This episode is dedicated to my husband, Tony, on our 15th wedding anniversary.

Things with Wings Productions presents: The Skylark Bell, Fantome Friday.  I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

This Fantome Friday special episode, The Wedding Dress, allows the dress itself to tell you her story as she is passed down through the decades. Be sure to listen all the way through for a new song by Cannelle, also titled The Wedding Dress, composed exclusively for this episode (http://www.cannellemusic.com)

Find all information about Amy's podcasts, Collected Sounds and Volsteadland, here: http://www.blog.collectedsounds.com/welcome/

Music: Nightbridge and The Wedding Dress by Cannelle (www.cannellemusic.com)

Find The Skylark Bell online: www.theyskylarkbell.com

Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Twitter: @melissaoliveri

Patreon: www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings Productions presents: The Skylark Bell, Fantome Friday.  I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

This Fantome Friday special episode, The Wedding Dress, allows the dress itself to tell you her story as she is passed down through the decades. I was inspired to write this as my husband and I recently celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. 

Before I begin, I’d like to let you know about my friend Amy. She is the one who planted the seed for this podcast and helped me learn the ropes. Her podcasts Collected Sounds and Volsteadland are both fantastic, and she offers podcast production services to people who are looking to start their own podcast. The last episode of season 1 of Volsteadland, which traces the history of infamous Minneapolis mobster Kid Cann, is out now. If you recall, I had an encounter with the long-departed Kid Cann which I recounted in my fantome Friday episode called The Bootlegers.  Check the episode description for links to A my’s podcasts.

Now, it’s time to get settled in. Grab a blanket, a warm drink, and let’s get started… 

I remember all my parts. I remember when I was a bolt of lace, a bolt of satin, a drawstring bag of pearls, a string of elastic, a spool of thread... I remember how it felt when the woman brought all my parts together and began to cut and stitch. I remember how dedicated she was, how much love she poured into her craft; her steady hand cutting into the fabric, her foot pumping the pedal of the now antique sewing machine. I remember how she pinned my cutout parts on the dress form, stepping back to evaluate her work. Then at the end when she hand-sewed the pearls to my bodice and the satin-covered buttons in a row down my back. 

I started out as satin, pearls, and thread, and I became a wedding dress. 

I remember the look of satisfaction on her face when, at last, her work was done. 

Then came the girl.

Her eyes lit up when she saw me. We became fast friends. With only minor adjustments she donned me on her wedding day. She carried carnations, the soft apricot coloured kind, sprinkled with baby’s breath. My train trailed behind her down the aisle, sweeping up the rose petals that had been dropped by a pair of flower girls in matching baby blue dresses.

After the wedding I was lovingly wrapped in tissue paper and put away in a fancy box. At first, I listened in on their lives... family gatherings, laughter, tears, the arrival of first a dog, then children. After a while I tuned out, giving in to the feeling of loneliness and abandonment that had been nagging at me for some time.

Finally, one day, I felt the box move. I waited, perfectly still, as the lid of the box was slowly lifted off, and the tissue paper carefully peeled back. There, peeking down at me, was a young woman with long dark hair. I recognized her right away, she looked very much like her mother. She gingerly lifted me out of the box and held me up. Next to her stood her mother. She looked much different than her wedding day. Strands of silver decorated her hair, and the corners of her eyes creased when she smiled, but she was just as beautiful as the last time we were together. 

I was carted off to the seamstress. My sleeves were removed, and my neckline lowered. A few of my missing pearls were replaced, and my hem was shorted so it would no longer trail on the ground when the bride walked the aisle. When the big day came, the girl had her long dark hair pinned up in a fancy twist, and she carried white and pink lilies. A long lace veil trailed down her back, laying delicately against my row of satin-covered buttons. Once the wedding was over, back into the box I went. I knew the drill now. I spent the first few weeks reminiscing about the two weddings, and wondering what would happen next. 

The box moved again. Had it been years already? This time, a man was staring back at me. . I recognized him from the wedding. His eyes looked sad. I felt his tears fall and soak into my satin. I could feel his heavy heart. He put the lid back on the box and I felt myself being carried away. 

The next time the lid was removed I was in a shop. An older woman, her gray hair curled on top of her head, scrutinized every inch of my fabric through her tiny glasses. She wore a name tag that read “Vera’s Vintage” with the name “Vera” spelled out underneath. The woman carefully placed me on a mannequin and carried me to the window. What joy it was to bask in the daylight, to watch people on the street walking back and forth, colourful shopping bags in hand. It amazed me how different everyone looked; clothed in bright patterns, women with short hair, men with long hair... even the cars came in all different colours! The world had changed completely since I had last been out of the box. One day, a young blonde woman with a pixie cut and large hoop earrings stopped in front of the window to look at me. I heard the chime of the doorbell as she entered the shop. 

Next thing I knew I was being removed from the mannequin and packed into yet another box that in turn was placed into a paper bag which the blonde woman happily carried on her arm as she left the shop. She wasted no time taking me out of the box and getting to work. The first thing she did was cut me down to nearly half my length. She used the fabric from the bottom part of my skirt to make sleeves and add to the neckline. She added some feathers to the cuffs and the bottom of my now much shorter hem. When she was finally finished, she put me on and stepped in front of a mirror. I couldn’t believe what had happened. I was unrecognizable! I instantly wondered, what would the woman think, the very first one, who collected my parts and put me together?

This time there was no aisle to walk down. The wedding was outside with only a handful of people. The blonde woman did not carry flowers. This time, I got to attend the reception. There was live music and laugher, food and drink. I got a stain on my sleeve from a stray cherry that fell off the black forest cake. After the wedding I was placed on a hanger and tucked to the back of a long closet. I watched as the other clothes came and went over the years. First the short dresses gave way to long dresses, then to dresses with shoulder pads and wild, angular patters. Then one day the woman grabbed all the clothes and tucked them into a suitcase. Packed her shoes in a box, gathered her jewelry, books, and trinkets, and walked out the door. I stayed at the back of the closet, left behind once again. What happened?

Eventually, the man from the wedding came by and brought me outside. He slipped my hanger onto a clothing rack where I got to blow in the soft summer breeze. People came and went, leaving with various household items, books, trinkets. The things the woman had left behind. The man seemed happy to that the items were leaving with other people. Finally, a woman with chin-length black hair took me off the rack. She gave the man some money, then placed me delicately on the back seat of her car and we drove away. I found myself brought, once again, to a seamstress. The woman with the black hair asked to have a wide blue sash added to my waist, with a large bow at the back. The feather trim was removed from my cuffs and hem, and lace added to my hemline, so I found myself once again to be a full-length dress, though sheer on the bottom half.

This time, the wedding was quite large. Standing in front of the woman with the black hair was another woman, in a finely tailored white suit, its lapels made of a satin similar to mine. They looked incredibly happy. I was left hanging on the back of a dressing room door while they went to the reception, a plastic bag draped over me, and eventually I was tucked to the back of yet another closet when they got home. I wondered then, in those long stretches of time when I was not needed, whatever became of my missing parts? The parts that had been cut off, refashioned, discarded? I tried to see if perhaps I could feel them, those parts of me, somewhere out there in the world... but no.

Several years later, the woman who had donned the white suit pulled me off the hanger and shoved me roughly into a plastic bag. I heard muffled conversation about sparking joy as I felt myself being carted off yet again. I eventually ended up dumped out on a table with piles and piles of other clothes. After going through some kind of sorting system I got strung up onto a rather uncomfortable, wobbly hanger and placed on a rack, tightly sandwiched between another wedding dress and a peach-coloured party dress. I spent weeks and weeks on that rack, watching the seasons change through the window at the end of the huge, cluttered space. Winter gave way to spring, then summer, and finally the leaves started to change colour. 

That’s when the girl with the bright orange hair showed up.

She unhooked my hanger from the rack and waved excitedly to her friend. They giggled and turned me over in their hands. I wondered if they would see my cherry stain and hang me back up. Abandon me. But no. They carried me to the checkout counter, where I once again got shoved unceremoniously into a bag, and took me home.

That very night, the most bewildering thing occurred. The girl with the orange hair took a bottle of red liquid, drizzled it onto my neckline and let it trickle down. I ended up with streaks of red down my front and back. I was slipped onto another hanger and hung up to dry. That evening, the girl put me on, laced up some tall black boots, put on some ghastly makeup, and we went outside. Over and over, she rang doorbells and was given candy. A strange ceremony indeed! No flowers, no guests... I was left very confused at the end of the night as I sat in a pile on the floor next to her boots and a handful of stray candy wrappers.

The girl eventually rolled me up into a ball and shoved me on the floor in the back corner of her closet. A few years later I was pulled from my hiding space by a woman with auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. The room that had housed the girl with the orange hair looked completely different. Her posters had been taken down and replaced with paintings of mountains and lakes. The small bed with its bedding haphazardly strewn on top had been replaced with a larger, perfectly made bed. As I was walked through the house, I saw photos on the walls of the woman who was carrying me, a man I’d never seen, and the girl with the orange hair looking far more grown up than the last time I’d seen her. 

The woman with the auburn hair took me outside and placed me in the center of a circle made of bricks. She added other items alongside me; more clothing, pieces of cardboard, sticks, wood... then walked away. I waited patiently as the day wore on, wondering what this strange assortment of objects was going to lead to. My answer came with the night, and the strike of a match. Within a matter of minutes, I could feel my fabric singe as flames melted my lace and licked at my frayed edges. I felt myself disintegrate as I burned, lifting into the night sky in a cloud of ash. I felt myself fall back to the ground, landing on the wildflowers, mixing with the dirt. 

How fitting that I should once again find myself in scattered pieces.

I started out as satin, pearls, and thread, and I became a wedding dress. 

Thank you so much for listening.  Join me next week for a very special episode featuring a pre-recorded Q&A that will cover everything about The Skylark Bell, from its unusual origins to where the story is headed and more.

Before I go, I’d like to thank Phaeton Starling Publishing for this story as well as the use of the music composed and performed by Cannelle.

If you enjoy listening to this podcast, please consider leaving a rating or a review. If you’d like to make a financial contribution to support my work – you can visit my website http://www.theskylarkbell.com for more information, or simply reach out via the contact form there if you have any questions. I'm

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