Summer Days, Retro

I recently ran across a very inspiring story of an entrepreneur. Her inspiration was a child and the color red. When thinking about the freedom of being young, this woman began to envision a line of clothing now known as Damselfly. Damselfly is a UK-based company that creates children's clothing by hand, with all the little ruffles and frills that are fitting for a little girl--the sort I remember proudly wearing once-upon-a-time.

Damselfly is particularly refreshing in that it lets little girls be little girls. There is room to run and romp and play, but there is also room to play dress up, make cookies, and run a magical household. In this little corner of the internet, there is no need to hurry grow up. There is plenty of time to savor childhood. Contrast that to the latest annoyance in children's dress that I've found: padded bras for eight year olds--or younger. Target sells fully padded bras that run as small as a girls size 4 (its in the fineprint. Scroll down). I overheard someone comment that it was a good thing, since "little girls need to be ready to face the real world." Heaven help us, can't we have at least twelve small years to be carefree and to not care what the real world thinks?

Unlike Target, Damselfly operates in the realm where fairytales are O.K. Practical but pretty. Looking through the website, I feel a little sad that there are no little ones that I can dress in this style. It greatly reminds me of the frilly little dresses my grandmother made me when I was a little girl. Actually, it reminds me of one in particular. It was a Sunday dress, with lace all around the skirt. The fabric was blue with little butterflies and flowers all over it, and it had a sailor collar--one of those ones that was a big square in the back. I have no idea why I remember that dress so well. I can't think of any really important event that was connected to it, just sleeping on (or under) pews, pretending to write in coloring books, and running around the church lobby while I waited for my parents to quit talking and take me home for lunch. I remember wanting to wear it as much as possible.

I found that dress again a few months ago. It isn't really blue anymore: it has faded. There was a lot less lace on it than I remembered from my childhood. I think some of the lace was ripped, and the fabric was somewhat worn in a few places. By all rights, it should have taken its place in the rag bag, but I couldn't bear to part with it, so I packed it back up and it sits somewhere in the depths of my closet, until I have a wave of nostalgia and pull it out, or until I go on a cleaning spree and do get rid of it. I doubt that will happen though. It was the sort of dress that made memories. Or, to be exact, it is a memory.

I get the same sort of feeling browsing through damselfly, and I think that, someday, some woman who was privileged enough to wear one of those dresses as a little girl will pull it out and remember everything she did in it, and then she'll fold it up and set it aside, hoping that someday another little girl will get the chance to make her own memories in it.