As a little girl my parents took pride in dressing us up for Easter Sunday. We had to have a new dress and shinny new shoes.
One Easter when I was about five, my mom had taken valuable time out of her busy schedule to buy me an Easter dress to wear on Easter Sunday. Most of our clothes were hand made, so this was to be a real treat to have a store bought dress.
I remember what an ungrateful kid I was. We lived in an old farmhouse in Greeley, The dress was hanging in the dining room from the edge of the corner china closet. I saw it up there and immediately hated it. The distaste grew over the next few days as Easter Sunday approached.
This dress was everything I hated about being a little girl with all the frills and softness not becoming of a tomboy like myself who would rather be outside than doing girlie girl stuff inside. I loved to chase after the feral cats in the yard who slide through crevices of old wooden boxes and grain bins. I would sneak up on them and gently open the hinged lid and fall inside the bin with my long red pigtails trailing behind. I tried many times unsuccessfully to coax, chase or capture the teenage kittens. They would run like the dickens in the other direction. Well, a little plaid cotton shirt and baggy 1950s jeans fit my life style better.
This Easter dress was just of opposite. It was full of ruffles and silky, puffy fabric in colors I have yet today to understand why they were together in the same dress. The dress was silky, heavily gathered gray with an overlay of transparent yellow organza with more gathered ruffles at the hem. This was my Easter dress.
My father loved it and couldn’t wait to have me be seen by others on Easter Sunday in our finest. Yuk. At five I really didn’t care, nor did I have the insight to know this dress was it and I had better wear it or else.
I have a raging temper tantrum that made be scamper into the back closet by the downstairs bathroom underneath the clothes as far away from everyone as I could get.
The day came. The dress still perched on the edge of the china closet waiting for me to put it on. I’m sure I continued to be a royal pain for my mom as she somehow got me into the dress, fixed the french braids in my hair heavy with wave set to keep them in place then shoved me into the car to go to church on Easter Sunday.
Sure enough. People looked at this little fluffy gray and yellow dress and made appropriate comments. Everyone at church was all dolled-up in their finest large brimmed hats and dresses. I sat as quietly as possible in the church pew with this puffy, ruffled, monstrosity almost filling the church pew by itself. My mom diligently quieted me by making origami cranes out of juice fruit gum wrappers. This was the only type or origami I ever saw her make. It was so peaceful to watch her. The crane dutifully flapped it’s wings when you pulled on the tail and head. I wish I could make them today. It would be a very peaceful thing to do.
I don’t remember every wearing that puffy gray and yellow dress again. For years it stayed in the closet crowding out the other more practical clothes with all its ruffles.