A Crepe Paper Memory

We never had much, on our small Tennessee farm, tucked away in almost Alabama. But the crepe paper dress is a reminder that there was no needle my mother would not try to thread for me.  

The second grade school play was coming up, and I was cast as Little Bo-Peep. Excited as I was to have the part, I am sure now that when my mother read the note from school, what I saw in her eyes was worry. Worry that we couldn’t afford the material to make the costume. No velvet. No satin. Not even cotton for a dress I’d wear just once.

But after a while, we went to town and bought crepe paper.

My mother made all of my clothes. Homemade was the best she could afford. She’d see a dress in the Sears catalog or in a store window in Florence, Alabama, and say, “I can make it.”  From school clothes to formals, my mother had a gift for making something out of nothing. I was much older before I understood what a luxury it was to have my own personal seamstress through all my growing-up years.

All those creations exist only in memory now, except for one. The crepe paper dress.

I could not imagine how she would ever turn paper—the kind used for wrapping a present or decorating for a party—into a dream I could wear.

But my mother was an artist.

I can see it all, still. With pinking shears in hand, she cut crisp patterns out of newspaper and spread them on the dining room table. Leaning forward, she guided the crepe paper under the Singer’s clacking needle, treadle whirring softly, like a song. Late into the night, she bent over her needlework, straight pins clamped between her teeth, her fingers slip-stitching the hem of the nearly-finished costume. All of it, fashioning from thread and paper and love, not just a dress for the play, but a crepe paper memory that has endured for decades. 

Every woman has had forgettable dresses, expensive brand names that have come and gone. My mother is gone now, too. But I can still remember the feel of the crepe paper on my little girl shoulders. Sometimes I still get the urge to look at the dress, just to marvel at my mother’s imagination and her exquisite handiwork.

I keep it close in a corner of an old bureau. And I keep it closer in a corner of my heart.

Crepe paper is fragile. But this most delicate work of art, a reminder of my mother’s love, has survived for all these years. So has my love for her.

Some things are one of a kind. This dress. And my mother.

Crepe paper dress

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by

I write a little bit of everything - fiction, nonfiction, and sometimes even poetry. For twenty years I served on the English faculty at Nashville State Community College, where I taught composition, literature, and creative writing. I was editor of the literary magazine, Tetrahedra, for eight years, and it was one of the joys of my career to see student writers get their first opportunity to be published. I earned my B.S. in Education at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, and received my M.A. in English from Austin Peay State University, Clarksville, Tennessee. My home is Nashville, close to my two daughters and their families. I like to play tennis and play the piano. Tuesday nights, I meet with a writers group that I've been in for more years than I will say!

2 thoughts on “A Crepe Paper Memory

  1. Hi Phyllis,
    I received my Encircle newsletter and saw your blog referenced. I enjoyed reading your Mother’s Day piece. I also wrote one for my blog. This holiday is generational and important.

    Best,

    Jacqueline Seewald
    BLOOD FAMILY and DEATH PROMISE from Encircle

    • phyllisgobbell

      Thanks, Jacqueline. I will read yours! I still remember being a guest on your blog. You really know how to promote!
      Good luck,
      Phyllis

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