When I was growing up, Easter was always a special holiday around our house. Maybe it was because spring was in the air, or perhaps it was the deeper meaning of the day, but there was always a special anticipation of that particular Sunday. About a month or so before, my Mom and I would go to the fabric store and pick out the pattern for my Easter dress. There we would sit at the big round table with all the other homemaker moms. I could barely lift the over sized pattern books over to my side of the table but I somehow seemed to manage. I hoisted over Butterick's, McCall's, Simplicity, and the best of them all...Vogue. There we would sit for what seemed like forever, turning the pages, patiently looking for that one special dress. Once the decision was made I loved going to the big file drawers and searching for the pattern number, always fearing that someone before us would have gotten the last one if it's kind and we would have to settle for second choice. Next came the fabric, bolts and bolts of colors and patterns and textures to choose from. I'm sure that Mom (who I found out later in life, wanted to be a fashion designer) steered me to the appropriate choice, but she always managed to make it seem like all the decisions were made by me. I couldn't wait to get home and marvel at how the thin pieces of parchment colored paper would end up becoming my favorite dress of that year. Looking back,
I wonder if Mom knew what wonderful memories she was helping to create.