Since you remarked on seeing me in the same outfit at the last garden lecture, may I explain? I buy beautiful clothes and never wear them. They hang in my closet. Occasionally, I run my fingers over the fabrics and remember how good I looked in them when I tried them on. I’m not going to wear them. Ever.
Why do I do this?
When I was 10 my father’s construction business was doing so well we were able to move from a poorly constructed four-room home on Minnesota’s prairie to a large, solidly built home in Kasota, Minnesota. On the drive to our new home, I saw limestone bluffs rise above the Minnesota River Valley, a jaw-dropping site compared to the miles of flat prairie we’d just left. I saw that limestone everywhere: abutments that supported railroads, the post office in Mankato, banks and schools, including my new school. All were made of limestone – all Kasota stone.
Never heard of Kasota stone? Ever heard of the Philadelphia Museum of Art? Or the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian? That beautiful buff limestone, the color of Cedar Waxwing breasts, which encases those buildings? That’s Kasota Stone.
I’m telling you this because the three-story house we moved to rose from a foundation of Kasota stone. It was built by one of the early partners in the Kasota Quarry, Tyrrell Wilcox. It was a grand home. Long before Kasota stone became popular with architects, I swam in the spring-fed Kasota quarries. I pressed my cheek next to cool slabs of Kasota stone on a hot Minnesota day and pronounced that stone the most beautiful of things. Being Lutheran, I was given to pronouncements, but mainly about Catholics.
That house made me love beautiful things. Things of quality.
But back to that silk jacket hanging in my closet. When I say this house was grand, I mean this: two large verandas roofed in copper, carved oak columns in the entryway, oak paneling in many rooms, a 6-foot marble fireplace in the library, four large bedrooms on the second floor, three small bedrooms on the third floor to house the domestic staff. The bedroom I shared with my sister had two steps up to an outdoor balcony. The top step lifted and was a laundry shoot. Dirty clothes were chucked down to a waiting maid in the laundry room.
That kind of grand.
One night, my dad didn’t show up for dinner. That was not unusual, but after several nights we worried. After several weeks we cried, and after several months the IRS put a lien on our grand house. You can’t blame the IRS man for wanting to recoup some of the back taxes my dad left behind. The IRS knows the value of a grand thing too.
The IRS had already satisfied some of my father’s debt by taking the other house we owned, next door to ours. My father was doing so well in business that he bought it shortly after we moved to Kasota. The two families, their kids and the rent that enriched our lives were now gone. It was a slightly less grand house, built for Mr. Babcock, another partner in the Kasota Quarry.
My mother, whose resourcefulness is second only to Scarlett O’Hara, ripped down the drapes and fashioned herself a gown, metaphorically. She found and worked two jobs. Five children, little income and no end in sight. I don’t know how she did it, but she hung on to our grand house.
But everything fell apart.
A leaky pipe caused the plaster to fall from the library ceiling. The massive oak front door, its beveled glass kicked in during one of my father’s drunken rages, rotted.
And it broke my heart. All of it.
I got a job. I gave my mother my paycheck. I babysat my brothers and sister while my mom worked nights. I did what I could.
Now, I like to open my closet every so often and see those beautiful things, and see that they’re still there. Untouched. Unworn. Preserved in that perfect state of beauty.
So, “no,” I won’t be wearing any of those beautiful clothes that hang in my closet. I’ll be wearing the same thing you see me in today, since you asked. But I’m making some headway. Last week I unwrapped a silk scarf I’ve kept sealed in tissue paper for 28 years. And I wore it.