Travel Wardrobe

Spring weather has finally arrived and it's time to start looking forward to our summer travels. This year we are taking a spontaneous trip to the Netherlands to visit J's extended family and childhood friends, in honor of his aunt's birthday. (I won't say how old she is, because J's mom will be the next in her family to reach this milestone. But it's a big one).

The first time I visited my husband's native country I was a new bride on my first-ever trip to Europe. The year was 1992. My wardrobe included tapered black jeans, baggy sweatshirts, white leather sneakers, and a puffy winter coat to brave the icy winds off the North Sea. Photographic evidence suggests that on the night of the family party I dressed up in a red wool sweater (size XL, no doubt) and a pair of pleated khakis, plus Birkenstocks. I remember feeling very much the odd girl out among J's stylish, sylph-like cousines, who laughed over their discovery that the American word for braid (as in "French braid") resembled the Dutch word for "fat." Ha... ha?

My next visit to the Netherlands was altogether different. By August of 1998 I had been living abroad for several years. I had learned three new languages and my colloquial Dutch had improved to the point where I could follow a conversation. Alas, my wardrobe had not improved at all. Although I don't recall a single item of clothing I wore on that particular trip, I know that my closet at the time contained elastic-waist knit pants and bleached jeans, shapeless jumpers, and a lot of Habitat for Humanity t-shirts in size XL. Oh, plus Birkenstocks.

Our upcoming trip is our longest visit yet, and the challenge will be to pack all of the necessisities in a carry-on bag. In addition to family gatherings there will be bicycle rides, museum visits, and meals with friends. If spring in the Netherlands is anything like spring in Oregon, I will need to be able to layer up for warmth and wet weather.

I'm already ahead of the curve this time, a grown woman with a wardrobe of clothing that both fits and flatters me. Dark jeans: check. Cardigan: check. Cute summer dress: check. Birkenstocks: nope -- I don't own a single pair.

Mothers & the Archives

Having just typed the last edits into my last project of the semester, I am suddenly  free of obligations for the moment. Of course, the apartment needs to be cleaned, and I have meetings to plan for...but I feel like completing my first year of graduate school merits a few minutes of unrepentant reflection. I thought I would share a story from work earlier this week. It was one of those moments that reminded my why I'm in graduate school, why I want to be an archivist, and how sometimes it only takes a little effort to make a stranger's day brighter.

On Monday morning, I was on the reference desk, as I typically am. It was a slightly busy, but not overwhelming morning. I was beginning to feel the cold that hit me later in the week, but the sun was shining and it definitely felt like spring. A woman, who I might estimate to be in her 60s (though I am notoriously bad at estimating age), approached the desk in the tentative manner of a first-time visitor. She started to tell me what records she was interested in seeing, and while she was talking, her eyes began to tear. I opened my mouth to ask if she was okay, and she said she was sorry-- her mother had been a member of the group whose records she was requesting....and her mother had died last month. I know how this lady felt. I have stood in her shoes many times-- trying to complete a routine task, being reminded of my mother, and turning into a quivering mess of tears in front of a stranger. 

I told her it was okay and that I understood because I too had lost a mother a long time ago. This is a personal detail I would never usually share behind the reference desk, and am sure that I have not even told my colleagues at work. I think sometimes, though, we have to be generous with our grief if it will allow us to connect with another person. I managed to determine which records she wanted to see, she was hoping to find traces of her mothers name in the group's activities. A few minutes after she started reviewing the first carton, she came out of the reading room to get me. What she showed me were minutes taken at a group meeting in the 1950s-- they were written in her mother's handwriting. It was such an unexpected find, and she was both excited and teary. I made a photocopy of the minutes for her to take to her mother's memorial service. She told me that her mother had Alzheimer's for the last ten years of her life. Now that her mother was gone, she was hoping to become re-acquainted with the brilliant woman she knew that her mother once was. She will be back during the summer to look for more evidence of her mother in the records.

I thoroughly enjoy my job, and it is rewarding to be able to help researchers on a daily basis. But the experience I had on Monday morning was different. It was a reminder that the records archivists so carefully arrange and preserve are not just historical documents, but they are records of individual lives. Maybe I am overly sentimental, but there was something magical about this lady finding her mother's handwriting in a carton at the archives. Traces of our loved ones are everywhere, even at the archives.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day, a day I will studiously avoid by going to meetings, cleaning the apartment, and grocery shopping. But, when the strands of my heart begin to tighten, as they inevitably will, I can remember that my mother is much closer than she seems. I can also remember the lady I met on Monday morning, who will celebrate her first Mother's Day without her mother. But, perhaps her pain will be tempered by reading the words her mother wrote a lifetime ago.

Alterations

I just spent half an hour altering the sleeves on my husband's bathrobe.

We bought this robe for him during the holiday sales, to replace one he had inherited from me several years ago. The average consumer might not realize that men's bathrobes tend to be vast, one-size-fits-all garments that most decidedly do NOT fit a 38 regular. To be fair, I would guess that the larger end of the spectrum is similarly marginalized. This microfiber robe was the best fit we could find for him without spending more than $50 on a bathrobe. Or picking another one from the women's department. (I would not have hesitated, but they were all pink or red and/or leopard print this past year).

From the time of the purchase, my husband has politely asked if I could alter the voluminous sleeves of this robe. Since he usually asks while he's making my morning latte I know that the sleeves wreak havoc, getting caught on cabinet knobs and sweeping small spoons off the kitchen counter.

It's not as if I am a stranger to alterations. I have sewn countless garments for myself and others, and have lengthened (or shortened) my fair share of hems. But I have dragged my feet for months; it's sort of a "stirring the peanut butter" thing for me. I knew it would be messy because of the fuzzy fibers. I worried that I would make a mistake, and somehow ruin this inexpensive, ill-fitting bathrobe.

He asked again this past Saturday, so today I cleared off the sewing table and sat down to do it. It was messy, that's for sure; I felt like I was doing surgery on a teddy bear. I had to drag out the vacuum cleaner -- for the second time in a week! -- to clean up the fibers. And it isn't perfect. The fabric was so bulky it messed up the tension on the sewing machine, and I could point out the loose stitches if you wanted to see them.

But he won't notice them. He might not even realize that the deed is done until next Saturday, when those sleeves don't get in the way of our coffee.