Graduation season is under way and an old friend and I were recently thinking back to 1968 when we part of the large graduating class at our high school.
I suggested we looked “grand” in the photo that still hangs in the school hallway. She did not disagree although she didn’t seem overly impressed with our hairdos and dresses.
Indeed, I think both represented the year and the styles of that era and that for the most part, we did look unusually dolled up for this special evening as our 12-year sojourn came to an end.
With our grad date set in early May, it wasn’t as though the graduation dance would be the last time we’d see each other. With another six weeks of school remaining we had plenty of time to say whatever goodbyes were appropriate. Some in the class seemed to walk off into the sunset as June wrapped up while others stayed close and at least from a distance, kept in touch via mail, phone and eventually e-mail and Facebook.
In the dark recesses of a spare closet, my graduation dress hangs there as a reminder of that banquet, ceremonies and dance in the community hall. It also reminds me of how close I came that night to having dirt and grime all over me as I thought about helping my escort change the flat tire on his old car enroute to the banquet. Thankfully Dad soon came along and he had the dirt on his hands when we finally arrived at the hall, just in time to take our seats for the turkey dinner.
That dress got a second wearing as a bridesmaid's dress at my friend’s wedding. The barely visible grease stain on the front is where the perogy slipped off my fork at the after-dance reception at the home of the groom’s parents. His mother helped me remove much of the stain but some evidence remains.
Why do I keep the dress? I was brought up not to waste and so the dress is there. Maybe someday I’ll have someone remove the lace train to make doilies. And the blue peau de soie (skin of silk) fabric could possibly be used in a family quilt, along with old pyjama tops, house dresses, blue jean fabric and embroidered dish towels.
I don’t think anyone I know would be grateful to receive the dress as a bequest. The size is beyond my recollection, maybe a 6 or 8. Most of me would never, ever begin to fit inside now and there would be more than cleavage protruding.
Speaking of cleavage: in our class photo, there was none revealed, another sign of how times have changed. I am relieved that cleavage was not part of the grad package of that year. I would have been horribly inadequate and would have required a fair bit of tissue stuffing to keep up competitive appearances.
In fact, if cleavage had been a requirement, my mother would have knitted me a shawl to wear over my shoulders, with a front fastening, to conceal what might have been revealed.
Joyce Walter can be reached at ronjoy@sasktel.net
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the position of this publication.
