When I visit my favorite consignment shops this time of year, I notice that the displays are all-prom-all-the time. I understand that: Of my long-ago prom days I remember the dresses more clearly that I remember my escorts. Even with pictures as evidence
Tight of bodice and voluminous of skirt, the gowns were typically nylon tulle over taffeta in a demure "ballerina" length, strapless, and complemented by a totally useless net stole that would slip off the back of my chair early in the evening, to be trodden by passing dancers and waitresses bearing trays of Cokes.
I wore them with a tortuously boned strapless brassiere, as many crinoline petticoats as I could pile on while still managing to zip up the dress, and old nylon hosiery because the aforementioned petticoats would make short work of good ones. It sounds perverse today to report that I wore a garter belt; I had to---in the Fifties, pantyhose were a fashionable woman's dream that had not yet come true. The height of my heels---silver for fall and winter, white for spring---depended on the height of my dancing partner. Since I was considered tall in my day, I acquired a large collection of cheap formal flats.
One dress was white, one pale yellow, one orchid with silver spangles worked into the net. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, and the net raised red welts along my neckline. My mother made that one, as well as two of my least favorite gowns, a dark green faille that wasn't at all what I had in mind and a red-and-white striped taffeta that made me look like an oversized candy cane.
I inherited my favorite dress from my stylish cousin Barbara, who attended a private girls' school and had cut quite a social swath among the young men at the boys' school nearby. The dress had a cranberry velvet bodice and net skirt over a satin underlay that was peppered with tiny holes. Moths, my mother pronounced, squinting at the fabric; just what she'd expect of the languid Barbara and Auntie Mary, my mother's oldest sister. "Mary always did think she was a 'lady,' "---my forthright mother's sternest criticism---"and she raised her girls to be the same. I'll bet Barbara threw that dress over a chair and left it for someone else to hang up, but the moths got to it first."
I loved the color and the velvet, though, and when, as my mother did, you had two daughters in high school, you took free dance dresses wherever, whenever, and from whomever you could. She spent several evenings hand-sewing the tiny holes with silk thread, and when she was finished, I couldn't see any imperfections through the clouds of net skirt. As Mother often said of her make-do efforts, "A man riding by on horseback couldn't tell the difference."
Nor would anyone else. With my mother's rhinestone earrings and silver mesh bag, I was all set for the fall semi-formal dance of the Junior Guild of St. Agnes. All I needed now was a date.
The Junior Guild was the offshoot, for high-school girls, of a Catholic women's organization (the Guild of St. Agnes) that did good works and raised money for the Sisters of Providence with card parties and dinner-dances. In the 1950s, in a small city, where the church a family attended was no small factor in its community standing, these young matrons---wives of Catholic doctors, lawyers, businessmen---were becoming a social force to rival the WASPish Junior League.
We, of the Junior Guild, were to be groomed as their successors. We were to become in our turn good Catholic wives and mothers, faithful to spouse and church, charitable, community-minded, and socially accomplished.
In the meantime, until we achieved holy matrimony, we were to take as our model St. Agnes, a poster child for chastity and purity. Depending on which edition of The Lives of the Saints you consult, Agnes---which in Greek translates to "lamb" or "pure one"---at the tender age of 12 (or 13 or 14) chose death over dishonor by pagan Romans. In either 254 or 304 A.D., she was (take your pick) beheaded and burned or tortured and stabbed or stabbed in the throat. Her hagiographers are unclear on those details but united in the notion that she preserved her virginity and won a martyr's crown on the 21st of January. The Roman Catholic Church proclaimed her the patron saint of engaged couples, Girl Scouts, and rape victims, the last designation either ignored or overlooked by our parents seeing us off with our sweaty-palmed adolescent swains.
Despite the high-minded intent of the organization, most of us joined the Junior Guild for one reason and one reason only: the fall and spring dances, held by tradition in the Terrace Room of the Hotel Roger Smith, about as elegant a venue as one could find locally in those days. We circled the polished floor from 8 to 11 p.m. to the music of Ed Novak, the moonlighting high school band director, and his small dance combo. The fall dance was always the night after Thanksgiving, the spring event a Friday night in mid-May.
In all respects, save one, the Junior Guild dances were identical to the high school proms: the former were ladies' choice affairs. If you were dating someone on a regular basis---we didn't go steady much in those days---it was a foregone conclusion that the young man would be your escort, and other girls would keep their hands off. If you didn't date much, you began early in the school year to consider the possibilities---the cute guy in French class, the silent type who stared at you in study hall, the least juvenile of the jokers hanging around their lockers before morning home room---hoping for a presentable male with a dark suit and access to a car.
The trophies to be won included a little tasseled dance car, a drying wrist corsage, a stiffly posed photo with the other couples at your table, and the opportunity to act, for a few hours at least, like a grown-up and practice one's party manners. It was all about See and Be Seen. Resplendent in your wide-skirted gown, steered around the floor by your chosen partner, you couldn't possibly be taken for a wallflower.
Few of these contrived pairings led to lasting romance; they certainly didn't in my case. They might, however, yield an unexpected quid pro quo. After going with me to a couple of Junior Guild dances, Steve invited me to the Junior-Prom that took place over Christmas vacation.
Bill took me to the formal dance sponsored by the high school newspaper in June of our senior year---a lucky break, inasmuch as I was the editor of The Herald, and staying home was not an option. For the occasion, I received my first orchid corsage. My dress was Empire-style white lace over pale blue, and my date wore a white dinner jacket, de rigeur for the last dance before graduation. I don't recall much else about the evening, not even the names of the other couples at our table.
When next I wore the dress, I was in college and dating a young man whom I thought might be The One. He wasn't, but the dance we went to was a lot more fun than those rigid affairs in the Hotel Roger Smith. Eventually, my mother handed on the blue-and-white-lace number to one of my younger cousins, and it went to Junior Guild dances without me. I started wearing little black cocktail dresses when I went out on semi-formal occasions and never thought of it again.
A few years ago, when I attended my 50th high school reunion, it was just for a moment, to quote Yogi Berra, deja vu all over again: white-clothed tables for eight around a hardwood dance floor, but this time I was alone. Blessedly, not for long. One of my old friends, who served on the reunion committee, had arranged to seat me at her table, along with three other singletons, all of whom had attended one or more Junior Guild dances with me---Ruthie, who had not cared to inflict a crowd of reminiscing strangers on her husband; Ann, who had never married after 18 years in the convent and 20 on the high school faculty; Bobbie, who had lost his wife, our good friend Momo, to breast cancer.
Somewhere between the salad course and her third glass of Pinot Noir, Ruthie turned to me and confided, "You know, I only came to this reunion because it's the 50th. I don't know who most of these people are and don't care; I didn't have a very good time in high school...all that pressure to pair off!" I agreed, adding that I'd had a lot more fun in college.
After dinner, the music got louder and it was harder to carry on a conversation. I was driving a rental car and had had about as much as I felt I could safely drink, so I said my goodnights and left, passing confidently through the throng by all by myself. In my little black dress and fuchsia stole I looked fabulous; everybody said so.
Tight of bodice and voluminous of skirt, the gowns were typically nylon tulle over taffeta in a demure "ballerina" length, strapless, and complemented by a totally useless net stole that would slip off the back of my chair early in the evening, to be trodden by passing dancers and waitresses bearing trays of Cokes.
I wore them with a tortuously boned strapless brassiere, as many crinoline petticoats as I could pile on while still managing to zip up the dress, and old nylon hosiery because the aforementioned petticoats would make short work of good ones. It sounds perverse today to report that I wore a garter belt; I had to---in the Fifties, pantyhose were a fashionable woman's dream that had not yet come true. The height of my heels---silver for fall and winter, white for spring---depended on the height of my dancing partner. Since I was considered tall in my day, I acquired a large collection of cheap formal flats.
One dress was white, one pale yellow, one orchid with silver spangles worked into the net. It was a hand-me-down from my sister, and the net raised red welts along my neckline. My mother made that one, as well as two of my least favorite gowns, a dark green faille that wasn't at all what I had in mind and a red-and-white striped taffeta that made me look like an oversized candy cane.
I inherited my favorite dress from my stylish cousin Barbara, who attended a private girls' school and had cut quite a social swath among the young men at the boys' school nearby. The dress had a cranberry velvet bodice and net skirt over a satin underlay that was peppered with tiny holes. Moths, my mother pronounced, squinting at the fabric; just what she'd expect of the languid Barbara and Auntie Mary, my mother's oldest sister. "Mary always did think she was a 'lady,' "---my forthright mother's sternest criticism---"and she raised her girls to be the same. I'll bet Barbara threw that dress over a chair and left it for someone else to hang up, but the moths got to it first."
I loved the color and the velvet, though, and when, as my mother did, you had two daughters in high school, you took free dance dresses wherever, whenever, and from whomever you could. She spent several evenings hand-sewing the tiny holes with silk thread, and when she was finished, I couldn't see any imperfections through the clouds of net skirt. As Mother often said of her make-do efforts, "A man riding by on horseback couldn't tell the difference."
Nor would anyone else. With my mother's rhinestone earrings and silver mesh bag, I was all set for the fall semi-formal dance of the Junior Guild of St. Agnes. All I needed now was a date.
The Junior Guild was the offshoot, for high-school girls, of a Catholic women's organization (the Guild of St. Agnes) that did good works and raised money for the Sisters of Providence with card parties and dinner-dances. In the 1950s, in a small city, where the church a family attended was no small factor in its community standing, these young matrons---wives of Catholic doctors, lawyers, businessmen---were becoming a social force to rival the WASPish Junior League.
We, of the Junior Guild, were to be groomed as their successors. We were to become in our turn good Catholic wives and mothers, faithful to spouse and church, charitable, community-minded, and socially accomplished.
In the meantime, until we achieved holy matrimony, we were to take as our model St. Agnes, a poster child for chastity and purity. Depending on which edition of The Lives of the Saints you consult, Agnes---which in Greek translates to "lamb" or "pure one"---at the tender age of 12 (or 13 or 14) chose death over dishonor by pagan Romans. In either 254 or 304 A.D., she was (take your pick) beheaded and burned or tortured and stabbed or stabbed in the throat. Her hagiographers are unclear on those details but united in the notion that she preserved her virginity and won a martyr's crown on the 21st of January. The Roman Catholic Church proclaimed her the patron saint of engaged couples, Girl Scouts, and rape victims, the last designation either ignored or overlooked by our parents seeing us off with our sweaty-palmed adolescent swains.
Despite the high-minded intent of the organization, most of us joined the Junior Guild for one reason and one reason only: the fall and spring dances, held by tradition in the Terrace Room of the Hotel Roger Smith, about as elegant a venue as one could find locally in those days. We circled the polished floor from 8 to 11 p.m. to the music of Ed Novak, the moonlighting high school band director, and his small dance combo. The fall dance was always the night after Thanksgiving, the spring event a Friday night in mid-May.
In all respects, save one, the Junior Guild dances were identical to the high school proms: the former were ladies' choice affairs. If you were dating someone on a regular basis---we didn't go steady much in those days---it was a foregone conclusion that the young man would be your escort, and other girls would keep their hands off. If you didn't date much, you began early in the school year to consider the possibilities---the cute guy in French class, the silent type who stared at you in study hall, the least juvenile of the jokers hanging around their lockers before morning home room---hoping for a presentable male with a dark suit and access to a car.
The trophies to be won included a little tasseled dance car, a drying wrist corsage, a stiffly posed photo with the other couples at your table, and the opportunity to act, for a few hours at least, like a grown-up and practice one's party manners. It was all about See and Be Seen. Resplendent in your wide-skirted gown, steered around the floor by your chosen partner, you couldn't possibly be taken for a wallflower.
Few of these contrived pairings led to lasting romance; they certainly didn't in my case. They might, however, yield an unexpected quid pro quo. After going with me to a couple of Junior Guild dances, Steve invited me to the Junior-Prom that took place over Christmas vacation.
Bill took me to the formal dance sponsored by the high school newspaper in June of our senior year---a lucky break, inasmuch as I was the editor of The Herald, and staying home was not an option. For the occasion, I received my first orchid corsage. My dress was Empire-style white lace over pale blue, and my date wore a white dinner jacket, de rigeur for the last dance before graduation. I don't recall much else about the evening, not even the names of the other couples at our table.
When next I wore the dress, I was in college and dating a young man whom I thought might be The One. He wasn't, but the dance we went to was a lot more fun than those rigid affairs in the Hotel Roger Smith. Eventually, my mother handed on the blue-and-white-lace number to one of my younger cousins, and it went to Junior Guild dances without me. I started wearing little black cocktail dresses when I went out on semi-formal occasions and never thought of it again.
A few years ago, when I attended my 50th high school reunion, it was just for a moment, to quote Yogi Berra, deja vu all over again: white-clothed tables for eight around a hardwood dance floor, but this time I was alone. Blessedly, not for long. One of my old friends, who served on the reunion committee, had arranged to seat me at her table, along with three other singletons, all of whom had attended one or more Junior Guild dances with me---Ruthie, who had not cared to inflict a crowd of reminiscing strangers on her husband; Ann, who had never married after 18 years in the convent and 20 on the high school faculty; Bobbie, who had lost his wife, our good friend Momo, to breast cancer.
Somewhere between the salad course and her third glass of Pinot Noir, Ruthie turned to me and confided, "You know, I only came to this reunion because it's the 50th. I don't know who most of these people are and don't care; I didn't have a very good time in high school...all that pressure to pair off!" I agreed, adding that I'd had a lot more fun in college.
After dinner, the music got louder and it was harder to carry on a conversation. I was driving a rental car and had had about as much as I felt I could safely drink, so I said my goodnights and left, passing confidently through the throng by all by myself. In my little black dress and fuchsia stole I looked fabulous; everybody said so.
No comments:
Post a Comment