Requiem for a wedding gown

Fifty-nine years ago today, my parents got married. In four weeks, it will be my turn. The wedding will be pretty low-key, but I've put a lot of thought into the dress. This is the beginning of its story.

As a young lass, when I imagined my wedding, I always pictured myself wearing Aged P's dress. It's a dream couture gown: heavy cream silk, very classic style, close-fitting bodice, long full skirt. Train. Portrait neckline. Custom-fit self-bustier. My great-uncle Arthur Banks was a British designer and would occasionally be brought to Canada by some of the department stores; on one of his trips to Toronto he told my mother that when she got married, he'd design her dress. She didn't really take him seriously, but sure enough when she announced her engagement, he told her to send him her measurements. A week before the wedding, it arrived, which just goes to show that getting things done at the last minute is a family trait.

When I announced my engagement, Aged P and I went to look at her dress. It's been in the box for nearly sixty years and I was a little worried it wouldn't be in good condition, but it looked fabulous. Seeing it up close for the first time, there were details I didn't know about. The waist is a thing of beauty, with this amazing seaming.

And they gave my mother something blue.

But as much as I love this dress, I can't wear it. For one thing, I don't even begin to fill out that bodice. For another, I am marrying the Dapper Cyclist and well, you just can't bike in this dress. For a third, my ideal wedding, and therefore my ideal wedding dress, has changed a lot since I was a girl. And frankly, it's a nightmare to get into or out of.

But I hated to let the dream die.

There's an awful lot of fabric in that skirt. I'm going to use it to make my dress. So I am going to wearing a part of my mother's dress after all.

Something old, something new.