They Say It's My Birthday!

Today is my birthday and I’d like to start the celebrations with a thank you to the woman who made it all possible—my fabulous mother.  Besides the heaping helpings of love, attention and good southern food that she gave me, she instilled in me a love of fashion and a strong sense of self.

My mom made her own fashion statements.  She was a gorgeous woman with great style who taught me a lot about clothes, especially how to choose and wear flattering items.  I thought she was a glamorous as Lena Horne or Eartha Kitt.  She wore velvet coats in the 1940s, sumptuous suede jackets in the 1950s, miniskirts in the 1960s, and outrageous jumpsuits in the 1970s.

She was my style icon—no one else comes close.  She had class, soul, and attitude.  Here is a photo of her from the late 1940s when she was in her early 20s.  Love you, Mom!

Handbags (no Gladrags)

I have three cherished vintage handbags that belonged to my mom.  One dates from the late 1950s, one from the pre-mod 1960s, and the other from the superfly 1970s.

The 1950s and 60s bags are ladylike and proper with these imagined contents: embroidered white hanky, a tube of Revlon’s Cherries in the Snow lipstick, big black sunglasses that made her a mysterious glamour girl, a small hair brush and a compact.

I always thought of the leopard bag (pictured) as her Jackie bag.  She had a sassy little leopard pillbox hat that she often wore with it as part of a “special occasion” outfit.  You know, an adult dinner out, maybe a cocktail party.  Other accessories may have included a fox fur stole and a chunky charm bracelet with a jade heart or glass-encased four-leaf clover dangling from the links.

I coveted the 1970s shoulder bag for years.  She bought it in Vineland, NJ shortly after moving there in 1972.  It was the style of the time—hippie, unlined, tooled heavy leather with leather laces that attached the shoulder strap to the bag.  She carried this bag constantly for almost a decade and I always teased her about borrowing it.  That bag reminds me of her essence—bold, sometimes outrageous, unafraid, and proud.  The imagined contents of this bag would be an Afro pick and car keys, in addition to the oversized black sunglasses, neutral colored lipstick, and embroidered hanky. In her new role as a suburban housewife she also carried shopping lists as well as outgoing and incoming mail retrieved from their post office box.

I haven’t used any of these handbags, but I can’t part with them.  They’re history and they’re style from my mother, my muse.

My Mother the Muse

In the mid-1960s there was a horrifying moment on TV, a short-lived sitcom, “My Mother the Car,” starring an extremely young Jerry Van Dyke. The premise of the show was that Joe Sitcom’s deceased mother had been reincarnated as a talking 1928 Porter convertible automobile.

My mom would have never consented to reincarnation as a 40 year-old hoopdie – the automotive equivalent of an old lady wearing a faded flowered smock with strings hanging from the hem. She would have agreed to nothing less than a ’64 Ford Mustang convertible dipped in Cherries-In-The-Snow red.

She was a modern woman decked out in form fitting pantsuits, fluffy Motown wigs and short skirts. She didn’t seem out of place in the Pepsi Generation. To my preteen eyes she was the epitome of glamour, the essence of charm and excitement. She represented the best of Mademoiselle or Vogue, moving through life with class, grace and style.

She never left the house without lipstick, never left the house without draping on her style, her swing, her surefootedness. Quirky and independent, always noticed – never a wallflower. She was always ready, whole, when she left the house.

I look in the mirror and see her face, especially when I’m smiling and wearing red, red lipstick. I feel her wrapping me in timeless merino wool coats and colorful cashmere sweaters from the best department stores in 1960s D.C.: Garfinckel’s, Woodward & Lothrop, and Lansburgh’s.

Mom haunts me whenever I go shopping. Mom haunts me whenever I’m dressing for an event. Mom haunts me as I clean out my closets, scolding and warning me about bad taste, unfortunate style and lack of style. Her mischievous smile is in the sunbeam that shines on the pile of discarded baggy capri pants, summer skirts that make my butt look big, faded tie dye frocks and items in universally unflattering colors such as salmon and beige. Her light-hearted laugh echoes through my cedar closet as I recall her story of the church lady’s fur stole that was reminiscent of Toto or Benji.

My Mother the Muse inspired who I am today. My closets and my life are full because of her, although I most enjoyed wearing her Cherries-In-The-Snow lip print on my cheek – her seal of approval.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.