It was 1962 and I was 6. Even then, little girls were fashionistas; especially on Easter Sunday. From the top of my head to the tip of my toes, I was adorned in my all-time favorite color: blue. I was quite fond of dresses, but this ensemble was the complete package!
My Pollyanna-style hat was circled with a white satin ribbon; a perfect match for my white tights and gloves. My jacket and pleated skirt were deep, midnight blue and I wore a sky blue, sleeveless top under that jacket. As for my shoes, how can any girl resist a new pair of patent leather Mary Janes? I twirled and whirled in front of every available mirror (as I am still known to do) and the Easter morning church service was the perfect venue to show off my style.
Mom agreed to let me wear my suit to church that Easter evening, as well. With some hesitation, she granted my request to sit by myself just a few rows up from her and Dad. There was one condition, however; no talking, giggling, or writing notes. No problem!
I believe my intentions were good but once admirers began to comment on my clothing, I simply could not resist an occasional twirl or curtsy. This, of course, resulted in some giggling which in turn led to talking and so on. I didn’t dare to glance back at my parents and I couldn’t resist showing off. Several times I heard my father whisper my name but I completely ignored him. As long as I did not acknowledge him I was free to continue with my antics; or so I thought.
The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back was my discovery that my now somewhat battered hat spun nicely on my right hand; which is exactly what I was doing when the hat flew over the heads of several members of the congregation before hitting the base of the altar. Ribbon askew, the hat now lay directly in front of the pulpit and the minister never missed a beat in the delivery of his sermon. I rose to my feet and stepped out into the aisle. With my finger covering my lips, I leaned forward and began an exaggerated form of tip-toeing to the hat, which I scooped up with great gusto, waving it in the air above my head. At this point, the congregation (and the minister) exploded with laughter.
I realized quite suddenly that my black patent leather Mary Janes were no longer touching the floor. My father’s hand was now firmly holding on to the collar of my navy blue Easter jacket, (with me still in it, by the way) as he “escorted” me from the church and directly into the backseat of our car. He regained his composure and waved a shaky finger at me. “Don’t you say a word. Not a single word.” My mother stood just behind him, her pretty face shrouded in disbelief and disappointment.
I am able to recount the story of that Easter evening in detail, simply because Mom and Dad spoke of it often. Over the years, the embarrassment of that event transformed into tireless laughter. While looking through items in my mother’s hope chest, I came across that dark blue Easter hat wrapped in white tissue paper. The ribbon was long gone but in the eyes of that little girl I will always be, it was ravishing!
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@ maine.rr.com.
