In the “Age of Innocence,” (if there were ever a time), they used to say, “I didn’t think they’d try it on,” meaning, I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do it. Some may have said that about my mother, but not me.
I’m not sure she ever really knew how brave she was. I know she wanted to be. I guess I knew first, because my grandfather told me. Standing in the kitchen, opposite the sink – grandma in elbow deep – in front of the window that framed the stripped and hanging cow from the tree, he told me I could turn in, or turn out. That I could armored like my Aunt Kay, or be open like my mother. He didn’t mark either as good or bad, both would be difficult, it was just a choice. My mother returned from the other room. Broken, she had the guts to still be ruffled in white. I had already made my choice. To be wounded, but still believe in love, I would ever be “trying it on.”
It was years later, I relayed his message to her. She hadn’t known that he saw her. It wasn’t the way. I suppose it was thought, “Well, it goes without saying…” but mostly I think that means it simply goes unsaid. I can’t let it be one of those times. Ever ruffled in ruffles, I come to the page, to the canvas, to you, wide open, daily. And on those days when you think you don’t have the strength, the courage, the will, you will think of these words, these images, see my mother’s face and heart, and you will find yourself “trying it on.”
I find it interesting that some of the most expensive clothing brands, The Row for example, are now selling ensembles that highly resemble the things I chose to wear for Halloween from the basement laundry room. Not closeted, but simply hung from a horizontal pole. It was a selection of work clothing, not unlike what hung in my grandparents’ basement. All basically the same size – big — and almost exclusively damp. I never questioned who wore all these clothes. Who worked them into a state of supple? I just assumed every house had them. And my theory was substantiated by the amount of bums and hobos that walked up and down VanDyke road in the dusk of October 31st each year.
It makes me smile, because we thought ourselves too poor to purchase the pre-packaged costumes that hung from the end caps at Peterson Drug, but as it turns out, we weren’t poor, just simply ahead of our time.
I love how everything changes. Fashion comes and goes. Lines get blurred, nearly obliterating perspective. And we just choose what feels right. From the length of our pants to the hearts on our sleeves, we pick, we find our comfort — not because someone told us, influenced us, or pressured us, but because we became.
I can tell you the different paintings that I was working on, by the color palette left on my pants. My shorts. My shirt. Through the years, I have been asked which designer manufactured my paint-splattered jeans. That would be me, I reply.
Don’t get me wrong, I love fashion. All of it. I want to be a part of it, but not so much to impress you, but to joyfully comfort me.
In the summer’s of my youth, usually at least once, the skies would cover in an almost greenish gray, and the breezes that lilted anything on wind would quiet. Alone in the yard, I would hear the land line ring and run. Wrapping myself in the cord and winding myself into the garage, so happy to hear my mother’s voice. “Grab the transistor radio,” she would say, “and go down into the basement.” She didn’t warn me about the possible tornado. Maybe I knew. Her work voice was calm and directive. The plug of the radio hit each step on my way down. I climbed up on the washer to reach the outlet. Between updates and alerts, I danced to the music, weaving in and out of the work clothes. And I was saved.
I feel beautiful wearing my mother’s blouses today, with my tattered, well worn jeans. Is it the fashion, the sound of her voice, the security of her leading me? Yes.
I hear the phone ring again. I race from the basement to a clearing sky. And I become.
If I were to play the percentages, the chances of me having a good dream are few and far between. And I remember all of them. The details especially clear in the early morning ones. Yet, 4:30am is too early for me to get up, so this morning, I dared the clarity and went back to sleep. This morning’s reward was worth beyond the years of risk.
In my dream —-
Dominique and I were visiting the Chicago Art Institute — one of my favorite places on this planet. The security was extra vigilant. Dominique was less patient than usual. He got through before me and was out of sight as I continued the struggle with my passport and the guard. Annoyed and alone, I climbed the large staircase to get a better view. Surely he hadn’t gotten far. I scanned the crowd. Nothing. No one. I turned to the sound of the elevator doors opening beside me. Every breath, every worry, every “every” left my body as I saw my mother standing there with Dominique. She wouldn’t have needed the balloons in her hand to complete the surprise, and she must have thought so too, because she released them instantly and grabbed me in her arms. I can feel her still. The same hug with skinned knees at five. The same hug on a Tuesday morning before a test at school. The same hug as boyfriends disappointed. As on weekend visits. As birthdays passed. As Christmases held. As springs promised. As love continued. Continues. I was held in the folds of her ruffled white blouse. And I was saved. The balloons kept rising. —-
Would I chance every bad dream for another moment. Of course. I do. I will. Because the love never dies. It lifts. It carries. And leads me. To books. To the page. To the canvas. To the path. To the living. To all the love around me, ballooned, and ever rising.
She said she liked my blouse. My heart beamed. Right there in the Walgreens in Sedona. I didn’t know this woman behind the counter. I will never see her again. It doesn’t make me a better person. I didn’t make the blouse. It wasn’t even really mine. Well, it is now, but it was my mother’s. She deserves the compliment. She picked it out. Looked in the mirror. Saw the ruffles frame her face. She added the small hook and eye where the ruffles meet so they would lay perfectly. And they did. Now they do on me.
So that’s what she gave to me, this woman at the Walgreens, a trip back to the dressing room with my mother. Getting ready for an event in my apartment. She gave to me, in my mother’s voice, “You look good too.” She gave to me the after-giggle. With just a few words, she gave me all of this.
I mention it only because we need to know it. Know how easily we can brighten a person’s day. With just the smallest of efforts, just a few tiny words, like a small hook and eye, we can bring us together, to the joyful place, where the ruffles meet.
She’ll be surprised when she sees her portrait. She’s doesn’t know it, but she’s wearing one of my mom’s blouses. I think she looks pretty in it — though she would back up a little, shrug her shoulders and shake her head at such a compliment. I remember the first time I told her she looked beautiful in her ensemble and she nearly backed herself into the garage door. It’s not really the culture here, to be so fast and loose with the compliments. And I don’t want to make people uncomfortable, but I do want them to know how good it feels, these words of admiration. My mother gave them to me, and they carry me still. How could I not pass them along? So I put her in my mom’s blouse on this canvas, hoping maybe she could feel it, maybe the words would gather in the slight ruffles around her face and heart. Surely the flow of such gentle fabric would cotton to her being, and she would know that it wasn’t just a compliment, it was the gift I have of greatest value — a welcome into my family, my heart. And if she felt that, my sister-in-law, within all of my ruffled and flawed attempts, she would have to feel good, and possibly even pretty, and the discomfort would fade the next time I saw her wearing a dress fresh from the line, and I told her “You look so lovely in that color.” And maybe we’ll all be smiling, just like my mother wanted.
The clothes pins we used were wooden. I wasn’t tall enough to hang anything on the line, nor old enough to wash clothes, but I did use them for a birthday party game.
My mom said I could use the whole basement for my party. I taped the donkey on the side of the wall. Put dice on the table. And placed the glass jar beneath the chair, beside the bucket of clothes pins. I was kneeling on the chair with pin in hand when she walked in. She paused with a look that said I thought we talked about this. And we had. I wasn’t going to play in any of the games. Or if I played, I wasn’t going to win, because the winner got a prize — their own present. And it being my birthday, I was guaranteed to get enough. “I’m not practicing,” I assured her, “I’m happy to let someone else win.” And I was. Truly. “I just like the sound it makes, when the wooden pin falls inside the glass.” She smiled at me. “The little clink, clunk…it’s like the glass is happy. It’s not empty anymore.” I didn’t really have to plead my case, my mother knew me. “Keep playing, forever,” she said.
It’s funny how long I thought forever would be back then.
I never had a clothesline until I moved to France. Our clothes dry in the breezes of Provence. Our clothes pins are plastic, and not really even pins anymore, but I still can hear the sound. Each memory of my mom bounces against the glass of my heart, clink, clank…and my heart is never empty.
Today is my birthday. I mention it only because I know that I have already won — so much. So I stand beside the chair and offer you to play. I want you to win on my birthday. I want you to hear the sounds of joy. The only way we outrun forever is to keep playing.
They say that paper has a memory. Meaning, if you fold it, the crease remains. Perhaps the same is true of the heart.
The limb I found myself wobbling upon yesterday was a bit more unstable than usual, so I gathered in my heart and took it to the paper. It always welcomes me. And even with all of its security, it still challenges me. Dares me to create. To learn. To grow. To find the beauty even in this moment of uncertainty.
I didn’t plan the portrait, I just started to paint. As she came to life, I knew what she needed to wear. My mother would have loved this ruffled blouse. How it gently gathered around the neck and framed the face. She was the queen of white ruffles, my mother. Such a delicate beauty.
And there it was — found — the uncertain beauty of the moment.
My heart is not broken. But it will be forever creased. Remembering and saving all the love. And it is here, in the beautiful folds, that I have the courage to move from limb to limb. To dare the lift of love, ruffle my feathers from heart to face, and let myself fly.
