FOR MOST OF THE CENTURY: SCHOOL DRESSES

Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

There was another sound, not exclusively a country sound, but very sweet to the ears of three little girls, and that was Mama's sewing machine.

The younger children in a family wore the hand-me-downs unless they were hopelessly worn out. Mama was clever enough to redecorate them in some way or make combinations of two or more garments into one to make them seem new and different.

One particular garment of hard-twist black and white shepherd checked wool had been a full dress at first when Lillian had it. It was a jumper when Lou inherited it, worn with a dark red blouse. By the time I got it, it was a pleated skirt. "It sure pays to get good material," Mama would say from time to time and there was a tinge of sadness in her voice denoting, perhaps, that she was not always able to buy the best. However, our clothes were of durable material-- gingham, Indian head linen, serge, organdy, or, later on, rayon and ratine.

The first experience any of us ever had with a money-back guarantee was with green ratine. Ratine was a loosely woven cloth with a nubby texture. Lillian had a dress of the material. The green faded to an ugly color. To revive it and change the color, we attempted to follow the instructions on the box of Rit, a dye. The instructions were to dip the material into boiling water to which the Rit bleach had been added, then stir until the material became white. Then repeat the process only, instead of the bleach added to the boiling water, the Rit color you had chosen which, in this case was a lovely pink, according to the described hue on the little box.

We did just that and it came out a color that has never been seen before or since. Ugly!

Wondering about the money-back guarantee, we sent the dress to the Rit Company to show them what had happened. Back came the loveliest pink dress we'd ever seen.

"Well, I swan!" Mama said.

White middy blouses were the style then. These had large sailor collars with navy blue stars in the back corners and navy blue soutache braid outlining a border. Worn with a navy pleated skirt and long red tie, it was almost a uniform in the 1920s.

While her three daughters were still rather shapeless, Mama needed no patterns. We'd pick a dress we liked in the Sears Roebuck catalog and Mama could duplicate it.

Once, some avant-guarde fashion designer bravely departed from the age old button-down-the-front styled dresses to button-down-the side. I was proud to be the first to flaunt this style among my peers at Loughboro. The skirt was of orange and white checked gingham, the top of white Indian head linen, both remnants. Collar and cuffs were of the checked material, the collar not opening in the front as usual but where this new side opening reached the shoulder. I felt like a butterfly when I floated off to school in that dress.

I was wearing that dress when one of the Loughboro school boys decided to call me "his girl."

It was the custom on pretty warm days to take our lunch pails or boxes outside, find a comfortable place to sit with some friends, in the shade of a tree, and proceed to eat. To my immense surprise, and a little embarrassment, Delbert McFarland detached himself from the group of boys and came over to sit beside me. Merciless was the ensuing teasing Delbert received to which he calmly replied that he guessed he could sit by "his girl" and eat lunch if he wanted to. This was such a surprise to me I must have blushed as red as the comb on one of our white Leghorns.

A navy blue bengaline, with gathered panels at the side waist, set Lou aside as a fashion leader. Dark red picoted ribbons about a half inch wide were tied over the gathered panels at the waist, with a bow in the middle. Short streamers were allowed to flutter in the breeze if there was any.

Except for the green-then-pink ratine, Lillian's most memorable dress was of yellow and orange organdy with loose, gathered, lace-edged panels about eight inches wide hanging all around the waist as a sort of overskirt.

Then we learned to cross-stitch on checked gingham. Lou and I picked and sold enough dewberries to buy small black and white checked gingham yardage. Using the checks as one would a stamped pattern, we cross-stitched borders of red rabbits and deer around the top of the hem, following directions from some embroidery thread company. It was a departure from the mundane.

Someone, somewhere, discovered that the ultra crisp organdy could be cut into a petal shape which, with moistened fingers could be rolled up around the edge to make a pretty petal. Several of these petals, in graduated sizes, could be tacked together at the middle and result in a very handsome flower. Such an outbreak of organdy dresses! It was epidemic! Mine was the then new color, aqua blue. Some, being complimentary, said the dress made my eyes seem even bluer. I was glad they could even see my eyes for they are small. But I still see everything I look at for fear I might miss some precious conversation that started with the carbide light.

Mama's sister, Minnie, had migrated to California and set up a milliner's shop. She made hats for some of the movie stars, particularly Marion Davies.

Being in such a business, Aunt Minnie accumulated lengths of ribbons she could not use. Scraps. Yet some might be a yard long. These scraps she went to us. Plaid, checked and plain, taffeta, picoted satin, gross grain -- oh, they were treasures. Some were embroidered with tiny roses, violets, and lilies of the valley. It was the day of the bow-clasped ribbons worn atop the head or at the nape of the neck if your hair was long. We were rich in ribbons, as rich as Hollywood stars.

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.