There are enough unworn clothes in my home to fully dress three people. I am not talking about things on hangers that COULD be worn. I mean "souvenirs" of my life that I cannot part with, for emotional reasons.
There's an old hatbox stuffed with my mother's hand-knit sweater, a hope chest full of the past, and a few hanging items in an old piano crate in my basement. No one place holds the treasures, so I am apt to come upon one, without warning, at any moment. When I do, I enjoy a few moments of "being there." (Those of you with stuff tucked under rugs and in the backs of closets "get" this.) I live in a minefield of memories, just waiting for me to trip upon them!)
I know this sounds as if I am a candidate for "Hoarders," but I don't see it that way. (That's what they ALL say......) Each piece of clothing is too "special" to discard!
A quick tour: Clothing from my childrens' youths: A teeny bright red corduroy suit worn by Philip at age two for Christmas. A green linen Easter dress I made for Meredith's third Easter, hand-embroidered with flowers and bees. This has a hat with a similarly-decorated hatband. A white Baptismal "dress" that I made with meticulous tiny stitches for my last, Stephen. (A 3-year old Meredith called it "Stephen's curtain.") Under that is a nearly worn-out green sweat suit worn out by that same baptized boy. It turned him into a dragon, complete with spikes up his back and over his blond, curly head.
Oh, it's not just my childrens' clothing that I am writing about, though! EVERY mother saves those things. Doesn't she?? (See how I am working up to making this come across as "normal?")
There is a plaid dress I wore to first grade a hundred years ago. The collar is frayed, and I am the only person in the world who knows it is because I chewed on it to comfort myself: a little girl at school, homesick.
There are two dresses made by my aging mother, her fine top stitching all around one, and the other I can still picture her in, trying to get cool on hot summer days.
There is the dress I wore to my father's funeral, thirty-eight years ago. I bought it the night before calling hours, to do him proud. I never wore it again, but know how I grew in spirit during the few hours that I did.
There is a "hostess skirt" (Remember those?) with a matching shawl, brown velvet, with embroidered ribbon that I could ill-afford when I made this outfit. It represents a moment when I told myself I was "worth it," and spent the grocery money on myself!
My father's felt hat, that he wore to work every day of his life while I was a child, is still in its hatbox. Occasionally I take it out, rub my fingers around the brim, and smile, thinking of the man who wore it.
Of course, there are wedding gowns! I inherited my grandmother's silk and lace dress from 1906, and two of my own, less fancy, more utilitarian, bought to get the jobs done, not impress.
I know people who don't have a single baby garb from their own babies' lives! I've seen beautiful wedding gowns in garage sales...........they apparently took up too much space, and the owners wanted rid of them! These are not people to whom I can relate..................(How COULD they????)
Could I cast off these items, let someone else wear them, allow them to be torn to rags for industry, or sold to strangers at vintage shops? Probably not. Let me tell you how I know this.
When Philip died, he left so many tee shirts (each one special) that our family members still wear them. I have drawers full of them. I open the drawers, put my face into his shirts and smell him, frequently. For a moment or two he is right here. Those shirts aren't going anywhere, unless to clothe his brother.
Philip also left a nice gray suit that he wore to his ten-year high school reunion. Never again. A good suit, he chose it for himself to wear for his return to his hometown, and he must have liked it. I know he had a wonderful time at that reunion!
I decided, three years after his death, that I couldn't house the suit anymore, and knew that some other person might be overjoyed to wear it. Along with some other items, I donated it to The Discovery Shop, a resale shop that benefits the American Cancer Society.
When I dropped the things off, my hand must have held onto the suit a bit too long, because the volunteer gave me that "look" which I have come to know means, "There is history here.............." and I told him that the suit had belonged to my thirty-year old son who died, and I hoped that some man would enjoy it. The volunteer thanked me for thinking of Discovery Shop, assured me it would find a person, then he took it away. I cried all the way home.
But here is why I know I could never part with my dad's hat, my mother's sweater, or the funeral dress: Several weeks after the donation, I drove back to the Discovery Shop, went in to "visit" Philip's suit on the rack, held up the hanger, put my arms around the suit, and hugged it.
I visited that suit until it finally disappeared into the city, hopefully on the back of a young man who bought it for a special event-- maybe his wedding, his first date, or his high school reunion.
I know that when I leave this planet, my children will find these odd pieces of clothing, not know their worth, because, after all, they are MY history, not theirs. Instead of tossing them out, I would hope that they would put them into the casket with me, as my sister and I did with our mother. She and I found some "saved pieces" of clothing that were her history, and that is what we did. We "sent them along with her," as if she were an Egyptian Princess.
I guess that I'd also like to think that they'd take home something I wore a lot, and tuck it away for quiet little "visits" with their mom........ Me.
copyright: KP Gillenwater
