Think back to your childhood. Write about an article of clothing or an outfit you remember one of your parents wearing.
It was New Year's Eve and my baby brother's birthday. The year was either 1961 or 1962. We had hurriedly opened presents, eaten cake and ice cream and put on our footie pajamas. We were all ready for the babysitter who would be arriving soon so my mom and dad could whoop it up with friends at the annual New Year's Ball at the Officer's Club. My little brother was in tears and wondered out loud, "Why do they always have to leave on my birthday?" Encircling his small body with my own skinny little girl arms, I said, "Do you know how special you are to have a birthday that the whole world celebrates? Someday, you will have spectacular birthday parties." I am not so sure that consoled him much, but I do know that was my favorite message to him, recited year after year on his birthday. You are special! The entire world celebrates with you!
The New Year's Ball was a formal wear event. Chanel Number Five wafted into the room announcing the arrival of a real life fairy princess. Our mother. I always smelled her before I saw her. She was a tiny woman, but in her New Year's finery, she looked larger than life; a movie star. Her dark hair lay curled off of her face, and the big, liquid brown eyes gave the illusion of smoldering innocence. When the curtains drew back on her ruby, red lips a perfect set of straight white teeth stretched into a smile that lit up any space she occupied. I was most in awe of the mountains of white tulle resembling an avalanche of snow as it cascaded from her waist, to the middle of her knees. All this marshmallow fluff was topped by a simple spaghetti strapped, taffeta bodice, while the angelic illusion was slightly disrupted by six inches of thick pumpkin colored belting. I had to move closer to see the delicate thread of teeny rhinestones wrapping her slender neck. While I was there, I could not help but notice the pearl and rhinestone chandelier earrings, flashing their brilliance into her dark curls. Her legs were slim yet shapely, like an athlete, although I don't think I ever saw her break a sweat in my entire life. Even though she was short, her image was straight off the cover of Vogue, a miniature runway model. I wondered how she could glide like one too, as her feet were so small they could have passed for a Japanese Geisha. The cloth shoes matched the belt of pumpkin encircling her waist. I later learned she had dyed the shoes and the belt so she could re-use the white dress, thereby preserving my Dad's image as a successful Air Force Colonel while being conservative with the money he remained obsessed about saving, his entire life.
An image of her walking into our bedrooms to check on her sleeping children remains with me now. Her perfume woke me as she bent over my bed. To this day, the slightest whiff of Chanel Number Five while passing through a Macy's store has the power to conjure and sometimes, still, brings a tear.
I remember thinking I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I was. The battle with addiction and unworthiness was passed on. How could so many demons hide out beneath the fancy white skirts of fluff and fantasy?
The New Year's Ball was a formal wear event. Chanel Number Five wafted into the room announcing the arrival of a real life fairy princess. Our mother. I always smelled her before I saw her. She was a tiny woman, but in her New Year's finery, she looked larger than life; a movie star. Her dark hair lay curled off of her face, and the big, liquid brown eyes gave the illusion of smoldering innocence. When the curtains drew back on her ruby, red lips a perfect set of straight white teeth stretched into a smile that lit up any space she occupied. I was most in awe of the mountains of white tulle resembling an avalanche of snow as it cascaded from her waist, to the middle of her knees. All this marshmallow fluff was topped by a simple spaghetti strapped, taffeta bodice, while the angelic illusion was slightly disrupted by six inches of thick pumpkin colored belting. I had to move closer to see the delicate thread of teeny rhinestones wrapping her slender neck. While I was there, I could not help but notice the pearl and rhinestone chandelier earrings, flashing their brilliance into her dark curls. Her legs were slim yet shapely, like an athlete, although I don't think I ever saw her break a sweat in my entire life. Even though she was short, her image was straight off the cover of Vogue, a miniature runway model. I wondered how she could glide like one too, as her feet were so small they could have passed for a Japanese Geisha. The cloth shoes matched the belt of pumpkin encircling her waist. I later learned she had dyed the shoes and the belt so she could re-use the white dress, thereby preserving my Dad's image as a successful Air Force Colonel while being conservative with the money he remained obsessed about saving, his entire life.
An image of her walking into our bedrooms to check on her sleeping children remains with me now. Her perfume woke me as she bent over my bed. To this day, the slightest whiff of Chanel Number Five while passing through a Macy's store has the power to conjure and sometimes, still, brings a tear.
I remember thinking I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I was. The battle with addiction and unworthiness was passed on. How could so many demons hide out beneath the fancy white skirts of fluff and fantasy?
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