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I’ve always loved pretty clothes. I think I fell in love with fabric and patterns as a kid rooting through the missionary basket at church. The basket, located in the Fellowship Hall, was where the better-off families donated clothes for the less-better-off.
My family fell into a gray area, as we were considered lower middle class – this was back when there still was a middle class. Our father worked as a janitor at the local hospital, toiling his way up through the years to a suit-and-tie job as maintenance director by the time it was all said and done. He would have been embarrassed if he knew how often my head was buried in that basket.
We owned our house, a modest three-bedroom ranch that sat on the outskirts of town. We were a no-frills household. Our growing-up clothes were pedestrian, only notable because my twin and I gleefully wore matching ones in our designated colors – blue for me, red for her. Each year, we got two new pair of shoes – one at the start of a school year, and the other shiny patent leathers to wear with our Easter dresses.
I didn’t realize we were a bit drab until I noticed Mrs. Wright at church one Sunday morning, a cool blonde, sensuous and alluring. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. We sat in Sunday school with her son, Allen, who would alternate winking at my sister and then at me, which made us howl with laughter.
Allen’s mom wore cinched waist dresses in fabrics that moved even when she stood still. She had shapely legs that she dressed up in shimmering nylon and her high heels, always polished, glided across the church lobby. The females in my family were clumpers, and I envied Allen for his elegant mother with her tip-tapping walk.
Even as a child, I knew Mrs. Allen’s splendor was out of reach. I was a corn-fed girl playing tackle football with the other neighborhood miscreants. The fractures on our family foundation would never be found in Mrs. Wright’s flawless family.
I spent a good amount of time bending my head into that basket, searching for a way out. I found many treasures there, including silk orange pajamas with a matching robe (I wore it open so it would flow behind me like a wave) and, once, a floral polyester mini skirt with a heart charm forgotten in the pocket. I carried that charm around through most of middle school and credit its magic for my appointment to pep club president in seventh grade.
As I aged, I ran away from our meat-and-potatoes style diet. My twin and I participated in a community theatre, mostly as townsperson one and two. It was here that I discovered the costume room and soon adopted it as my own closet. I could dress as Lucille Ball on one day, loud colors and goofy hats, and Grace Kelly the next, pure, exquisite glamor.
Clothes and accessories became a way for me to identify myself as unique and worthy. In the 1970s, I scrounged a pair of velvet bell-bottoms that I wore so often, the seat grew smooth and shiny. I jingled through the ’80s with my tinny bangles lined all the way to my elbow. In the ’90s, I discovered tulle and its scratchy fullness became a lifelong friend.
My sister went the other way. She is all high fashion, refined and luxurious. I chose style over fashion. I still bend over clothing baskets in vintage shops, searching for the piece that will set me apart as special and important.
I’m in my 50s now, and always strive to be the best-dressed person in the room. I’ve run into a one or two style icons in Murphy – Joy Lynn comes to mind – and, as the great imitator, I steal their good ideas with experienced skill.
I guess I’ll always chase after Mrs. Wright’s fashion. Or, perhaps, her attitude, confident and glorious. I’m old enough to know that those embers are lit from within. I understand that a flowing skirt with a delicate chiffon overlay speaks little to my character and integrity. But I did find myself at the bottom of those baskets.
I grew up to become a storyteller. Most of my clothes hold memories of another person’s life. I wear their secrets and their promises. I hold their disappointments and carry on their legacies.
This broach belonged to somebody’s grandmother and that dress with the tiny pink flowers, somebody’s mother sewed that for a special event. I am imprinted by the history of others and humbled by my place within it.
I recently wore a purple stole to Ingles, and a woman stopped me in the parking lot. “My mother had a stole very similar to yours,” she said, all twinkly. “She wore it out on date night with dad.”
At heart, I’m memory collector. I intend to search for such treasures until I’m finally laid to rest, very likely in an orange-red organza gown – just like the one your aunt wore to your cousin’s christening.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.