When my maternal grandmother, Lovell DeWitt Rowles (pictured above with my grandfather Emil Rowles), died in 2005, I wrote a fashion column on the lessons she taught me about style and dressing with love. As I continue to write about fashion and style, I feel her spirit is with me, always.
Happy Mother's Day to all mothers of the flesh and the heart. You are special.
Celebrating a Fashionable Role Model
By Joy Sewing
Houston Chronicle Copyright 2005
Grandmothers often have a way with fashion.
Mine surely
did. She weathered good and bad trends, passing up the unflattering
polyester pants of the '60s and dancing into the '80s with stirrup pants
and leg warmers.
She wanted to be Tina Turner
in a hot miniskirt and boots, but those styles were hard to find for a
full-figured woman. She was attracted to the styles of younger
generations. When I fell into the preppy look in high school, my
grandmother donned penny loafers and cardigans, too. She believed staying young at heart meant keeping up with fashion trends.
When Lovell Rowles died last week at age 95, I wanted to cry so badly, but I didn't.
Instead, I remembered the times as a child when I thought she was the most fashionable woman on the planet next to my mother.
My
brother and I spent summers at my grandparents' Missouri farm. When I
heard my grandmother awaken to the sound of roosters crowing, I jumped
out of bed, afraid I would miss something. I helped her get
dressed for our shopping trips into town. I inhaled the smell of old
perfume and talcum powder every time I helped zip her dress. She didn't
have a favorite scent because she rarely bought perfume. Mostly, she
wore what was given to her for Mother's Day.
Shopping with my
grandmother was exciting, and it was my basic training. She maneuvered
the car across the country roads, rocks springing against the car's
frame underneath. The dust trail we left behind always made it seem like
we were going somewhere fast.
We shopped for hours at the store,
searching for clothes and other things. I would pick out pretty flower
dresses and insist she try them on. She always did. It was fun to watch
her pose in the mirror, changing angles to see how the dress fit her
frame. Even today, I catch myself switching back and forth in a dressing
room mirror as she did.
When my grandmother took a job at a
children's shoe factory, I learned how many shoes were available for a
young fashionista like me. She sent my brother and me boxes of shoes
that none of our friends could get in Houston. We had shoes for nearly
every occasion. My favorite were a pair of white vinyl knee-high go-go
boots, like the ones Tina Turner wore. I danced in them for hours.
My
grandmother was the only woman I knew who could sew, knit, crochet,
weave, make delicious pies from scratch and wear a church hat with
attitude.
During the last few years of her life, shopping became
more difficult. Glaucoma robbed her of much of her eyesight. When she
yearned to see what she couldn't, I became her eyes. I pushed her
wheelchair, stopping at dresses I thought she'd like. She touched the
fabric while I described the style and color. She always seemed pleased
to have a new dress, but I could tell it wasn't the same.
For her birthday last month, my mother and I went shopping without her and bought my grandmother a beautiful pink suit. For the first time, she was too tired to wear it. She simply touched the fabric and said, "Thank you."