The bolt of pastel purple, springtime fabric dotted with tiny white flowers, flopped over too many times it seemed for my little mind, as the store clerk mentally counted through her cat eyes glasses, all the while measuring with precise swiftness along the scratched brown yard stick fastened to the wide counter.
My young mom snapped open her black shiny 70s purse and counted out many, many one and 2 dollar bills and change… An endless amount of change it seemed, for the miles and miles of fabric my young mind perceived.
Every hard earned dollar and dime lay haphazardly in a vulnerable heap on the well worn arbrite counter at the local frequently visited fabric store.
The beginnings of the Easter dress ..a yearly treat. Homemade by my mom.2 little girls to sew for. .
Many an hour was spent perched at her loyal, older model 1960s Bernina sewing machine.
It had stood the test of time.
The Easter weekend was nearing as the warmer April winds pushed back Easter on the calendar that year.
No little matching white tights were needed, just our little bare legs accompanied by little cotton white socks tucked neatly in our shiny new white Sunday shoes.
The onion thin brown tissue pattern was but a guide as my mom’s large vintage gold and silver trimmed sewing sheers made thier way loosely around the distinct black outlines… A heavy “chunk” sound with every pinch of the scissors in her young hands.
By days end, my dress along with my younger sister’s (matching of course) would hang completed on a wire hanger next to the sewing machine… adorned with Ric Rac and petite shirred front pockets… Perhaps a “nest” for the coveted Easter treats accompanying the holiday to come.
As Easter Sunday made its debut… Symbolizing new beginning, my sister and I in our matching dresses, danced happily up the well worn steps of the old Hanover Street church we had attended for all the years my little mind could remember.
My mother lingered close behind her girls and young son wearing her newly sewn Easter creation… different pattern, but distinctly familiar of the pastel purple material gleaned from the fabric store bolt she had saved for over the past year.
There was something about a new dress and how it made me feel when I wore it for the first time… especially at Easter.
Wearing it for the first time held a sense of new beginnings, even at this tender age… whatever that meant for me in my little heart.
A new Easter dress was indicative of a new day… representing the most incredibly new day ever.
Those days of the Easter dress are now tucked far away in the furthest corners of my memories. Sweet memories.
The idea of a new day, new attitude, not just yearly but daily, reminds me of the newness I felt in those early years of the Easter dress.
I continue to remind myself daily of the new beginning, the new day Easter represents as I face each moment of every day. My strength each day… Bought and paid for with a very high price and sacrifice.
And the result…
His mercies are new… Not only every year… but EVERY morning…
My thoughts… My reflections… As I remember the days of…
The Easter dress.