Today is the GAP’s anniversary. Years ago, when she first announced wedding plans, I’d suggested a circus motif. I knew my mom possessed two hundred yards of red, yellow, and blue striped polyester fabric — perfect for costumes and a tent. My daughter, however, stubbornly clinging to her own ideas, envisioned a Fifteenth Century medieval wedding.
I looked puzzled. Parents were supposed to think old-fashioned, not children.
After departing bridal boutiques with empty shopping bags, I contacted professional dressmakers. One seamstress formed a cross with her fingers and demanded we leave.
“You can make it, Mom,” the GAP contended. Didn’t she remember the last outfit I’d sewn had gripper snaps on the crotch?
“It’ll give you something to do during the day,” she coaxed, failing to mention nights and weekends, too. I hadn’t seen a dress with so many pieces since she played with Colorforms.
She wanted me to combine the bodice from one picture, the front panel from another, and the neckline from a dress she’d seen in the movie Elizabeth.
“It won’t be hard,” she lied. “First, there’s a chemise. It’s worn under everything else. Like a slip.” She pointed to a picture.
“You mean a flannel nightgown minus the fleece,” I said. “Why are the sleeves so billowy?”
“So they can poof out of the tied slashes in the Elizabethan sleeve.”
My head was swimming. “How many layers are we talking about?”
“Well, a corset and bumroll tie over the chemise.”
“Bumroll?” I asked. Until she flashed a photograph in front of my eyes, I thought she meant a bad toss of the dice. “Looks like a fanny pack worn backwards.” I patted my backside, then glanced at hers. “Our fannies don’t exactly need accentuating.”
“Then the first underskirt,” she said, ignoring my personal observation. “It doesn’t show at all.”
“Well, if it doesn’t show,” I mumbled, “why do we need it?”
“Quit interrupting me while I’m on a roll,” she said, near tears.
“Excuse me. Was that a bumroll?”
I knew I’d pushed too far. Her eyes rolled back. “All right, I’ll listen.”
“Next, a second underskirt. Then a flowing overskirt of antique satin fastened at the waist, draping open to expose a brocade panel underneath. Doesn’t it sound beautiful?” She swooshed her hands outward as if fluffing her dream gown, and then looked at me with persuasive blue eyes.
“Okay,” I sighed, already exhausted. “I’ll make it.”
One Renaissance period costume book suggested cartridge pleating the skirts. What did that mean? Directions were written in Olde English. The only sentence I understood suggested paying the castle’s downstairs maid to sew the dress.
“Look at the brocade I bought,” the GAP said excitedly. “See the medieval design?”
“What about the gold and rust colored threads running through it?”
“Can’t you just pull them out?” Where’s David Copperfield when you need him? I didn’t know what I wanted to disappear most — the unwanted threads or my unrelenting daughter.
I fashioned the stomacher, the piece resembling a breastplate attaching with hooks and eyes to the dress front, from the paused frame of Elizabeth I’d rented at Blockbuster. When I attempted to scale a bodice drawing printed in Barbie doll size from a book, I found my geometry skills had atrophied. After enlarging the tiny design on a copier, over and over, we taped the expanded pieces together. The GAP plopped herself on the floor atop the pattern. She rolled over twice and still hadn’t reached center back. If she’d weighed just a bit more — like twelve hundred pounds — the fit would have been perfect.
“Now,” I observed, after a few more sizing attempts, “the front pieces don’t come together.
“They’re not supposed to. You line the two front sides with rivets and lace them tightly. Like another corset.”
I had nine weeks to finish. Nine years wouldn’t be enough time.
I needed help…guidance…a padded room. Then I did just what my daughter had done — I ran to momma. My mom was a talented seamstress, hampered by poor memory. Sometimes it took hours to find scissors, thread, and material at the same time.
“Wow, this is heavy,” Mom panted, lifting the fabric. “Do you think she’ll wear the dress without passing out?”
I cut eight panels for each underskirt while my mentor joined them on her serger, a machine that seamed pieces while clipping raw edges. Dad, working a magic more useful than David Copperfield, pulled gold and rust threads from the otherwise white brocade.
“When I was little,” Mom said, “the ice cream man spooned your favorite flavor into your own bowl.”
No one knew how Mom transitioned from one topic to another. Not even Mom. You just listened. Then I heard a faint “Pop Goes the Weasel” from a ice cream vendor. “I thought he licked the spoon after scooping each cup.” She deliberately paused. “Did you know your dad drove a Good Humor truck?”
I turned to my dad. “Not long,” he grinned. “I didn’t make much. My route included East Los Angeles. For every kid buying a chocolate bar, four more stood looking wide-eyed and hungry. I’d give each one a cone.” He was still a softy.
End of Day One — the first underskirt seamed, cartridge pleated, and attached to a waistband.
After sewing the satin top, I slipped it on to check the fitting. Since it didn’t meet in front, I grabbed both sides and tugged them together. The stomacher to cover the risqué neckline wasn’t attached. Mom looked startled. “You sure this top will fit? It looks small.”
“It’ll be fine,” I assured her.
“Okay. But we might have to make a dickie for it.” That was always her answer to cleavage.
Her questions were word for word the same each day. “Where’s the groom from?”
“Downey,” I said. “He’s the youngest of eleven children.”
I’d answered the next question before she’d had a chance to ask. She continued from her engraved mental list. “That Hot Wheelz is so cute. Do you think he’ll meet someone at the reception?” Before I could agree that possibly my son just might meet his future wife at the wedding, the phone rang.
“Mom?” I heard the GAP’s voice. “Have you sewn the trim onto the stomacher?”
“You mean the Superman chest protector?” That’s what Dad called it. “Sure,” I kidded. “with a big red S right in the middle.”
“Quit being funny,” she scoffed. “I’m calling from a fabric store in San Francisco…”
“Why can’t you just be like everyone else,” I interrupted, “and go to the yardage shop around the corner?”
“Mom, get serious,” she jeered. “I found the perfect white brocade ribbon.”
I hung up and turned to my sewing partner. “We’ve got to tear off the trim,” I moaned.
“It’s good we didn’t sew it on Sunday,” Mom said good-naturedly, “or we’d have to pull the stitches out with our noses.”
I looked forward to sewing days with Mom. She always greeted me with, “Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“I’ve got Fritos.” Then I’d listen to her Fritos philosophy. “I never thought I’d get hooked like this.”
I wouldn’t exactly call five Fritos a sitting an addiction. “You can drop them in chicken noodle soup?” she continued. “I like ‘em over browned hamburger, topped with cheese.”
“Not hungry, Mom,” I said.
“How about some apricot pineapple nectar? It’s better than plain apricot.”
“Not thirsty either.”
“What moat are we going to cross today?” She’d chuckle.
“Boning the bodice,” I said. We traced narrow rows on the interfacing, then slipped Rigelene strips into the slender seams for stiffness.
Mom repeated her repertoire of comments. “That Hot Wheelz is so cute. Do you think he’ll meet someone at the reception?”
“Who knows, Mom?” I smiled. “It could happen.”
“We watched a good John Wayne cowboy movie last night.,” she remarked while hand-sewing San Franciscan ribbon onto the bodice. “I can’t remember the name.”
“Dad,” I yelled so he could hear me in the other room, “what Western did you watch last night?”
“What Russian?” he shouted back.
His hearing wasn’t so good. “Not Russian,” I called. “Western.”
“Oh, Western,” he said. “It’s an exit on the Santa Monica Freeway, just past the Harbor interchange.”
When we stopped for lunch, Mom pulled out her bag of Fritos. Five. A bite of Fritos for each nibble on her sandwich. Occasionally, when she didn’t come out even, she’d take one more chip.
When the GAP modeled our work-in-progress, we’d determine our advances by the number of pins keeping the dress parts in place.
The GAP purchased delicate lace to tie the sleeves together and onto the armholes, then immediately misplaced it. One o’clock in the morning, the day of the wedding, the phone rang. “Mom, I found the lace.” She paused. “What’re you doing right now?”
Sleeping would have been nice, but… “Sewing on the last crystal. Then I have to press the dress — all fifty pieces.”
***************************
The wedding march had played. The GAP entered, smiling radiantly, flowers woven in her hair. Her eyes twinkled as brightly as the crystals adorning the center panel. Every bead, snap, and hook in place. Mom leaned over and whispered in my ear, “If Hot Wheelz meets a cute girl at the reception, do we have to make her dress, too?”
Happy anniversary, Jenn. May you always remember these fond memories.
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- Halloween on a budget
- A mother’s love
- Motherhood Á la arsenic
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You are just fearless! You will take on anything! I would love to see a photo (hint hint!)
Penny,
This is no doubt not just a story about a dress, but a story about a mothers love.
Your children have been lucky to have you for a mother!
Wow, what a great tale. You are truly amazing. Jennifer and all the kids are super lucky to have so much to be thankful for, in you.
Hmmm… the story sounds awfully familiar with a certain white dress I wore 11 years ago…
The dress really was beautiful – worth every moment of love you poured into it.
Wow! You made a beautiful wedding dress with a beautiful memory for your daughter. I agree with Grandma KC you are fearless!
Ps
I love this post