From an earlier generation: Helena Lefroy Caperton’s dresses for two of her five daughters.
My first party dresses were sewn by hand—not machine—by my adored grandmother, Helena Lefroy Caperton, my mother’s mother, the Richmond Virginia lady I’ve written about here. By the time I knew her, she was somewhat limited by her size—she looked like a puffed-out winter Robin—and usually spent most of her visits sitting on a chaise lounge. That was where I would find her when I came home from school, always with a lap full of sewing and plenty of time to tell me another lurid story from her past. Many were published in her two collections.
She sewed party dresses for all of her granddaughters and they were all pretty much alike: a soft fabric like muslin, a full, knee-length skirt, little cap sleeves, a sash to tie in a bow in back, a little collar. Sweet, soft pastel and perfect to wear with white cotton ankle socks and black patent Mary Janes. She would not have been pleased to know that, wearing one of her creations, I was miserably shy at the Friday night dancing classes, too tall to be chosen as a partner, and already possessed of the miserable self-consciousness that used to grip us girls in those days when confronted with boys.
Her last dress came when I was probably twelve, and by then, none of my friends were wearing anything like these handmade creations. It was lavender, and somehow, it looked “old.” I wore it once, hated it, and put it away at the back of my closet where it was soon joined by the “tacky” white nylon blouse with black polka dots—my first purchase which my mother wouldn’t let me wear. “Tacky” was her word—but I loved that blouse. It was a little transparent, with full sleeves…
Word must have gone to Richmond that I was now too old for handmade dresses. My grandmother never made me one again.
I hope she is sitting on a chaise lounge in paradise, creating dresses for her great-great-great-granddaughters in a world where what is handmade is always loved.
About 10 years ago, an old middle-school boyfriend sent me a group photo of a dozen of us at a dress-up party. For the life of me, I couldn’t recognize myself. I couldn’t find my face. Then, suddenly, I recognized my dress: a lovely big square overlay collar of white organza, a lowered waist and a flouncy skirt of black and white checkerboard fabric. How I loved that frock….
My heart softened and delighted remembering the dotted blouse, your first purchase, which your mother called “tacky”. You wrote of it in Passion and Prejudice. I later included it in the Sallie Bingham Paper dolls.
Along the processional route of Queen Elizabeth who had reigned for 70 years, the reporter described little girls and what they were wearing as their parents held them up to see or they were standing on a balcony entranced and what they were wearing. The BBC reporter said I am certain these
girls will remember what dresses they were wearing to watch this historic occasion.
Yes, telling time by our dresses and love where time stops forever in a love of hand made dresses in heaven soft in a grannie’s lap.
Thank you Sallie
Rebecca
After Listening to the processional of Queen Elizabeth’s funeral as I was driving to Lexington Kentucky. I read this entry of yours before I hopped out of my car to attend my first, since the pandemic, in person Lexington Storytellers meeting at the Beaumont Public Library.