dress-up box
Browsing through my local dollar store last week I came upon an aisle filled with Hallowe’en costumes. Yes, already. The paper and tinsel costumes didn’t interest me that much, but a pair of bright-eyed children did. They cruised up and down the shelves, studying each costume, checking with mom if it was acceptable, then going back to ponder the merits of a pirate versus a princess, a witch versus a vampire. The costumes were entrancing, but flimsy. If bought five weeks in advance, I wonder if they’ll last through to Hallowe’en.
The incident reminded me of the old dress up box in my childhood home. It lived at the back of my closet on a broad shelf created by the ceiling of the staircase. Perfect place, don’t you think? Dark, set apart, magical. The truth was the trunk held a few of my mother’s old clothes but for my brothers and I it was treasure chest, yielding endless hours of entertainment and long involved tales of derring do and fair maidens.
In an age of slim fit pants, my mom’s old bell-bottoms seemed hilariously ridiculous, but paired with an oversize shirt knotted at the waist and a paper hat, they made a great sailor, change the hat for an eye-patch and a bandana and you had a pirate.
Carefully wrapped in tissue paper was a beautiful, lady’s blouse. Made of amber silk with tight cuffs, puffed sleeves, pin-tucks on the bodice, fitted to the waist and flared over the hips it was truly a work of art. It was also fragile with age. I learned later that my great aunt had made her living as a seamstress. The blouse was one of her creations. Sadly, it turned to dust before I learned to appreciate it.
The biggest prize in the box was a cape—navy twill on the outside, scarlet satin on the inside. It served as Red Riding Hood’s cloak, Zorro’s cape, a bull-fighter’s capote, and a nurse’s outdoor wear, just to name a few.
On rainy days, when we were too much underfoot, my mother would banish us from the kitchen to the dress-up box. We could come back when we had a costume and a story to go with it. Maybe that was the start of my story-telling career.
When my brothers and I outgrew dressing up, the box was tucked away in its special place, only to be rediscovered by my nieces. Once again, the dress-up box played a starring role in a child’s imagination. Little girls in swirls of gauzy scarves clunked down the stairs in too-big high-heeled shoes to regale their grandparents with long, involved and impossible tales.
I have the box, now. It was originally a wooden box for paper. My great grandfather was a newspaper man and needed a lot of paper. The large quantities he order, about 200 quires, came in these wooden, leather covered boxes. As far as I know, this is the only one that has survived in my family, and it is in poor repair. Anyone know how to reattach the leather covering without ruining it?
I no longer play dress-up, but I like to spin stories. Maybe that’s a technique I could explore. Before sitting down at the computer I could don a long skirt with petticoats, a tight-sleeved blouse and an over-size hat. Then I’d be in the proper frame of mind—and body—to tell tales of women on the frontier.
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I did crash my three year old godson’s Hallowe’en party once. I dressed as Brunhilda. That’s the nose cone from an airplane on my head with tin foil horns attached. My godson was scared. His mother laughed and laughed. She still teases me about that day. My godson is now over 21.
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