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Mother's Wallflower
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Mother's Wallflower |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart 
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Mother’s Wallflower She was almost always right. I balked at the idea of a homemade winter dress for the eighth grade dance. How childish! How peasant! How poor. But she decided on a satiny cotton white on white, with small graceful white flowers almost appearing as if they were snowflakes, perhaps, if I knew snow, there in the valley of Santa Maria, California. It was she who decided that a long, deep-red velvet bow should grace the almost 13 year old wasp-waist, and it was she who decided that the smallest of tinkling bells should hang from the inverted V ends. But oh! Disgraced, I was, in the black “ballet slippers”, which were, as she thought, like “Audrey Hepburn’s shoes” in Sabrina. Not real ballet slippers, but soft “slip-ons” with NO height and NO heel. She wanted to keep me a child. I had no date. I didn’t need to go. But, it was my first winter dance. Just to watch it, might be worth hugging the wall. No one would notice me, anyway. I wasn’t popular – not the way Mom dressed me. I wanted to see how it was done, how people acted, I wanted it to be – special. She, of course, was ruining the special of it. But the material had been bought, and if white weren’t bad enough, she pulled out a pattern that was old! It was a dress, full skirted, summer sleeved, jewel neckline, from the 50’s! Oh, the shame!!! The look from my father’s eyes told me a thankful voice was required. Mother pulled more than her weight around, and to eyeball the material and put together a dress almost overnight with the help of the old Singer machine, well, where WERE my manners? Dad could shame a rolly-polly pill bug into curling up, just with the look of a silent “What?” in order to shame his intended victim into instant remorse for even having raised an eyebrow. So when I became quiet, very quiet, and helped her as I could, with the process of putting together this hated dress, she commented, “You are always thinking. Your mind is always going somewhere, and someday, it will find a road on which it will be happy.” I have always remembered those words. Because indeed, even today, it seems I can’t turn off the thoughts. Ever. Notice how, when you are driving with someone, or walking with someone, and you ask, “what are you thinking?” they say “nothing”. How can anyone be thinking of “nothing”? How does that happen? Isn’t there SOME thought going through their mind? Even if it is that they don’t want to be with the person they’re with? Is that it? Is that person, “nothing”? Sometimes. My father claimed the dress “magnificent!” I can still feel the blush on my cheeks from his proud eyes. Then he slipped that look of pride toward mother, who could make something out of “nothing” and I looked down at the black slippers on my feet, confused over the feelings and thoughts I had. The mirror lied, showing a young girl with summer blonde hair swept back and held up with her going-out-to-dinner combs. The white of the dress brought up the pink in my cheeks. I was a color combination of sun and pink, sitting on winter white. Just a simple wallflower. Both mother and father had spent that week teaching me how to “dance” to their music, slow timed waltzes, the Foxtrot, the Two-Step, even [horrors!] the Charleston. Really! It was 1964! Didn’t they know about the Beatles? I mean, we had ALL watched the Ed Sullivan show! I tried to hug the walls. I really did. I saw the boys looking at me, grins on their faces. My dress was not the colors of the year, nor was it fashionable. It was, heaven forbid, classic from the shoulders down. I found a wall, and put my back up against it. Cool, almost chilly, I stood there and watched the colors of the season gyrate around me to music that was louder than I had ever heard, but I could catch the words, and I listened to them, as people I knew floated around me, talking, laughing, enjoying life. The white dress begged me not to hold the red punch, or pick up any cookies or cake, for fear of my ever-clumsy self, dripping color onto the snow in flow. Because, as I moved, the skirt took on a life of its own, and I was unaware of how it rippled beneath the still slender colt-like limbs. I was also unaware of the shimmer of it, as the embroidered sheen caught the lights and glimmered easily. All I was aware of was the goofy grins from gangly boys and the tell-tale smell of an old gymnasium, which had once belonged to the Air Base military men. I thought of my father, who could never serve, 4F as he was due to his allergies. I thought of my mother, who had stayed up late sewing a dress I thought I despised, but the small flowers that almost looked like snow was growing dear to me. Ashamed, I kept my eyes down, my ears and heart listening to the music of the Righteous Brothers, the Beach Boys, and those upstarts, the Beatles, as the platter turned, and spun the night along. Then, one of the younger, and very handsome teachers, approached me. I was not in any of his classes, and he was spending a night away from his family, to act as a chaperone. He bridged the time between my parents and myself, and quite possibly [as hindsight is] saw both stories to the equation of the little wallflower. He asked if I would like to dance. My heart stopped. My breath stopped. To dance would mean to walk away from the wall, which, at that particular moment, I would have sworn was holding me up. But his hand was out, and I put mine, slowly, hesitatingly, into his. Surely, surely, this was just me, thinking of what I wanted to happen. Some tall stranger [my mother always said I was thinking!] would walk up to me and true to Cinderella, I would dance a step or two. I would be the one all eyes were watching. I would be the Belle of the Winter Dance. I truly don’t remember what eyes were on me, if any. It was enough to concentrate on the slow, moving music, and to be in the arms of a very handsome man, who would not kiss me, or walk me home, let alone drive me there, for my father would soon be along to chariot me home. But the music didn’t seem to stop, one slow tune fell into another, and then he simply said, “thank you so much for the privilege.” I had danced, not with any of the gangly boys during the fast, heaving dances of the day, but some slow, graceful dances that only a gangly Fred Astaire could perform with his beautiful Ginger. I do remember coming to my senses, and realizing that the teacher and I were one of the few on the dance floor. That was when the burn came to the cheeks, for the wallflower had dared to step away from the wall, and people, peers, were watching. That wasn’t right. I was a thinker, and watcher. I wasn’t to be thought of, while being watched. I thought it providential that Dad showed up just then, poking his head through the gym doors, to see if I was ready to go home, a tad early before the closing down of the dance. I didn’t mind. Knowing that I had been watched, while slow dancing with a very handsome man, was shame enough. I couldn’t even dance with a young man my own age. An older, very handsome gentle man had felt sorry for me. At least, that’s how I looked at it then. Perhaps time is its own teacher in ways we don’t think about, until we see or feel, or hear, or smell something that brings the moment back. That’s when our total perception of the time kicks in to high gear, and we view it, almost as a soul out of body. Everything comes back, except the embarrassment. The blush, perhaps, shades our cheek again, for a moment, as the light of the evening casts the events as it truly happened, and the shadows step back, letting wallflowers emerge. Mother was almost always right. Someday, you will know of another time, and another instance, where she was almost right, again. [This message has been edited by Sunshine (09-08-2003 09:49 AM).] |
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| © Copyright 2003 Karilea Rilling Jungel - All Rights Reserved | |||
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cuda04 Junior Member
since 2003-09-03
Posts 46Wisconsin,USA |
That was a beautiful write! Makes me think back to what my mother dressed me in...I loved it, keep up the great work, I look forward to reading more! Always look forward, never look back, dreams are much more refreshing than regrets. |
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Mysteria 
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
quote:Karilea, when you write I see - and that dear poet and writer is a very good thing! This story was trimmed in lace, affixed to a handmade card, as only you can do, and given to us from your core. I loved it! p.s. you have NO idea what fashions they threw on me either LOL. |
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Patricia Member Elite
since 2003-04-06
Posts 2160Missouri |
Well, Karilea...you are spectacular! I read this piece to my daughter who is now in 7th grade...she hung to your every word as I did. It was all I could do to choke back the tears to finish the read. This is a keeper, my dear. Patricia |
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Midnitesun
since 2001-05-18
Posts 28647Gaia |
I have to smile at this one, as it brought back a few similar memories. What an enjoyable write! I could almost see you, hugging that wall in your white-on-white gown with tiny bells on your red velvet ribboned waist. I'm still waiting to 'remember' when mom was right though. LOL |
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Endlessecho Member
since 2003-09-05
Posts 398I live within myself |
I loved this! Beautiful and thought-provoking read. I myself have thought about, well, thinking. haha. Seriously, people must be thinking of something when you ask them. Because I have so many thoughts in my head at once. Then, again, I think much too much. I completely see where you're coming from. You're mother's words to you were beautiful! And I would always treasure them as well, if I were you. You can really hold on to a memory and keep it alive. I could see, feel and taste everything you described. An amazing ability to make a story come completely alive to your reader! |
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Larry C
since 2001-09-10
Posts 10286United States |
Karilea, "Perhaps time is its own teacher in ways we don’t think about, until we see or feel, or hear, or smell something that brings the moment back." How true. And what a delightful memory to share. Never been to a dance but now I feel like I have. Thank you. If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again. |
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froggy Senior Member
since 2003-06-23
Posts 1893Michigan |
Loved it sunshine. Reminds me of my younger days :-) |
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fractal007 Senior Member
since 2000-06-01
Posts 1958 |
I like your assesment of nostalgia. I love the way the mind has of filtering out any of the inconveniences that might have been present in our experiences and leaving only the good stuff behind. Your story here is a lovely personal account with a well-drawn ending filled with observations about life. The only thing I didn't like was your frequent use of the adjective gangly. Thanks for sharing. 2+2=5 for sufficiently large values of 2 |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
You're right, fractal. Three times in one short prose piece was 1.5 times too many. I'll see what I can do about that.  Froggy...if it brought a smile, I'm glad. Thank you for reading! Larry, never been to a dance? See...I knew we still had a lot of learning to do...  Echo, if this made you think, then I did my job [with the exception of overusing "gangly"]. Thank you for reading! Kacy...that story will come. "Almost" could see me? Dang. I need to project better... Patricia...thank you. I know you truly followed through with what you said...and that pleases me very much! Mysteria, all I can see you in is lace and frill...but we'll match notes and photos sometime... Cuda, I'll see what I can do about that. Thank you so much! |
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Dark Angel Member Patricius
since 1999-08-04
Posts 10095 |
Perhaps time is its own teacher in ways we don’t think about, until we see or feel, or hear, or smell something that brings the moment back. yup, true that. Karilea this is superb, the descriptions, the phrases, the imagery....I could see, feel and hear it all. I was there watching you. thanks you for sharing a memory and thank you for bringing one back for me   beautiful ladyM fate is not just |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
You're quite welcome, Marie. Sometimes when I review my own writing, I see my own hands talking. Hugs, you. |
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Fagin Member
since 2004-05-07
Posts 126Ca |
“You are always thinking. Your mind is always going somewhere, and someday, it will find a road on which it will be happy.” And she was right..... |
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miscellanea Member Elite
since 2004-06-24
Posts 4060OH |
A true delight to read! I hated for it to end! This so reminded me of our homemade dresses when I was growing up, and now, the the formals I've made for my daughter! misc'e |
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muted
since 2004-01-15
Posts 2949Elapsing, Eclipsing, Evolving |
umm yeah, here i go...i readit...then was inspired by it...but forgot to comment!!! geesh, wheres my head? you know, i love your stories  |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Misc'e, thank you very much. It is quite easy for me to relate stories about my parents...there are a few strung out around here in Prose... muted...it delighted me no end to think that this little bit inspired your lovely poem. That, my dear friend, was more than a response... |
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Copperbell Senior Member
since 2003-11-08
Posts 956 |
My mom loved making me clothes...and I hated them. This little story made me realize something I have never thought of before. How that was an expression of her love - I don't know how I missed that little point, but I did. Thank you for sharing Sunshine. |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Sometimes necessity very well goes hand in hand with expressions of love, Copperbell. Our parents weren't being "mean" for not giving us store-bought clothes...but they WERE doing the best they could with what they had. Thank you so very much for reading. |
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Susan Caldwell Member Rara Avis
since 2002-12-27
Posts 8348Florida |
Karilea, I have read this before and still enjoy it as much as I did the first time!  "cast me gently into the morning, for the night has been unkind" |
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