This lovely print and trim is from a hatbox. It has been moldering and attracting dust bunnies in the back of my closet for…at least thirteen (OMFG!) years.
I held on to it for so long because I liked the memory of climbing into my grandmother’s attic on a warm autumn day; free because of a college Fall Break. The afternoon light through the dusty attic windows was golden and the whole afternoon was unscheduled. I pulled the hatboxes down to the first floor and stacked them in my grandmother’s kitchen. We drank tea and ate cottage cheese while sorting the hats and the boxes too beautiful to toss. She told me about the collection, some of which had come to her from her mother, some from spinster aunts and favorite friends. We laughed at whose head was tiny (and spirit large) and discussed events the ladies felt required not only an ensemble, but a trip to “town” or “the city” to find a dress and topper worthy of a special occasion.
I still feel the irony of receiving these special jeweled, feathered, beribboned articles, while lounging about in a sweatpants and a t-shirt.
Today, I can look at the image of the boxes’ print and feel privileged to be comfortable chosing my own mode of dress. My grandmother would laugh to think I can take a picture of each item and pass that along, instead of putting the past in a dim, unused spot.
Here’s to tossing the box and keeping the story.
Δ