for Janet Kaye Schoeberlein, March 26, 1930-Dec. 28, 2021
When I was fourteen, Jan gave me her flannel nightgowns,
the long white ones with tiny blue flowers
that I had admired on her for years.
When I wore them, I wore
the classical music always playing
in the background in her home.
I wore the high tilting treble of her voice
as she sang around the campfire.
I wore her world class hiccups that always
seemed to arrive when she didn’t approve
of what was about to happen.
I wore desert river adventures
and trips to the theater downtown
and dinners with foods I’d never tried before.
And though I didn’t know it then,
I wore the past of her childhood in Germany,
and her memory of how she graduated law school
as the only woman in her class.
I wore her willingness to raise her young nephew
and her joy in raising her daughter
and the way she always said my name
as if I were a south American flower.
Those nightgowns, I took their shape,
loved the way their soft cloth swirled
around my body, wrapping me in eccentricity.
I still wear the other hand me downs she gave me—
Curiosity. Independence. Individuality.
Because she was so herself,
she taught me I could trust myself to be me.
She was the queen of oddness,
a model of uniqueness,
an archetype of being true.
To this day I feel these qualities
swirl around me, too—
the comfort of her integrity
the warmth of her generosity,
the way Jan was so very, very Jan.
Love this one. And isn’t that how it goes? When we try on something worn by someone else, we try on that person, too—as if the garment was the person. Thing is, I think there’s more truth to that notion than we think.
It feels so true. I remember a poem Ann Sexton wrote about wearing Sylvia Plath’s jacket after she died, and it began something like, “Shall I say how it is in your clothes … ” the cloth carries so much.
I once went to an interview with two elderly brothers who were closing down the last textile manufacturing company in our part of Ohio. They were looking for a freelancer to write a history of their company, a book complete with fashion photos across many decades. I quickly learned it was to be a business-oriented book, an historic lesson in how to run a company. They were annoyed by my questions about the human interest side of things, the very things I thought would make the book come alive. “They’re just…. clothes” said one of them with exasperation. I had just spent the last few weeks with my siblings closing up our parents’ home. I folded the dark blue cardigan my mother wore every day, elbows mended so thickly they looked like injuries. I went through the dresses and purses she saved for “best” although that best rarely arrived. I went through things my dad had worn since college, suspenders holding up those too-large pants under his jacket. Clothes hold the bodies of people we love. Clothes are witness to our triumphs as well as our worst moments, and everything in-between. I understand the impulse to save a loved ones’ garment on a hangar in the back of the closet, to turn dresses into quilts, to make a teddy bear out of grandpa’s flannel shirt. I’m glad this lively quirky mentor of yours gave you her nightgowns so full of who she was, handed not down but up to the one person who cherished what they meant.
WONDERFUL POEM, and GREAT RESPONSE from Weldon. I feel richer for both!!
I loved her response, too! So true that our loved ones’ clothes hold such profound memories …
I love this story–thank you for sharing it. Love the image of your mom’s cardigan. And love the way you honor Jan and all that it meant to me when she gave me those nightgowns.
This is how we honour our ancestors, keep the best of them going forward with us, how they continue to live on. xoxo
so beautifully said–it is so easy for me to see the best of her, makes me want to be the best me.
Wonderful!
Thank you, Sherry
Perhaps truth and trust go hand in hand. The lesson of trust, whether conveyed in flannel or on a wave of hiccups, when taken to self seems to me to be the best gift of all.
I have been thinking of truth and trust and how they both come from the proto Germanic meaning “having good faith,” which likely comes from the proto-Indoeuropean root for tree, ie, steadfast as an oak. something solid, something that grows. and yes. Trust, perhaps the greatest gift of all.