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Dressed in our Sunday best, we watched as models glided between the tables of the Innes tearoom. Occasionally, they would stop and twirl to show their dress at its most becoming, holding numbered white cards. My younger sister and I sat transfixed and quiet. We were trying hard to “behave” as our mother had instructed while navigating the station wagon to our fancy destination in downtown Wichita, Kansas.
It may seem like an unlikely launchpad, but all dreams must start somewhere.
Next to our plates were pencils and notepads that we scribbled on. More serious customers jotted down the numbers of their favorite dresses “so their husbands can buy them for them,” as my mom explained later. It was all very akin to the glamorous, smoky world of TV’s Mad Men, but then this was circa 1960.
At the time, I didn’t realize many things. First, my mother was doing research for her future sewing projects. Second, at age 4, I had just seen my first of many fashion shows.
‘Just Homemade’
Of all her homemaking skills, my mom excelled at handiwork. Knitting, embroidery, needlepoint, sewing, she could do them all — and beautifully. With more talent than budget, she made most of the clothes my sister and I wore until we left for college. There are pictures of us standing in the snow wearing pastel coats she made for Easter. In others, we’re peering over the fence at my grandparents’ farm wearing the matching striped shorts she had sewn. Later, there are smiling snapshots in the countless formals and prom dresses she made to exacting specifications.
A personal favorite from the early years was a sleeveless cotton sateen shift with a calico flower and pot appliqué off center. Its exact color is open to debate, with some remembering it as gold and others as green. But we all vividly recall the rest of the story.
My mom saw the dress that inspired mine in a department store and recreated it at home with impressive results. It was a fabulous knock-off, so much so that a fellow fourth-grader recognized it immediately. At recess, she announced on the playground that her potted-plant dress was “bought,” and mine was “just homemade.”
‘Hands-On’ Approach
Growing up, my mom took my sister and me to countless afternoons in fabric stores. I was particularly fond of running down the aisles of sheer organza to see them flutter in my wake. Sparkly sequins and twinkling brocades also attracted my attention.
Eventually, I stopped running and started touching, which may not have endeared me any better with shopkeepers. There were soft cotton flannels, sturdy poplins and a whole gamut of woolens to feel. They each had their place and purpose — from cuddly nightgowns to summer skorts and winter dresses.
When I was 10, we moved to Chicago, and the range of options expanded exponentially — both in the number of department stores to inspire us and the fabric shops that enabled my mom to recreate these styles more frugally. There were all manner of silks to learn about — from charmeuse to twill to shantung and Thai. Some even had a matte side and a shiny satin side, which mesmerized my younger self.
Because this was the Windy City, our favorite fabric store was stocked with countless bolts of woolens. There were herringbones and houndstooths to compare, tartans and glen plaids to decode, plus nubby tweeds and flat flannels, skinny pinstripes, and thick chalk stripes.
But what good is fabric without a pattern? In the 1960s and 1970s, huge books four and five inches thick showcased patterns for everything and everyone in the family. The patterns varied from simple basics to complex designer versions by the likes of Yves Saint Laurent and Anne Klein — you could even sew your own version of Diane von Furstenberg’s ground-breaking wrap dress. (Mine was a tiny white floral on a coral background.)
Knowing the feel of the fabric helped inform how it would drape and whether it was a suitable option for a particular pattern. So, my hands-on approach had merit in the long run after all.
Every. Little. Detail.
When we finished our homework, my sister and I scoured the fashion magazines purchased with our allowances, looking for trends in colors and designs. Dinners and drives were consumed by discussions about how to recreate what we saw on those pages with the fabrics and patterns at the local fabric shops.
Prints and plaids and stripes required special consideration because they had to match at the seams. And then there were the extras to ponder. The trim (fringe!). The buttons (twinkly!). The length (always shorter!). All of these variables required a lot more talking.
But it was great training. That 20-year master class in fashion and fabrics enabled me to identify cashmere from alpaca from boiled wool at 40 feet away, which is about as close as I got to the runways the first time I covered the European fashion shows. Eventually, I made it to the front rows.
In Hindsight
On a recent visit home to see my mom, she asked this unexpected question she’d already unpacked with my sister: “As a child, had I ever been embarrassed by my homemade clothes?"
I thought back to the many times she had pulled all-nighters working on some new outfit I just had to wear to school the next day. I thought about the black tuxedo halter dress she made for a spring formal in high school, and all the compliments I’d gotten. And, yeah, maybe for a few seconds, I thought about the bullying comment on the playground in fourth grade.
And then I said, “No. I can’t imagine it any other way.”
Did YOUR mother make your clothes when you were growing up? Let us know in the comments below.
Amber Day
Follow Article Topics: Lifestyle
