When I was a child, in those days when most moms made their children's clothing, my mother could sew as fine a seam as any woman on the block. Every Christmas, Easter, and "back-to-school" season for as long as I could remember, she had painstakingly transformed lengths of dotted Swiss, cotton calico, or gingham checks into frilly dresses just my size.
Once she even made my winter jacket. It was a kind of nubby blue and tan tweed cut down from one of her coats, and the hood was lined with velveteen. For untold hours Mama stitched through thick layers of fabric with her ancient black Singer sewing machine--a permanent fixture in our living room.
Mom often sewed, while we kids played "pickup sticks” or "jacks" on the hardwood floor. But even after we had been tucked snugly into our beds, she would return to the machine, bending her head over the rhythmically pumping needle while gently guiding pinned and basted seams over the feed dogs.
I never minded the homemade clothes. Mama always looked for lace remnants and novelty buttons to make them special for me. But two weeks before I graduated from junior high school, my mother unplugged the sewing machine, put away her spools and scissors, and drove me thirty miles to Salt Lake City.
For an entire day we searched through the teen departments of stores with names like "The Paris," "Auerbachs," and "ZCMI" for the perfect graduation dress.
At noon we paused for lunch in the basement of ZCMI. Egg salad sandwiches and ice cold buttermilk never tasted better. (Yes, I loved buttermilk even then!)
After we had eaten, it was back to the fitting rooms to try on what seemed like every dress in the store. When at last we found the one, no words could describe how special I felt in the cloud-like creation of white taffeta and flocked organza that billowed out beneath a pale blue satin cummerbund. The saleslady put our purchase in a clear plastic zipper bag, and Mother let me carry it to the car. I held my breath all the way.
"Can we really afford it?" I dared ask only when the expensive gown was safely hanging on a hook above one back window.
Mom turned her face. The pale brown flecks in her deep-set, gray-green eyes seemed to grow a little brighter. "Your grandmother brought me to Salt Lake when I graduated."
"All the way from where you lived in Spanish Fork?" I asked, wondering why Mama had changed the subject.
"On the train." She smiled and patted my hand. "Your grandma saved her egg money for an awfully long time."
I thought about that. Back home in the family picture album was a portrait of my mother a as a teenager--so beautiful in a cascade of costly, pink lace.
Mom started the car. I lay my head back against the seat and listened to the steady thrumming of the tires. From the corner of my eye, I could see my mother--still pretty in the same turquoise suit she always wore to church.
"Grandma must have loved you very, very much," I finally whispered to my mom.
--Lakeside Review, May 9, 1984
