Bell Bottoms

(This blog post is about my mother. Lest anyone reading it think I do not appreciate my mother, and her skills and intentions and wanting the best for me, that is absolutely untrue. I appreciate them to the utmost; it just took me a while for some things. One of those things was bell-bottomed pants.)

In my dreams, I wanted to look like everyone else. I wanted shorter skirts, I wanted go-go boots, I wanted straight hair with bangs that covered my eyes. Short skirts were not permitted, go-go boots were a luxury we couldn't afford, and my hair does what it wants, and it wants to curl -  not a tight curl like Jens and Emilys, more of a wavy curl. I have matured somewhat. After standing on my feet in one place for my career as a bank teller, I gave in to sensible shoes and there's no going back. I want my clothes to last several seasons so I look for quality on sale. Dee cuts my hair every three months, and she has swept away my curls like the seasons -  from dark brown to salt and pepper to almost grey. I have never colored it, and I don't suppose I ever will. I dreamed bell-bottoms.

In my dreams, my bell-bottoms were store-bought and made of denim. Perhaps they were embellished with daisies; that I don't remember. But I know they were made of denim. I think I forgot to mention that when asked what I wanted for Christmas. It is never good to assume.

My mother is a wizard; not the kind of wizard with a bright pointy hat and a long coat, but a genius at making something from nothing very little. She learned her skills while she worked alongside her mother at a young age. She learned and used her skills out of necessity, and indeed, her neighbor girlfriends learned the same skills. Recycling in the country in the 1920s and 30s gives a whole new meaning to the concept that recyclers of today would probably have a difficult time grasping. In her era, new clothing generally came from Eatons in their delivery truck. How would that piece of clothing evolve? Let's say it was a new dress for my Gram. (That would be highly unusual; its just an example.)

Gram would wear her dress until it was threadbare in places. She would then carefully take it apart at the seams. She would cut out and sew, on her old Singer treadle, a dress for my mother. She would save the scraps. Gram did not piece quilts herself  but someone would. She did make rugs, and if the material was wool, it would go into a rug. No longer usable cottons went into the rag bag, even in my day.

As children, my brother and sister and I wore many clothes that were made out of bigger clothes. My brother's little suits were made from my Dad's old suits. I remember one little green coat that had fur tassles. I would say that half of my clothes were made from older clothes, and the rest came from Eatons Bargain Basement and Creaghans sample shoe shelf. Later on, my sister got to wear them. That was okay for many years.

Until denim bell-bottoms came into fashion, that is. Like Clydesdales, my peers paraded around in their bells. It was absolutely mortifying to walk around in boot-cut hand me down flannels. Unless you lived it, you cannot imagine the shame. So, for Christmas, I asked for bell-bottoms.

I opened the package. You know the feeling, don't you. There it is, just what you asked for, but not. And you don't want to disappoint the giver, who watches your face for tell-tale signs that their gift is exactly what you dreamed of. I put on my mask and my new grey flannel bell-bottomed pants. Yes, the bells were Clydesdale width. But what is worse? Wearing out of style boot-cut pants or stylish but undenim bells? Making excuses not to wear them. "I'm saving them for a special occasion?" Did I say that? I don't remember what excuse I came up with. I just remember feeling miserable when I wore them; trying to shrink into the flowers on the wallpaper.

And now, with the maturity that comes with my grey hair, and over thirty years of motherhood under my belt, I understand. I acknowledge that it was my fault. I should have specified what I thought was understood at the time: DENIM.  I know the Christmas budgets were tight, and I know my mother went way beyond the call of duty in making our Christmases into delightful memories. She spent hours after we went to our beds, making new clothes and doll clothes. She had the gift, made the time, and sacrificed. I've learned that it's okay to be different. It builds character and sometimes, humility. And, although my bell-bottoms were made with Dad's old flannels, I know that she stitched her love into every seam and zipper and buttonhole that she made for us. Her gifts come with her love and her prayers that we would grow into fine young men and women. And so it was, when I was with child for my first born, I asked her to make flannel nighties for my baby, the kind she made for me. Little white flannel nighties that came about to baby's knees and had cross-stitch embroidery around the neck. And as she grew into a toddler, would she make her a dress like I used to wear, the kind that hung from a yoke and was trimmed with lace? She made those for me and my daughter. And she walked the floors of Eatons and picked up bargains for my daughters and my niece and nephews. She could stretch a dollar there, and she did.

She still has her Singer treadle sewing machine. I think its been a few years since she put it to use, but I have worn many a lovely garment created on that machine. It is her bed-table now. It holds her lamp and telephone and the book she reads to help her fall asleep. I stand to inherit it. And, you know, I will appreciate it, for many are the beautiful dresses I have worn and the lessons I have learned, thanks to that machine, the feet that rocked the pedals, and the love that far exceeded fashion.