Petticoats, Poodle Skirts, and Dungaree Dolls
My goodness, you look plumb tuckered out by the heat. Come on over here and have a seat. I’ve got some raspberry mint tea here that will fix you right up. You must have been down to the Santa Rita Reunion. We got a fine crowd for the festival this year. Glad you could make it. Here, let me move that sewing box out of your way. I’ve just been finishing up a dress for my great neice Linda Lou. It’s for her first high school dance at the end of the month. Not much like the dresses I made for her mom back when I was a full time seamstress, I’ll tell you. Why, this one is little more than a back and a front, no glamour to it, not by my way of thinking. Now those dresses back when I was a girl, they took some time and some skill from a seamstress. All the pleats, tucks, trim and finishing. And the fabrics we were working with–silk taffeta, organdie, voile, and lace, my word, the lace we used.
Of course not every dress was all that frilly. The slim little pencil skirts, the sheath dresses, they were pretty tailored affairs, but they still took somebody with a nimble needle to put them together. Girls took a lot of pride in dressing nice, even if they were just running down to the Luke’s Drug Store for a soda. For a soda date they’d probably be in one of those cute poodle skirts and a sweater. My mama must have made enough poodle skirts to go all the way around Texas if they were stretched out side by side because she made one for all my friends. Every young girl had to have one. They were made out of felt, you know, and had to be a full circle around. Pretty heavy once they were all trimmed up, too. Wasn’t just the poodle appliqued on the front, no that was just the base for the rest. The poodle had to have a rhinestone collar and leash. Then we’d put ribbons on the ears and tail, sprinkle some sequins and beads over the whole thing, maybe add a little bell on the collar, too. No, it was more than just a skirt, each one was special and unique to the girl wearing it.
Blue jeans were something farm hands and young boys wore until the girls latched on to them. Suddenly prim young ladies became dungaree dolls, borrying their brothers’ jeans and their dad’s long tailed shirts. Not that any girl wore such garb on a date or out where her fella might see her. No, if she
wore any kind of pants, maybe for a picnic or a sporting event, she’d wear capri pants or toreadors, tight as new paint, with a pretty shirt or blouse.
Girls wore whatever underpinnings were necessary, too. I’d just bet Linda Lou doesn’t even own a petticoat, much less a merry widow bra, waist cincher, girdle, or even a pair of stockings. And thinking about the layers we wore, including about a bushel of petticoats, I can’t say I’d care to try it now, myself.
Our Miss Fleeta Cunningham came over to get some background on those clothes of the 50’s for her new book ELOPEMENT FOR ONE. Seems she was telling all about the nice style show our Troy put on for the historical society when she first came here. Brought it all back to me, how Troy ran off from that big society wedding in Dallas and wound up here in Santa Rita. She didn’t have the least notion what to do with herself, but when the historical society found out she’d grown up in the fashion industry, why they knew just what to do with her. That show was a humdinger. Our Troy learned some things about herself too. She believed she was a complete coward for running off like that but she learned that she could face her fears. She had some bad things she had to deal with, including her dad and that man she left behind. Along the way she found a real home and a new life here in Santa Rita. I’d all but forgot that till Miss Fleeta got me to talking about that style show. There’s a nice descrjption of it in her book. The story’s got a nasty villian, a good looking hero, and not one or two, but three, yes, three engagements worked into the tale. But Miss Fleeta will probably want to tell you more about that.
Let me get you some more raspberry mint tea and when you’re cooled off a little more, I’ll take you round to the back and show you my roses. They’re doing real well this year. And maybe you’d like a jar of my mint face cream. It’s real good for a sunburned nose. Just sit a spell while I get your tea.
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Thanks for spreading the word about ELOPEMENT FOR ONE, Lucy. I couldn’t have told the story without your help. I did enjoy learning Troy’s story and seeing how she found her way out of a really scary mess. The book is available from Wild Rose Press, the on-line book stores, and my website, www.fleetacunningham.com on September 10.
My friend Lucy was talking about the style show scene. I’m going to put a bit of that scene here so you can hear more about Troy and her troubles. Please enjoy. And I love to hear from you, so don’t be shy about writing back.
Elopement for One
Piece by piece the show came together. The models found their props, located their entrances, and retreated to the makeshift dressing room to dress.Troy caught a brief glimpse of Zach, tried to get to him to return his key, but found he’d gone before she could make contact, and went back to addressing minor confusion. She gradually became aware of the people filling the chairs around the white and lavender tables. A clink of punch cups and low chatter created background that sounded excited and promising. Tucking away the flurry of nerves that had given birth to a batch of butterflies in her abdomen, Troy gazed out at the crowd. A good turnout, in fact an excellent one, given that the weather report promised dampness and possibly heavy fog later in the evening.
The trio of musicians in the corner struck up a swirling waltz, people began to quieten, and the house lights dimmed. Troy gathered up her much lined and crossed out script and headed for the podium. She’d never narrated a show like this, but she’d been the jill-of-all-trades for enough of them to have a good feel for the business. She took her place, switched on the small light over the speaker’s stand, and waited a moment. The audience went silent, the music fell to a whisper, and she looked out into the shadows waiting.
“Good evening and thank you for coming to revisit the days of Belles, Boas, and Bebop. Tonight we celebrate the fads and fashions that have gone before and led us to the modern glamour of mid-twentieth century.” She glanced at the musicians, nodded, and they let the shimmering waltz fill the air. “We begin with a gown suitable for the cotillions and quadrilles dear to our grandmothers and their beaus.”
Once the show was underway, Troy found her narration flowed easily. The models, inexperienced though they were, managed hoops, bustles, and hobble skirts with grace. The musicians kept up with the cues, changing tempo from the waltz to ragtime and jazz without stumbling. Troy did notice how effervescent Zarah looked in the jade green fringed flapper dress with its headpiece of curled ostrich feathers. In the second half of the program, she returned to take the stage in an elegant post war New Look evening gown of black chiffon and beige lace. We’re coming into the last sequence. Breathing easier, Troy moved her script over and pulled out the last pages, the ones she’d had to revise at the last moment to make up for the missing model. As she glanced up, she saw Zach sitting in the far corner, all but invisible in the shadows. He’d come to see her show. A soaring lift of pride filled Troy’s heart. I made a good job of it and Zach was here to see it. Maybe there’s hope. Maybe he’ll see I can be my own person.
Elated by the one glimpse she had of the smile on his face, Troy sailed into the final sequence of presentations. The music changed to current hits beginning with ‘Rock Around the Clock’ and a bevy of teenage girls in fluffy petticoats, circular skirts and peasant blouses sipping Cokes and giggling. Each took a turn around the footlights to show off dainty details. As they left the stage, an older group in fitted cocktail gowns and bouffant party dresses entered to ‘Memories Are Made of This’. They paraded by ones and twos to let the viewers get a closer look. Then music faded and the lights softened as four young women in peach chiffon and picture hats posed between the slightly parted drapes. ‘Love Is a Many Splendored Thing’ swelled through the audience and the young women paced across the stage to pose, two to each side, on the stage steps. As the music hit a shimmering crescendo, Zarah stepped from behind the curtains, radiant in ivory tulle and beaded lace, the essence of a blushing bride. Though the dress was not Zarah’s own, not the one she’d wear for her Christmas wedding, Troy was certain that her friend could never look lovelier than she did in the borrowed gown, a band of silk roses holding trailing mists of veiling, and an ethereal smile lighting her face. The crowd seemed to agree as a storm of applause greeted her and all but overwhelmed the music.
At last the applause subsided, and though the show was over, people seemed slow to leave. Troy found herself surrounded by people who wanted to congratulate her or ask about a particular dress, or share stories about the original owners of the gowns and where they’d been worn. She appreciated the enthusiasm but longed to pry off her high heels, clear away the aftermath of the event, and most of all, find dinner. She hadn’t been able to eat before the show, a combination of nerves and lost time making that impossible, and now she felt ready to gnaw on the greenery of the centerpieces. Still she had to be sure everything was put away, all garments returned to their protective bags, and the Opera House left as it was before the show.
“Do we really have to fold up all the tables?” one harried young stage assistant whined. “I mean, we’ll just have to get them out again.”
“The floor can’t be mopped unless the tables are put away,” Troy reminded the girl, patiently prodding to get the job underway. “We agreed to leave the theater just like we found it.”
“Yeah, maybe,” the girl murmured but moved the tables and began mopping.
Little by little, with constant encouragement and coaching, Troy got her helpers to clear the area and restore order to the theater. She could feel her damp tendrils of hair escape from the anchoring pins. Her dress, now limp and clinging, hampered her movements and the black pumps with their stiletto heels gouged into feet that felt as if red-hot wires were just under the skin.
After the show is over and Troy is alone…..
The pages of her script had scattered around the speaker’s podium during the program, some fluttering to the floor, some dropping into the space inside. Troy started to crumple the sheets and toss them into the trash bin at the end of the stage but caution stopped her hand. She’d worked hard on that script and in the end it was all she had of the show. Her show, her production, and she had invested a lot of herself in making it happen. She couldn’t keep any part of the home she’d made for Zach but she could have the memory of this show and the script to hold on to. Troy gathered up the loose pages and began arranging them in order. Her stomach rumbled reminding her that her heart wasn’t the only part of her suffering. She needed dinner and she needed it soon.
The last of her pages were loose on the shelf of the podium. She drew them together and noticed the forgotten candy box. A gift for one of the girls in the show, she remembered. No one asked about it and she hadn’t thought to take it out and see if anyone claimed it. Troy pulled it out with her own papers. Expensive, a box tied with pretty ribbon, and a brand that didn’t come off the drug store shelf, she noted. Her stomach rumbled again and she shrugged. I’ll ask around tomorrow and apologize but tonight it just may give me energy enough to get me home.
Troy unfastened the ribbon and opened the silvery paper. As she did a tiny card slipped out of the intricate bow. She held it a moment and realized it had her name on it.
How sweet. Someone, Zach maybe, thought of me, meant to wish me good luck, but got the card in so well that we didn’t see it. But a chocolate is just what I need right now.
Carefully Troy unfastened the fancy paper and lifted the lid. Expecting to see crimped paper cups and fancy little candies, she stopped. She stared at the contents, hypnotically reaching for the smaller container inside the candy carton. Square, grey, a velvet box nested in the tissue paper inside. Certain she knew what it held, Troy lifted the elegant parcel and forced herself to open it. The contents glittered in the dim light. Troy stared at it in fascination. The last time she’d seen this platinum banded jewel was the moment she took it from her hand, returned it to the box, and left it on the dressing table at the church. She closed her eyes against its cold glitter. Swallowing the sour taste that rose in her throat, Troy pushed the ring box aside. A second card slipped from under the tissue as she pushed the box away. Heart thudding, barely breathing, she pulled the card free and opened it.
Of course you’re going to pay for humiliating me. Put the ring on and come back where you belong. I will go a little easier on you. You know you can’t run away from me.





















