I wore this dress to my homecoming dance my sophomore year in high school. It was 1983. I went to an all girl school so our dances were Sadie Hawkins type dances. The whole idea of asking someone to go with me usually made me feel a little sick to my stomach. I didn’t date anyone then and as far as I could tell, there weren’t any high school boys I knew who would be worth asking to the dance. I ended up asking Bob Smith.

I met Bob at an all-ages punk show in my hometown. Bands played at upstairs at a bowling alley while adults sat downstairs in the bar and drank. I don’t remember there being any bowling at this bowling alley, just loud music, cheap beer (for those with fake i.d.s) and according to the Old Timers at the bar, a lot of “what the hell is going on with your hair?” haircuts and “excuse me, but why are you wearing that?” kinds of clothes.

Actually, it might have gone more like this:

Old man 1 drinking Pabst (we’ll call him, Lenny): “Holy Balls! What da hell happen’ to you?! Didja git attacked by a gardening shears last night?”

Old man 2 drinking Wild Turkey: “Nooo, Lenny. Cripes, hey. I think he got some egg beaters stuck in his hair.”

Old lady nursing Schlitz: “Ya Hey. At least he doesn’t have those safety pins in his face like that one guy. Didja see him before when he came down here by da bar? Oh my gaaad.”

You can probably imagine the rest, right?

To my mind, Bob was the best candidate to take to a high school dance that’s populated by rich, preppy girls who only date guys who play sports and have summer homes. Bob was studying to be a hairdresser and he was gay. I was flattered when he came up to me at the show and said, in his aped Valley Girl accent, “Like, hi. Like, my name is Bob. I’m a hairdresser and I LOOOOVE your hair. It’s sooo awesome.” I thought he had good style. He wore expensive loafers, good shirts and looked a little like Martin Fry, the lead singer of ABC. (You may recall their hit, “Poison Arrow,” or my favorite ABC song, “The Look of Love.”) I think he may have been the first truly out gay guy I ever knew and I admired his ability to negotiate “being different” in a conservative, working-class, small town. Going to the bowling alley was his idea of slumming. His prep-time before he went to the real bar–the gay bar–later that night.

But, back to the dress. This dress has been with me since the 80s. It’s a home-sewn dress that my grandmother made for herself. Vivian was a farmer. She must have worn this one sometime in the late 50s though I’ve never seen photos of her in it. When I got this dress from her attic I was about fifteen. I tried it on and it fit like a glove. She asked me if I wanted to keep it. I did and I have kept it all of these years.

When my grandmother died, I got her ceramic pink Flamingo figurine/thermometer (a souvenir of her first trip (and only trip) to Florida.) I also inherited her kitschy yellow and gold ceramic pig salt ‘n pepper shakers, a set of 50s low ball glasses in their metal carrying rack, her crazy snowmobiling helmet that’s covered in cow print faux-fur, and a stack of photos. And this dress–this dress that with one glance brings a flood of memories. It’s funny how clothes can do that sometimes. Just seeing something reminds you of an exact time and a specific place.

I am upstairs at the farm sleeping in my dad’s boyhood bedroom on Sunday morning. Chores are done and my grandma is waking us up asking, “Do you girls want pancakes or eggs for breakfast?” The answer is always pancakes…perfect pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse with chocolate chips for the eyes, nose and smiley face. Vivian made really good pancakes. Of course, her dressmaker skills were quite phenomenal as well.