My mental jog into the past this morning was stirred up by an act of rebellion from Tabor. On her last day in Junior High School, she wore jeans to school. That truly was a revolutionary act in the 1960’s. Me, I don’t remember many of my clothes at all or many acts of rebellion in my chhildhood. I’m memoryless.
Perhaps it is a good thing that I remember so little of either my childhood or adult hood....tho pictures help. When I was a kid, I wore one coat made by grandma, hand-me-downs, plus two new dresses in grade school. My best friend Caroline had one dress just like mine. I was in heaven.
I went from that school failure to one year of math training before I was shipped off to boarding school. Mother got me in because she knew the headmistress and thought that this structured school could make a difference. They didn’t know about learning disabilities in those days, and said it was all my fault. I arrived at that school with used uniforms, one marvelous grey dress with a white pique collar and a plaid taffeta bow tie. There was a wool pencil skirt, and a sweater set to match also. Imagine. I clearly remember the colors, the textures, and the fact that I machine washed those sweaters and they shrunk. I remember the school, the art class, the reading, and the ongoing failures.
That sky blue, shirt waist dress I wore the day I joined the Army was special. So was the terra cotta, plaid wool dress I bought in Indianapolis. No, I don’t remember much about the Army’s Finance School. I moved from that failure into pregnancy and hippydom. I remember those clothes slightly better because I made most of them. Didn’t all pseudo hippies sew? You can tell I made this shift because the plaids don’t match. I bet I never noticed then. I do now.