The light was on in my closet. I thought I turned it off. Then it happened again.
There is a ghost in my closet, and it knows my secret. I love clothing, all clothes. I am embarrassed that I love clothing as much as I do. Somewhere along the way, I believed the story that an intelligent woman does not love clothes or accessories. In fact quite the opposite, clothing is a frivolous concern that indicates a lack of seriousness and intellectual rigor.
Talking a mirror selfie to send to a friend before an event.
From a very early age I was drawn to clothing and other adornments. I loved going through my grandmothers’ closets and jewelry drawers, examining each piece and occasionally trying things on. While neither grandmother owned anything very fancy or costly, I never got tired of combing through the treasure trove of their dressers and closets.
My grandma Connie made many of her clothes from fabrics purchased on trips. She would make a simple shift dress or a matching skirt and top set. Her jewelry was a similar travelogue of their time abroad and in the United States. Enameled bracelets, silver and turquoise from the Southwest, and hand-painted, clip on earrings from local craft fairs accented her simple aesthetic.
One birthday my grandparents surprised me with a ring, a simple yellow gold band with a dome of pavé diamonds in a yellow satin DeBeers box. The ring was extravagant by my grandparents’ standards. I had never seen my grandmother wear it, nor had I found it during my many excavations of her belongings as a child. Apparently, it had been a gift to my great-grandmother from a young man who wanted to make a good impression while dating one of the three Mosher girls. Clearly, my grandmother had her secret spaces unknown to me.
Goggy’s closet was sparsely populated with clothing yet rich in her particular fragrance of cigarette smoke and soap. Most days she wore a white uniform, white shoes, and panty hose from the nearby nurses’ uniform store to go to her job, cleaning and cooking. She would accessorize it with her ‘silver’ Timex on a thin, stretchy band, a vinyl purse that was called a pocket book, not a purse, topped off with an acrylic, cardigan sweater. As soon as she got home, she would change into her housecoat, always with pockets for her Kleenex and cough drops, and a pair of slippers. If she was lucky, she could make a uniform last two days. She did laundry on the weekends, downstairs behind the carport.
When Goggy made clothing it was usually for me or my dolls. My 5th grade May Day maypole dance, she whipped up a skirt, vest, and cap from a lightweight cotton sprinkled with yellow roses. An apron of white, Swiss dot fabric was the finishing touch. An earlier creation she designed and made was a wedding dress with a sumptuous train and veil. She allowed me to use her long strands of fake pearls and crafted a bouquet of plastic flowers to complete my ensemble. I played ‘wedding’ for hours until I grew out of the dress. The irony is not lost on me now.
Goggy’s jewelry drawer was a bit of a mystery. It alluded to an earlier life, a life where my grandmother would have dressed up and put on make up, curled her hair. My Goggy routinely wore stretchy pants with an elastic waistband, tennis shoes, and a polo shirt. Her monthly haircut and perm appointments were approached with the same attitude as a homeowner getting their trees trimmed. Something you have to do and make sure to get your money’s worth. I liked to daydream about a Goggy who was frivolous, attending a party in a dress and high heels.
Vestiges of my grandmothers’ styles and influence continue to show up in my current closet as well as my experience of wearing a uniform for school during formative developmental ages. I love natural fabrics, the textures and the feel of their various weights on my skin. Like my frugal role models, I can tend to hold onto items for just a little too long. Details in craftsmanship and evidence of an artisan’s hand are admired. And of course, my wardrobe would not be complete without a few surprises.
