Playing Dress-up

People ask me, "How are you feeling? Do you miss your mom?" The answer is yes. A month after Mom died, I wish I could pick up the phone and hear her say, "Oh, Gretta! I'm OK...I guess" or sit down with her on Sunday evening and hear about the latest book Judy Jardine brought by or why the Democrats are all wrong. Or have her listen to my problems and say, "You are amazing. I can't believe you do so much." She'd say, "What can I do to help?" even if the only answer could be, "Please include my family and me in your prayers."

Whenever I miss Mom, I picture her, in my mind, as a younger person, maybe the one in this picture. I imagine her hurrying off to a Japanese embassy party in Rangoon with my dad, wearing a new dress from her tailor and a ruby ring from her jeweler (yes, Mom once had a favorite personal jeweler, just like I do, but his creations cost only, as Mom put it in 1950s terms, "as much as a new hat"). The essence of Mom was energy and relish for life. She clutched that only tenuously during the last painfully hard years. I am immediately happy again when I think of my mother living with her old optimism, vitality, and excitement.

The 495 items hand-written on Mom's yellow legal pad have been divided now, from the much-coveted hand-carved wooden screen, painting of Mt. Kenya, and carved ivory tusk lamp to "my best cookie sheet," which Camille received. One of my items was Mom's clothes--"Don't give them all to the D.I.--there are some good things."

Indeed, there are some good things. And the best things are the memories and comfort a few of those old clothes bring.

This batik dress was made from fabric Mom bought on a jaunt from Burma to Indonesia in 1957. Kent went along with Mom and Dad. Scott and I were left behind. I remember sobbing, with my little brother, in the shadows of a large garden party hosted by the Olsens, the friends of Mom and Dad with whom we were left. After Scott and I told Mom and Dad how sad we had been, they never left us behind again. This red dress is made from Thai silk, which Mom and Dad stocked up on during their regular trips from remote Rangoon to much more urbane Bangkok. There was a U.S. military base near Bangkok, and Dad also brought back cans of our beloved Chef Boy-ar-dee spaghetti sauce (no pad thai for us in those days).

I'm wearing, here, a Hong Kong lace blouse with a Guatemalan skirt, just the combination Mom would have chosen. It would also have provoked the pronouncement Aunt Catherine made about Mom's entire wardrobe, when she returned to Utah--"Surely, Rose, you're not going to wear those clothes in Salt Lake City!"

Then there's the story of Mom's mink stole. My dad took Mom to one of the many furriers in New York City's garment district, where, of course, he got a wholesale price. The furrier sat Mom in a showroom and brought out one mink stole after another from the back, each of which she pronounced "too expensive." Finally, the furrier growled, "The only thing I have left, lady, is a horse blanket."

And, finally, one thing Mom taught me, in her last years, was the simple comfort of a snuggly sweater, an afghan or throw, and some socklets with plastic skids on the bottom.