This piece was created as an example for my Contemporary Memoir class. The assignment, to create a “Worn” story based on the book and Netflix series, created by Emily Spivak.

I found the picture in a folder of snapshots tucked away in the closet at my parent’s house. My mom was organizing mementos as she prepared to pack up their home of fourteen years and move to a retirement community closer to my sister and nephews. Curious, I asked her if she had kept any of our clothing from childhood; so many of the dresses had been hand sewn for my sister and me. I didn’t hold out much hope as this was not my childhood home. That had been sold long before, as my dad had begun his journey toward retirement. Neither of my parents wanted to continue with the upkeep on that old house, a converted nineteenth century barn with an outdated heating system, large yard and gardens.

Mom  rifled through the closet and found the Rubbermaid containers filled with our baby clothes, blankets, and other memorabilia from our early years. I saw the yellow fabric and buttons peeking out from behind a well-worn baby blanket and corduroy pants (yes, it was the 70’s). I grasped a piece of my history, holding it up to my chest, the cotton fabric light and breezy, with lace trim around the neck and sleeves. I was four when I wore the dress last, fifty when I placed my bounty into a bag with the remains of my childhood. 

I consider June to be the most beautiful month of the year: the roses, day lilies, and hydrangeas are blooming, and the leaves have turned from fresh lime green to their deeper vibrant green as they actively produce chlorophyll and prepare for summer’s warmer temperatures. The sun pokes up from the horizon before 6 and does not head to its resting place in the west until closer to 8:30. June signals the approach of the end of the school year,  and the lazy summer months are inching closer as the days become longer and warmer. It is also my birthday month, and for my young self, a harbinger of presents and chocolate cake, of my annual birthday party when relatives, neighbors, and friends would gather and sing “Happy Birthday” out of tune. It is also a time for me to don my favorite new dress, lovingly made by my mom, worn only for our Easter church service. 

We lived in Dalton, a little mill town in western Massachusetts, known for the Crane Paper Company, founded in 1801 by Zenas Crane. Crane’s was a staple of our community, and our neighbors lived in company-provided housing, duplexes on small plots of land bordering the Stationary Factory.  Crane and Co won the US Currency Contract in 1879, and its local factories printed paper for our modern currency, as well as high quality stationary. The factory buildings also provided ample parking and loading docks, perfect for business purposes as well as for young children riding bicycles. We (neighborhood children) would race through the empty lots on the weekends, wind whipping through our hair as we played various games on our banana bikes. Most times those games would focus on reenacting our favorite television shows, I Dream of Jeannie (I was always Jeannie and my sister, the evil brunette sister) or we would chase each other while playing the characters on Chips (I had a huge crush on Eric Estrada). We were set free for most of the days during the summer, playing games, riding bikes, or making up tracks for our Matchbox cars. Ours was the generation before the internet, before the distraction of the cell phone, the generation that created entertainment rather than consumed it. Connection mattered.

Our neighborhood was a close-knit community, neighbors helped neighbors and we would frequently get together for picnics, parties, and ice cream socials (with homemade ice cream of course!) So on June 5, 1977, the Smiths, Rawsons, and Garveys were walking over to our backyard, presents in tow. My maternal and paternal grandmothers were already there, helping my mom with my seven month old sister, the one who garnered more attention that day because of her cute little pudgy cheeks and shock of dark hair (see, she deserved the title of the evil twin Jeannie). So I carefully put on my buttery yellow dress, ankle socks and church shoes,  and joined the party. 

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Laura, happy birthday to you.” I bent over the cake: a chocolate Winnie the Pooh cake with dyed yellow and red vanilla frosting, another of my mom’s culinary creations. She did most of her own baking for many years – our birthday cakes, holiday cookies, Challah bread which we would eat on Christmas morning. For this birthday I was old enough to decorate my own cake, and after blowing out the candles stuck in Pooh, we sliced the other cake. The second cake, my design, was decorated with the same frosting, but more the flavor of a Jackson Pollock painting rather than a Great British Bakeoff delicacy. A gentle breeze tousled my hair as my baby sister chewed on her fist, spittle dripping from her face. My Grandma Grace watched me as I blew out the candles, making a wish for a pony perhaps, or Barbie Dreamhouse. I would only have her in my life for another two years, before she succumbed to lung cancer on Christmas Eve, 1979. Every year after that, the sadness would descend on our tiny home and the cakes were no longer a given. The dress would eventually be placed in the attic with my other childhood outfits, nestled within the memories of milestones, and highlighting my ever changing tastes and fashion sense. I would grow out of my excitement over handmade dresses as I longed to be able to shop at “5 – 7 – 9” and “The Limited.” I would save my allowance to get my ears pierced and buy a very expensive off-the-shoulder sweater, mimicking my hero Jennifer Beals playing Alex Owens in Flashdance. The eighties would take over my soul, and I would subscribe to rolled up jeans, pompom socks and legwarmers, while dancing to Madonna, Prince, and Human League. 

Now, 48 years later, I find the pictures from that day and place them next to the dress. I gather the memories, snippets emerging from the depths, flashes of that young girl with the blond hair, skinned knees, handmade dress, and Winnie the Pooh cake. I would attempt to bake birthday cakes for my own son, but they never were as nice as those that my mom lovingly made for us at the house at the end of Willis Street in Dalton.