Morticia’s Little Sister
Many years ago I owned a 1940s black lace frock with a swirly skirt perfect for dancing. It fitted me exactly. For some reason unbeknownst to man (or woman, namely: me), I culled it from my wardrobe. Ever since I came to my senses, I have been trying to find a replacement.
Dresses of that vintage aren’t easy to come by, especially relatively inexpensive, well-fitting ones. I would periodically trawl online vintage boutiques without much luck. Then this past March in Rosebud, a little Victorian seaside town, I visited a vintage store called Broadway Bazaar.
Hanging high on a wall, I espied what was surely a 1930s black lace dress. I asked to have it taken down, and tried it on. There were a few damaged areas where the lace netting was torn, and I discussed with my sister Blossom how best to repair them.
But then we discovered another catch. Several catches actually. The salesgirls on duty that day did not know the price, and the owner of that particular stall was not in, and couldn’t be reached. We agreed they would hold the dress for me, since I was on the Peninsula for the weekend, and they would let me know the outcome as soon as possible. The salesgirl bundled up the fragile dress and placed it on the floor behind the counter, which nearly drew forth a horrified burst of protest from me. (That’s my dress you’re manhandling there!) I barely managed to contain my emotions and tottered away.
The salesgirl bundled up the fragile dress and placed it on the floor behind the counter …
My three sisters and I continued to browse the store, and before we left I learned that the owner had returned the call. But she couldn’t name her price, and wasn’t sure she wanted to sell the dress. “But … but …” I wanted to stammer, “why on earth had she hung the dress up in full tempting view of potential buyers?!” The salesgirl perceived my speechless astonishment and prevaricated.
Some time later she returned and informed me that the owner had been talked into selling the dress, for she’d had it on display (fading in the sunlight) for several months and she should grab this opportunity. She had named her price, and had been further convinced she should slash it in half (the price, that is – the dress was already in tatters). “Done!” I declared, and rescued it from the floor.
Lace netting is torn along the neckline, and in several areas around the hipsIt transpired that we had to return to the bazaar the next day to make an additional rescue: my black onyx bangle had been left behind. Chatting to the salesgirl – a different one this time – we chanced to discover she was the prior owner of my new acquisition. She told me she had been so torn over the decision to sell it because she had hoped to lose enough weight to fit into it one day. (It fits me now, I wanted to reassure her it was going to a good home, but I didn’t want to rub salt in the wound.)
Blossom and I hurried away, before she could wrest it back from me – not that I was carrying it with me this time, but she could have chased us down to the car and rampaged through my luggage to find it. Who knows with these deranged and desperate vintage dealers.
A rare find, a black lace dress – especially of 1930s vintage – is an icon amongst black dresses …
And now, how to explain how after all I’ve said against black, here I am showing off yet another black garment? It is partly nostalgia for that long-ago lace dress I once owned, but it is special in itself – despite its flaws. A rare find, a black lace dress – especially of 1930s vintage – is an icon amongst black dresses, even if it is a Long Black Dress rather than a Little one.
It is, I think, made entirely from silk, and with such lovely details: pintucked panels between the lace sections, blouson sleeves, and a gorgeous mermaid hem that swirls when I twirl. It’s made for dancing, even if at present I feel like Morticia’s little sister dressed in cobwebs. But one day I shall take it to the ball.