Did you see them as they flew past? The little telltale instances during childhood that ended up defining who you are today? I didn’t. In fact, I actively avoided them.
I am a seamstress.
Three instances stand out to me. The first was a visit to a resale shop with my mother. We haunted the place. It was fairly large and not as dangerous for a child to walk through as most were. It was near my home, so we went often, just to browse. I remember buying Misty of Chincotegue there on a rainy afternoon. In the back was a series of rooms, each no bigger than a small bathroom. In one, a rod hung on the wall contained formal dresses. Mom always glanced through. I tried not to pay attention. I wasn’t that much of a girly girl. I thought I was more interested in the cowboy and Indian toy sets out front. Then, she showed me The Dress. It probably wasn’t nearly what my mind built it up to be over the years, but in my memory, it was stunning. Surely Scheherazade had worn this dress for one night, at least. Only some Arabian princess could ever have done it justice. The colors were peacock blue and a cloudy purple. It was high waisted with a moderately plunging neckline. Either sequins or jewels were everywhere. It was long, with a skirt mimicking Fortuny’s style. The sleeves were bell sleeves, wings of sheer violet. I was in love. I think I was ten. We didn’t buy the dress. It was more than my mother was willing to pay for what would end up being a play dress. Wise of her. It would probably have faded from my memory. More than likely, it was actually a horrid 80s sequined monstrosity, but some day, I’m going to make that dress of my dreams.
The next dress was a dress I had for Halloween. I wish I had a full length photo of it, but I only remember there being a headshot taken. I adored that dress. Actually, chronologically, this dress came first. I was Cinderella in a rosebud pink dress. The skirt was enormous, for me, at least. It reminds me now of Glinda the Good Witch’s dress, only with less tulle and chiffon and more gathers with rosebuds. Details escape me, but I felt like a princess in that dress and my tinfoil crown.
The last dress was one I dubbed my Lady of the Lake dress in my mind. I can’t even remember what it really looked like, just the feeling it gave me and a vague impression of swaths of ivory chiffon. I had this during high school and had intended on wearing it as a costume for Halloween one year when we were allowed. It had disappeared by then. Who knows where that dress ended up.
I am a writer.
If you had told me I would ever end up loving to write, I would have looked at you like you’d grown a second nose. It took forever before it occurred to me I really could write. In some things, I am slow. I don’t recall much about writing during elementary school, but I remember bits of an assignment for Jr. High, in Mrs. LeJeune’s class. Something about my horse is all I remember, but I got a very good grade on it. The one that clenched it was in Mrs. Fielder’s English class. I aced English in every year. I took to it like breathing. You’d think I would have had a clue. We had an assignment for a one page story about getting up on stage. I whipped something out, thinking I’d flunk it. Knowing I would, but I just couldn’t do any better. Mrs. Fielder announced she was going to read the best essay the next day. I thought nothing more of it. As she went up to the front of the class, someone caught a glimpse of the name, beginning with S, and assumed it was Shannon Gilley’s. I still recall her smug look. I didn’t think to look at her face when my essay was read.
It wasn’t too long after that when I realized I could write and that I wanted to be a writer in some way. When the Art teacher announced a competition to win a stained glass piece she’d made, the best story about a Frog Prince, I entered. I wish I still had that story. It was about a medieval prince obsessed a witch who turned him into a frog wearing tennis shoes. I still have the stained glass frog. He hangs in the window near where my son sleeps.
As these pieces of time slipped by, I didn’t recognize them for what they were. Now I know, and I wonder what else I will look back on that defined me.
I am a seamstress.
Three instances stand out to me. The first was a visit to a resale shop with my mother. We haunted the place. It was fairly large and not as dangerous for a child to walk through as most were. It was near my home, so we went often, just to browse. I remember buying Misty of Chincotegue there on a rainy afternoon. In the back was a series of rooms, each no bigger than a small bathroom. In one, a rod hung on the wall contained formal dresses. Mom always glanced through. I tried not to pay attention. I wasn’t that much of a girly girl. I thought I was more interested in the cowboy and Indian toy sets out front. Then, she showed me The Dress. It probably wasn’t nearly what my mind built it up to be over the years, but in my memory, it was stunning. Surely Scheherazade had worn this dress for one night, at least. Only some Arabian princess could ever have done it justice. The colors were peacock blue and a cloudy purple. It was high waisted with a moderately plunging neckline. Either sequins or jewels were everywhere. It was long, with a skirt mimicking Fortuny’s style. The sleeves were bell sleeves, wings of sheer violet. I was in love. I think I was ten. We didn’t buy the dress. It was more than my mother was willing to pay for what would end up being a play dress. Wise of her. It would probably have faded from my memory. More than likely, it was actually a horrid 80s sequined monstrosity, but some day, I’m going to make that dress of my dreams.
The next dress was a dress I had for Halloween. I wish I had a full length photo of it, but I only remember there being a headshot taken. I adored that dress. Actually, chronologically, this dress came first. I was Cinderella in a rosebud pink dress. The skirt was enormous, for me, at least. It reminds me now of Glinda the Good Witch’s dress, only with less tulle and chiffon and more gathers with rosebuds. Details escape me, but I felt like a princess in that dress and my tinfoil crown.
The last dress was one I dubbed my Lady of the Lake dress in my mind. I can’t even remember what it really looked like, just the feeling it gave me and a vague impression of swaths of ivory chiffon. I had this during high school and had intended on wearing it as a costume for Halloween one year when we were allowed. It had disappeared by then. Who knows where that dress ended up.
I am a writer.
If you had told me I would ever end up loving to write, I would have looked at you like you’d grown a second nose. It took forever before it occurred to me I really could write. In some things, I am slow. I don’t recall much about writing during elementary school, but I remember bits of an assignment for Jr. High, in Mrs. LeJeune’s class. Something about my horse is all I remember, but I got a very good grade on it. The one that clenched it was in Mrs. Fielder’s English class. I aced English in every year. I took to it like breathing. You’d think I would have had a clue. We had an assignment for a one page story about getting up on stage. I whipped something out, thinking I’d flunk it. Knowing I would, but I just couldn’t do any better. Mrs. Fielder announced she was going to read the best essay the next day. I thought nothing more of it. As she went up to the front of the class, someone caught a glimpse of the name, beginning with S, and assumed it was Shannon Gilley’s. I still recall her smug look. I didn’t think to look at her face when my essay was read.
It wasn’t too long after that when I realized I could write and that I wanted to be a writer in some way. When the Art teacher announced a competition to win a stained glass piece she’d made, the best story about a Frog Prince, I entered. I wish I still had that story. It was about a medieval prince obsessed a witch who turned him into a frog wearing tennis shoes. I still have the stained glass frog. He hangs in the window near where my son sleeps.
As these pieces of time slipped by, I didn’t recognize them for what they were. Now I know, and I wonder what else I will look back on that defined me.
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