Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: fashion show


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Ivy-ing as best I can.

I began mothering a set of lifelike plastic dolls from Ben Franklin at around the same time Florence Henderson familied her six on Friday night’s Brady Bunch. It was clear to me, as I lined up each baby in front of the tv set, smelled their heads, tucked in their blankets, that the only thing I was missing was a polyester pants suit like Mrs. Brady. Thus began my first lesson in patience.

I hope I asked, but most likely I demanded a trip to Herberger’s basement. “I’m not sure they make them for little girls,” my mom said. I swept my arm across my plastic family to say that surely I was no longer a little girl. “Maybe Agnes could sew something for you,” she replied. Agnes was a seamstress — and by that I mean she was my grandma’s friend who sewed things periodically in her kitchen/workstation, for women who couldn’t afford luxury, but still had a taste for it.

My enthusiasm was quickly quelled by our first visit to Woolworth’s in search of a pattern. My arms hung at my side. My head tilted back. Tongue out, grasping for air. Grasping for a choice to be made among the Butterick. She only had to give me a look. It was enough to say, “You wanted this. Straighten up.” So I did, but not without a few impatient floor kicks of my bumper tennis shoes.

I had no real sense of time. I could only mark it, episode by episode. The series of painstaking events made me wonder if I would even have a pants suit by the end of the Brady Bunch season. We moved from pattern to bolt. Bolt after bolt. Searching for fabric. Then I got measured. And measured again. Each trip out to Agnes’s farm seemed to take up another week. But then the day magically arrived. In front of the kitchen-stained mirror that leaned up against the wall, she smoothed out the navy fabric across my chubby waist, and I was more Carol Brady than Florence Henderson had ever been.

I don’t know what it cost. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the mirror as my mother pulled out the dollar bills from her purse. Surely it was more than we had, but what I was taught, what my mother always showed me, was that it was not more than I was worth. What a gift. She’s still giving it to me.

I think of now, and it had never been Florence. On the days I need a little lift, I still play fashion show. And standing in front of the mirror, I smooth out the fabric on my waist, standing tall, straight, hoping, praying, not to outdo, but by some chance come close to Ivy-ing as best I can.

Portrait of mother.
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Sometimes a runway.

I told myself it was because of the stripes — that’s why it would be too hard to do this portrait of my mother. My heart tapped my brain each time I was looking for a new project. But I wasn’t ready. And it had nothing to do with the endless blue lines. Of course they would be a challenge, but the real reason, I just wasn’t prepared to spend that much time in this dance. In this joy. 

Sometimes even joy can be too much for a weary heart to lift. But the thing about joy —love, I suppose — is its patience. It sat waiting for me. Music cued up. Hand on the lights. Runway set. Whenever you’re ready, it said. 

And one day, “can’t” dares to take a tiny twirl, dropping off the apostrophe, letting go the t, and suddenly you’re stepping into the “can.” And once you reach “can,” the music begins to play, the lights shine, and you’re dancing in the “are.” 

It was something spectacular to see my mother’s confidence grow. It was my first real job after college. I was in charge of the style show. Of course I leaned on the most stylish person I knew. She picked out the dress she wanted to wear — the ‘ol show stopper – the one with the twirl. I wasn’t surprised. Those in the style show were offered a discount on the clothing. She didn’t have the money at the time to purchase it, but don’t think for one second she didn’t own that dress!  

My heart heaves still with a beaming of pride. I had witnessed her dance in the kitchen. Even at the Lakeside Ballroom in Glenwood. But here she was, in front of strangers, never feeling more herself, in the glow of the runway. I never saw her in the same light after that. For me, she’s still glowing.

I won’t say that there weren’t a few tears of tenderness, as I painted each blue stripe of her dress. But pain, had somehow found its way to love. Love, that ‘ol show stopper,” once again twirled its way into my heart.

I’ve heard it said before that love can build a bridge. I smile and think, sometimes a runway.

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