Welcome Bjorn, my friend. Welcome to insidemilwaukee and the community blogger section. I hope your smiling face is posted near condomania. I’m just saying that this old lady could use a little help fashion-wise. Raised in a rural Iowa community (pop. 1,000), in my long-gone youth I had a whole rack of taffeta ribbons, a few dresses, and a pair of shoes for school, and another pair for church going. My sister, 13 months younger, got to wear what I outgrew, but she never got around to wearing my tap dance costume made of feed sacks stamped with chickens. I loved that outfit, as it meant I got to ride my bike up the hill and take tap lessons with what must have been a very patient lady.
So Bjorn, you’re going to focus on Farm-Boy fashions? I like that idea, but I can hardly picture you in overalls, at least not the type worn by L’il Abner farm boys who wooed me on Saturday nights when everyone, but everyone, gathered in our town square. Some of the guys wore billed John Deere caps, but I don’t recall any of them wearing a snappy fedora. Those toppers were saved for funerals when a man was buried in his good black suit, the same one (perhaps) he wore for his wedding. Assuming, of course, that the undertaker could get it buttoned.
Not to step on your column, Bjorn, but it was a real thrill to open a catalog and actually get mom and dad to order something forbidden, like the green ankle-strap wedgies that came in a box especially for me. I still dream about those shoes, as they signaled I had moved into the realm of young adulthood. As I entered my high school years, I had to have, just had to have, a red! strapless formal gown for a dance, my first dance with my first beau. Mom drove to a nearby berg and there was the dress of my dreams. It fit, so we took it home for dad’s “approval.” Then we returned it and I ended up with a lime green gown with cap sleeves and a peter-pan collar. I complained and sobbed, and, in the end, dad told me that I couldn’t go to the dance. Sassing wasn’t allowed in our home. While others danced the night away, I went to bed with a peanut butter sandwich.
But I got even when I was 16 and we lived in Kansas City. I was ready, was I ever, for a strapless red dress held together with a Merry Widow and a lot of luck. I wore it to a dance, but by then, everyone was wearing strapless stuff. The thrill was gone.
I look forward to reading what you have to say. Welcome to my side of the white picket fence.
