My mother took in ironing. Just being born, of course I didn’t have the words for it, or any words at all, but I think I knew. I could feel it, the warmth. Not the heat from the iron, nor the steam, but the balm of service done with grace.
It wasn’t humility. She wasn’t lowering herself. She loved clothes. She needed the money. She tested the quality of the fabric between thumb and forefinger. She knew how it would behave. How to make the collar and cuffs respond, not with rigidity, but a wantful desire to frame a face, release a hand. When finished, she didn’t just exchange it for cash, she showed them how to wear it — not as a mannequin, but a woman with style unpurchased. And they knew it. That’s why they came back. They could have gone to the local dry cleaner on Broadway, but they returned to my mother, in the white house, near the end of Van Dyke Road.
I watched her years later, doing it for herself, and I could still feel the hands that cupped the back of my head, marveling at the warmth against my resting spine. My mother took in ironing, and ever returned it with grace.
The Great Gatsby is now being celebrated at MIA for its 100th year. It’s no surprise, as someone whose first perspective drawing in art class was completely backwards, I did enter the exhibition from the second room. But as always, it was the right door for me. Maybe it was the giant farm land picture, next to the clippings of French fashion, that whispered “over here,” or the script from the book that said, maybe we would always be westerners, but I knew I was home.
I suppose the universe will always let you know if you’re on the right path.
For me it’s always been books and art, and a dash of fashion. My maps. So I say to those who ask, “Can’t you read a map?” — “Of course I can, just not yours.”
Late that same afternoon, I drove to the Barnes and Noble in the area. Emptied and dark, I began to panic. It’s never just a book store. I ran to the store next door. She didn’t know much, but something about “moving to an Office Max, maybe open, or going to,” — she didn’t know. I knew of two abandoned office supply stores in the area, one a former Office Depot and the other a Staples. I asked her if it was by the Trader Joe’s, or the Whole Foods. She didn’t know. “I only get off the freeway and come to work,” she said. (We all have our own maps.)
I didn’t need more books. My suitcase already full. But I did need to know that it was ok. That the books were living on. So I drove to the first one — no. I drove to the second location I had in mind, and there it was – signed and open – calling once again, “over here.” I wandered in the words until I was secure. My heart map folded, fitting perfectly behind my mother’s blouse, once again, still, I am home.
She would have felt badly today, hearing the news of Robert Redford’s passing. Truth be told, my mom and I loved him more for the Sundance catalog than any movie. It was an event, receiving it in the mail. We would go to the nearest Caribou, get extra-hot skim vanilla lattes and sit in the largest of lounging chairs. After the initial sips, one of us would open to the inside cover letter. The rules were simple. If you were the one holding the catalog, you read the letter, inserting a greeting to the other —“Dear Ivy,” — and of course closing the letter with “Love, Bob.” Our lattes rested between us as we clutched our imaginary pearls to contain the heart laughter. Each turn of the page would include complete discussions on who would wear what and when. How we could have styled that better. How we could create that outfit with our own closets. Must buys. Must haves marked with sticky notes — a catalog more filled than a freshman’s introductory guide to literature. Trips were planned to the store as if an RSVP to Bob himself.
I mention it only because of the transformation. You see my mother wasn’t always that bold. For a long time, her only certainty was that she wasn’t worthy, even in our small town. Not even a letter from Robert Redford would have convinced her. But she grew into her confidence. Perhaps outfit by outfit. But they were really only the symbols of her inner strength. Her inner beauty. And being a first hand witness, my heart smiles can’t be contained.
So in her ruffled blouse today, I write a new letter. “Dear Bob, say hello to the giggling beauty at the gate — that’s my mother! Love, Jodi”
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.
When you’re the last one in line, the hand-me-downs have to go back up.
I bought the black leather vest in New Mexico while traveling with my mother many years ago. I wore it proudly, then passed it up to her. She looked fabulous in it. Black pants. A popped white crisp collared blouse underneath. Scarved for a little color. (Scarf is the new black, she would say.)
I have it back again. That black leather vest. When I get compliments, I always say it was my mother’s. Because that’s the most important part of the story for me. They don’t need to know the whole “Sisterhood of the traveling pants” version. That beats quietly beneath the zipped leather.
I like that we shared the clothes before it was, pardon my pun, in fashion. Long before vintage was cool. Truth be told we didn’t even use the word vintage — we only had hand-me-downs, and hand-me-ups. But we weren’t looking to be on trend, we wanted to be connected. For that same reason, my mom handed down clothes to her sister Karolynn. To be connected.
Just last week my cousin Kalee wore my mother’s coat to our cousin’s funeral. The coat that my mother handed to her sister, that she handed to her daughter. The coat I would wear on winter visits when I didn’t bring one of my own. I like to think that love is sleeved. Each time we slip through, we pass on the hugs, we pass on the love. And it gets handed off, up and down and all around.
I guess what I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to end. We can all stay connected. Once we allow the passing through, it, we, can always be passed along. Held in the arms of love.
Maybe because I never had to doubt it with my mother, I was able to write about it.
We used to spend hours trying on clothes together. When the “fit” really fit — oh, it was magnificent. Praises of oohs and aahs filled the air. And when it missed, the knee hugging laughter went on through the entire fashion cycle. We were safe. Together. Seeing each other. Loving each other. From the lowest to the highest moments. Finding the beauty of it all along the way.
For a couple of years, the clothing store J.Jill carried my book, “I’m not too busy.” Of course it was also at bookstores. Galleries. Gift stores where I sold my artwork. But this was something special. J.Jill didn’t sell any other books. Just clothing. We had shopped in the Ridgedale store enough for some of the clerks to know us. One Saturday morning, properly caffeinated with Caribou, we began trying on the J.Jill clothing. Continuously giggling in the delight of books being in the dressing room and on display throughout the store. It was the perfect pocket of time.
My mother brought the white linen blouse to the counter to purchase. She looked lovely in it. I told her so. The clerk had as well. My book rested on the counter as my mother reached for her credit card. The J.Jill employee looked at me, in that way that maybe she knew me. And perhaps she had looked at my bio in the book, or maybe she just remembered from last Saturday. It didn’t matter. We all had been seen. And that was the gift.
I have that blouse. Along with those precious moments. I carry them daily. I will never be too busy to remember. My heart giggles, and I am seen.
Yesterday I saw a photographer on Youtube manipulating a photo to make it seem old — like it was a memory lived, I suppose. The technique took some skill, certainly. And while the end result was interesting, I thought it lacked what the photographer wanted — the depth of an actual experience. That feeling is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to manufacture. And I began to think, would our time be better spent trying to capture real experiences, by, well, living?
Once the thought was in my head, spinning around like a kid on a ferris wheel — my brain urging “go ’round again, go ’round again — I began to see it everywhere, this attempt at manufacturing a life. I saw it in the catalogs. Buy our ripped jeans! What if we did the work in the jeans we owned? Wore them in the yard, the garden? Hung tools from belts? Bent? Stretched? Bounced children on bent knees? Wore them thread bare by living?
I saw the paint splattered jeans on the next page. Couldn’t we just actually paint? Splatter our own clothes with life experience? These are the colors that I want to live in — the colors flung from my own hand and heart.
It was everywhere. This manufacturing. Even with so-called friends. This trying to fill the life-size holes within us, with “likes” and “followers.” Certainly it has its place. I use it here, every day. To connect. Keep the strings attached through time and distance. But nothing will ever replace human contact. Sitting outside on a sunny day, laughing so hard with friends that waists become rendered useless, bent over by the weight of joy and memory. Nothing can replace the feeling of hugging someone, just a little longer. A kiss of a hand. An empathetic, no words needed, smile. A wave that can’t be contained in the hand, but must be lifted in the air with feet jumping!
I sit here typing, with paint on my shirt. It is valuable, not because it will sell in a catalog, but because I lived in it. Life’s couture. And I will again today! My heart, threadbare as my jeans, telling my brain, “let’s go ’round again, ’round again!!!”
