We all got comfortable, way too comfortable over the last couple of years.
It wasn’t our fault because most of us were home … all the time. There was little need to get dressed up; matter of fact, there was little need to even get fully dressed everyday. Somehow, pajama bottoms and workout attire became the uniform of the day, but even before March 2020 dealt the world a cruel blow, we were not the best-dressed specimens going anywhere or doing anything. Not like years ago.
Back when I was little, my mother did not own a pair of slacks. Not one. She dressed in a skirt or suit with matching shoes and gloves to go grocery shopping! Heaven forbid that she would own jeans, back then known as “dungarees.” Even the sound of the word seemed undignified. The only people who wore dungarees were the janitors at my grammar school.
There was no dress code for school back then because one wasn’t needed. There simply was only one way to dress for school. Girls all wore jumpers with blouses or dresses or poodle skirts and sweaters. Shoes were saddle shoes or Mary Janes or loafers worn with either little ankle socks with a ruffle at the top or heavy cotton bobby socks. Sneakers were not allowed except during gym class. The boys all seemed to dress as though there were a uniform: corduroy pants, striped long-sleeved shirts, and either loafers or leather tie shoes worn with white socks. On school picture day, which happened annually, we stepped it up a notch. Most of the girls wore Sunday-best dresses with Mary Janes while the boys wore a shirt and tie.
“Penny loafers” became all the rage in the ’50s, and I begged for a pair of “Weejuns.” Made by shoemaker John Bass (think Bass Shoes), they had a split strap across the top to which it became the “in” thing to add a penny on each shoe. That had been common practice when penny loafers were first introduced in the 1930s before any of the kids in my class were born. Adding a penny served a functional purpose back then because, in addition to decorating the shoe, a phone call made from a pay telephone at that time cost just two cents; therefore, having a penny in each shoe gave the wearer a kind of safety net in case of an emergency.
Patent-leather Mary Janes were really popular, just perfect to match with a frilly dress for a friend’s birthday party, but there was a caveat that came with wearing them, especially if you were Catholic. My best friend, Elaine, lived directly across the street from me and went to a parochial school. I was always intrigued to hear her stories and often helped her with the endless memorization of questions and answers that were part of her required catechism. When it came to dressing up, however, her mother was adamant about not buying her patent-leather shoes. Glossy black and sometimes white, they were a standard part of the wardrobe in the ’50s and ’60s, but the nuns and priests at Elaine’s school had warned the girls away from patent leather, telling them the glossy surface of the shoes would reflect up their skirt or dress, showing their underwear. Whether folklore, an old wives’ tale, or the truth, I was glad I was not Catholic and sometimes loaned Elaine my shoes, since we wore the same size. She would dutifully wear her saddle shoes upon leaving her house, then change at the party. One day she forgot to change back, and we both got in trouble. “But I’m not Catholic,” I wailed as Elaine’s mother gave me a spanking as well. That’s when I first learned what “accessory after the fact” meant.
Just the term dressing “up” has lost its cachet today. Everyone knows about dressing down. They even sponsor “Dress Down Days” in banks and offices to help supplement the coffers of a charity. Still, there’s something about those long-ago days of dressing for school that made you pay more attention and made you learn better because you looked better. And there was something about seeing who had the fluffiest crinoline and the fanciest dress at a birthday party that made you careful not to spill anything on the ruffles. It was what made dressing “up” part of living “up” to standards and rising “up” to an occasion.
That was special.
Rona Mann has been a freelance writer for The Sun for 20 years, including her “In Their Shoes” features. She can be reached at six07co@att.net or 401-539-7762.
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