeed, her favorite number.

We're in the final four of the My Mother's Clothing project. This dress is the doppelganger of January's "Grayday" dress, but it's the first time I've worn this one. It has the same thin wool fabric, same length, same sleeves, same lack of lining, same zipper up the back, and a very similar cut. This one got major-league chowed on by moths, though. It took some careful patching in the preceding week to get it to anything approaching wearable (most of the moth holes are along the waist of the dress, you can barely see in the close-up view). I cut off a piece of the fabric reinforcement on the underside of the neckline and carefully tacked it on the inside of the waist, lining up the grays and blues through the holes.

In one of the large framed photos on the wall, by the way, the right photo, is (barely visible in the close-up shot) the three-tier wooden table shown in "Sweet Pea." I distinctly remember the day Daddy bought me that old metal kids' ironing board. One dollar at one of the many farm auctions we went to.

Next two weeks: the two winter coats of the collection. Then a big finish.

 

Jackie O-kay
Cobalt-blue wool coat, gold and black hat, white pearl gloves, December 14, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Starbucks, Ted's Montana Grill

Every "Jackie Oh-No!" deserves a "Jackie O-kay," and this coat would finish off the fashion from May 4 just fine. Reminiscent of that fab Kennedy style (pre-"O," for the most part, certainly), this is a wool swing coat with a pearl mink collar. It has stayed with me through my adulthood, along with the coat you'll see next week. Besides the two huge (working) fabric-covered buttons, it has an oversized snap at the collar, plus that sweet little bow. Its lining is purple silk now; I suspect it was once blue. The lining falls free inside the coat, rather than being sewn down at the hem, and it's still rolled up and pinned from when Mother wore it, almost as if the wool of the coat shrunk and the silk lining, of course, didn't keep up. The coat is pretty thick and quite billowy (see a lot more fabric in one of the cutting-room floor shots). It bears a tiny label from the International Ladies Garment Workers Union / AFL-CIO.

This hat is one of Mother's nicer ones. The black and gold lame-type ruffles running around the outside, Cossack-style, are complemented by a smooth, black satin flat top. The lining is black satin, also, but with a wonderful diamond stitched pattern. The gloves? They're a pair I wore often when I was younger. I went through a bit of a glove phase for church in the '80s. Of the several white pairs of gloves Mother owned, these are the most ornate, with gobs of seed pearls and larger pearl beads sewn on. (The repro to the left of me is Botticelli, by the way, part of a lot containing one of three additional pieces of Mary Magdalene art I've secured since shooting "Indelible Trust"!)

This week's photo is yet another exercise in what can sometimes be a wide, wide chasm between the picture that's in my head during the week and what actually results from the camera's click on Sunday morning. (Have I gotten any better at this self-photography thing? Ummm .... NO!!!!) Sigh. I had envisioned showcasing Mother's whole glove collection, along with one of her hat boxes from the time, and the sprinkling of hats I still have. See that above-mentioned cutting-room floor shot.

 

Geek Chic
Ivory fur coat, December 21, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: Mambo Italiano, Starbucks

On this past week's episode of NBC's "Chuck," there was a sign hanging in the store where Chuck works as a techie of the "Nerd Herd" (the fictional equivalent of Best Buy's Geek Squad). The sign read "Geek Chic." I thought that was pretty fun. Geek can be chic, ya know? In fact, when I watched a season of the CW's "Beauty in the Geek" a couple years back, it was something that stuck in my craw a bit. Why must one be either a beauty or a geek? Can't one be a beautiful geek? Maybe geekiness is just plain beautiful, on its own!

I have no trouble admitting I am at least one part geek. I like techie things, and I like Batman and "Star Trek" and comic books. I also like fashion, especially great shoes. As I said in "Dichotomy" above, life is not all black and white. Life is lots of shades of grays. And pinks. People are not all this way or that way. We are all combinations of many, many things. And much lies below the surface. I could see the friendly demeanor of a coworker in the ministry, for instance, and assume he is a nice person, when really he is maneuvering behind my back, looking for reason to find fault with me, and gossiping to our fellow workers. Heck, he could even be reading this page right now and thinking that he has some "goods" on me, some things to criticize or draw attention to, when really the condition of his own heart is greatly in question. Human beings can be so quick to judge, after all. But there is that Scripture verse about taking the log out of your own eye. And as we are all combinations of so many things, is what really lies below the surface a tendency to love, or to hate? And which is it that the Lord commands of us?

This coat is a toasty and comfortable one, and I've worn it periodically throughout my adulthood. I was wearing it that day a year and a half ago as we committed Mother's body to the ground. She called it her alpaca coat, though I don't know much about the alpaca and never cared to look it up. The silk lining has been torn over the years. It still bears a big, beautiful, embroidered tag that says "Esther Shop Inc., Saginaw, Mich."

And what lies below its surface is a simple black dress, non-Mother but still vintage, that I wore to church in the morning and to a candlelight service in the evening.

 

Onward and Upward
Red velvet dress, December 28, 2008
Where it went that afternoon: McDonald's, Book Nook

It is only fitting that I end this yearlong photo project with the kingpin of the collection -- and of my whole wardrobe. The most important dress I've ever owned. The big kahuna. The deal-breaker. The red velvet dress.

Whenever I've worn this dress through my adulthood, and that's been no more than once a year or every other year, it's been BIG. It is gathered at the shoulders in a rather Audrey Hepburn-esque way. It has no lining and no tag, and by the appearance of its small, neat seams it might have sprung from someone's personal sewing machine rather than a store rack. It's tiny-tiny-tight, a second skin, really. And I can't apply the wool-shrinks rule this time; not only is this velvety beauty not wool, I've always been afraid to wash it!

To me now, this dress symbolizes moving on, the unstoppable progression of time, but the awesome, powerful, stable force that remains in place throughout.

For the past year in this project, for 52 weeks now, I've offered you a glimpse of my mother. It is, of course, my mother through the eyes of a daughter, and with that, it is a great deal of myself, as well. After all, we locate some of our own selves within our mother, don't we? We must. And I have a feeling Mother located some of herself in me, as well.

Is what you see here my whole mother, all parts of her? No. It is only a glimpse, only some better things about her. Mother was not perfect, as I am not perfect. I showed you here the parts I choose to remember, the parts I choose to embrace. I believe that's what the Lord calls us to do -- learn the lessons we should, celebrate the best, set aside the rest. Is that revisionist history? Absolutely -- it is revising my own attitude.

I've been asked how I'm going to follow up this yearlong photo essay project, what I'm going to do in 2009. I didn't give it any thought at first, seeing this project all year long as a completely contained one, an isolated case, because of the uniqueness of this quite-amazing wardrobe. But in the past several weeks I've had an idea for a second yearlong project, something a little fun and crazy that takes a different direction from My Mother's Clothing but still explores this concept of the weekly raw-photo essay. I won't know, really, if I should proceed with that project until New Year's Day. Writer's block is a foreign concept to me; I've always had way more ideas bustling around in my brain than I've had time for. When my close friend Julie was killed in a covenience store robbery in 1998, for instance, I wrote a whole play, inside my head, and there it still sits, a decade later, inside my head, yet to be committed to keyboard. So how I spend my time has become increasingly important, particularly where the Lord is concerned. I don't think I can stop writing, and I don't think the Lord wants me to. It's been quite a lot like breathing, for the past 30-some years. And when you're a writer, you don't merely execute the mechanics of noun, verb, compound modifier, etc. You examine the world around you. You contemplate, compare, consider. You seek to learn, to understand, and to thereby grow. I don't think I could not try to figure things out, any more than I could not write. So how do I write for Him, besides the very evangelistic third novel I'm about to release? We'll see. I do believe 2009 will be big, as far as the Lord's purpose is concerned.

 

 

The yearlong My Mother's Clothing photo essay project is complete!
Thanks for being a part of it.

Read the "By the Numbers" of the project here.

And keep an eye on BillieRae.com and BRB's author profile page on Facebook for the latest news on her writing projects.

 

 

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The official press release of My Mother's Clothing

Press release of My Mother's Clothing at WEYI, NBC Channel 25 in Clio, Michigan

My Mother's Clothing covered at The Detroit News' MichMoms Blog

One of the My Mother's Clothing photos featured in the Jones Soda Photo Gallery

 

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Ever wonder what the OTHER photos of the project look like?
You know, the ones that didn't make the site?
You can get a glimpse of the "cutting-room floor"
of the My Mother's Clothing project at
Billie Rae's author profile page on Facebook!

 

The photos of My Mother's Clothing are also on Flickr!

*** NEW IN 2009: See which one of the My Mother's Clothing photos is in the Jones Soda Photo Gallery!!!! ***

 

 

 

Read Part 1 of My Mother's Clothing

See the "Gone But Not Forgotten" of My Mother's Clothing

See "A Little More of Mother" and a few fashions BRB never got to wear!

Learn a little more about BRB's mother Lois at the
Mother's Treasures website

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Check out Billie Rae's next yearlong photo essay project, The Inexplicable Lives of Dolls