My Grandmother’s Dress

     As I cautiously touched the tip of the iron to the fragile dress, I wished it could tell stories about my grandmother and the special occasions she wore it. I turned the dial to silk and held my breath as I slowly smoothed the wrinkles from the ninety-seven year old fabric.  This was the first time an electric iron had touched this hand sewn piece of my family's history.  No doubt the fabric and lace were bought after the tobacco crop was sold in the late fall.  The tiny stitches were made by a young person whose sight was sharp.  Perhaps by my grandmother herself,

                                IF THE DRESS COULD TALK

     The dogwoods bloomed early that spring of 1914 in the foot hills of the Blue Ridge.  She had always loved the Spring with its bursts of new life, and palettes of color.  She counted the days until the grass of early May was thick and soft as velvet.  Off came her shoes, her feet taking great pleasure in their freedom.  But something was not right this year...no walks to find snowdrops or early daffodils who resided near the warmth of the chimney, no singing of little ditties.  Not even her little son born the day after Christmas brought the sparkle back to her eyes.  Her family was concerned.

     Ethel Davis Patterson was born in 1897, the oldes of three girls and one brother.  Called, Sister, by her family, she was a happy, fun loving child.  Life was hard on a Virginia tobacco farm but h er parents acritficed to see that their children were well fed and dressed appropriately.

     Sometime in early 1915, a widower with several young children started paying attention to the pretty, oldest Patterson girl.  I don't know the full story since I had not been formed.  But the story told around the community was that he courted her as if he were a young man.  In the early part of that year they eloped.  It's here that the story starts to become clouded with gossip and assumptions.  For whatever reason the young bride did not move into her husband's house.  In a little more than nine months she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.  It was a difficult birth and her health seamed to worsen as the days and months passed.

     The little baby  began to grow and thrive in the care of his grandmother and two aunts.  Sister couldn't help but smile when she looked into his dark eyes.  Everyone tried to help her take her mind off her oppressing illness.  She needed a new dress, one that fit.  She ate very little and had lost weight.  Fabric and lace were bought at the local mercantile.  That's when I came into existence.  Her Mother cut a pattern from and old dress, carefully measuring each part.  The sisters, helped with sewing, making the tiniest stitches imaginable.  I will never forget the day the dress was finished.  All the women gathered in the bedroom, helping Sister to get dressed.  I fit like a glove.  Her waist was barely nineteen inches.  She looked beautiful with her dark hair and high cheek bones, her Indian heritage quite evident.  Someone remarked, "She should have her portrait done."  Although that was an expensive venture, her parents found the money to have it made.  I have a feeling they knew she would not be around much longer.
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     Much to my sorrow Ethel passed away in childbirth a few months later.  She and the little boy were buried in the same coffin.  He family never got over her untimely death.  I was gently folded and put away in a trunk until many years later, Ethel's granddaughter retrieved me to accompany her to Memoir Class.  I am glad. Ethel would be, too.

HANDMADE DRESS

ETHEL PATTERSON BAYS--1915