The seed pearls lost their coating, but remarkably, the peau de soir wedding gown I lifted from the deep cedar chest had not yellowed. My mother, Betty Jean Davis, cut the gown from a Vogue pattern and sewed it on my grandmother’s hefty Singer sewing machine 61 years ago for her walk down the aisle with Charles H. Frampton.
On our recent spring break, my teenage daughters were curious to see the fabled gown with a lace-overlay bodice, bateau neckline, three-quarter sleeves and covered buttons. The sturdy construction of the garment withstood the decades.
Each girl gave the dress a twirl and posed for pictures with its creator. Seeing the fabric take form once again, their Nana grinned with delight.
The hands that crafted that stunning gown — and the many play clothes and costumes and prom dresses hence — now twist a bit with arthritis. The groan of a subtle ache in my right thumb whispers my same fate. We inherit the good and the bad.
As the only one who, in that sentimental moment, was both daughter and mother, I could not help but think about what my mother has passed to me and what I will pass on to my children — both wittingly and unwittingly.
Like the full skirts of that wedding gown, I hope the thing taking up the most space in their reservoirs of hope is beauty. In a world that is so often ugly and anxious, I want them to recognize beauty when they see, touch, hear, smell and taste it: photographs with cousins at the beach; unevenly glazed pottery from art class; the melody of that one song we danced to in the kitchen; the fresh pine of the Christmas tree; the recipe for coffee cake. I hope they will create some beauty of their own, too.
There are a few other notions I hope they hang onto: the intricacy of relationships with friends and family, like lace, to be handled with care; the freedom to express themselves in whimsical detail; and the sturdy structure of home and faith that will stand the test of time. And I hope none of what they keep is too perfect, like seed pearls turned by exposure to the elements. Because even though it is a hard lesson to learn, nothing in life is perfect. And they don’t have to be either.
As Mother’s Day approaches, many of us will honor the mothers of our birthing and those of our raising with flowers, handmade cards or accidentally burnt toast delivered on a tray in bed. They are mere tokens of thanks for the the arms that give hugs; the hands that tie shoes; the voices that call after the astray; the lips that kiss booboos; the eyes that reflect love; the feet that run all day; the hips that carry loads of laundry; and the ears that hear over and over again “mama!”
Maybe they weren’t always perfect, but beauty doesn’t have to be. Sometimes it’s time-worn, and sometimes it even aches; but it’s ours to pass on to others.
