Wedding shop offered peek behind the curtain

Once upon a time, in 1991, I needed a summer job. I was a woman of many skills. I knew how to supervise homework, see to the needs of five children and a husband, cook supper, fold laundry, feed the cat and carry on an intelligent conversation all at the same time – not exactly the skills most employers deem desirable.

I also knew how to write and how to sew. I had a pleasant personality and was good with people. Surely, I thought, I could get a job at a bridal shop doing alterations.

Fortunately, a shop in Bangor thought so too and before I knew it, I was heading off to work several mornings a week.

The owner and employees at the bridal shop dressed to reflect the formality of the occasion for which they supplied the dresses and the means to make them fit. That meant I had to “fix myself up” and wear something besides bluejeans, ragged flannel shirts and boat shoes. The other employees wore spike heels all day, crawled around on the floor in sheath dresses and perfectly fitted suits while pinning hems. They sewed for six hours straight and emerged at the end of the day still looking “put together.”

Those were the days of “big” bridal gowns, which reminded me of wedding cakes. The dresses were iced with crystal beads, pearls, sequins, lace applique, bows on the butt, cascades of satin roses, tiers of frothy ruffles and trains several yards long. They weighed a ton. Whenever a prospective bride zipped herself into one of those dresses, she was instantly transformed. She became BRIDE.

When she set the wispy layers of a veil that fell from a headband, jeweled comb or rhinestone tiara on her head, donned the hoop or netted petticoat, the long-line bra and the satin shoes, she was truly a vision in white.

The problem, however, and the main reason the seamstresses had jobs, was that the bridal gowns were made on some strangely sized model who did not in the least resemble the shapes of any of the brides who came seeking a dress. These gowns were made, I swear, to fit women who were 6 feet tall and weighed 100 pounds – and who possessed the strength and stamina of a horse needed to support the weight of all that satin, lace, tulle and beading.

Alterations were inevitable.

The women in this shop could “lift the lace” on the bodice of a gown, take it in several inches, replace the lace applique and beading, and leave it looking as if it never had been touched. They could shorten the skirt of a gown by taking it up through the waist, a last-ditch process used when the ornamentation at the hem was too lavish, too time-consuming to “lift.”

Once, within the space of less than an hour, one of the saleswomen transformed a full-skirted gown into one with a column-style skirt simply by pulling back the excess material, anchoring it with some clever stitching, and letting the overflow of fabric cascade at the back.

This same woman thought nothing of improvising a veil on the spot. She took long swaths of bridal veiling, made a couple of rows of basting stitches across it, did a bit of cutting to achieve an oval shape, placed an artificial flower here, a few ribbons there, and voila, another confection for a happy bride to wear.

I discovered, while working at the shop, that I did, indeed, have the right stuff to alter wedding dresses. But I learned many other things – such as the correct way to hem the voluminous circumference of the dresses. Hems were pinned, marked, turned up, stitched, the dress refitted to make sure the bride hadn’t decided on a shorter or taller heel height without informing me. Then the hem was turned up a minute amount again and stitched in place, another fitting was done, and finally, the excess fabric was cut.

We worked with the dresses hanging from hooks in the ceiling, draping down into our laps and over our arms, a train flung, perhaps, over a shoulder to hold it out of the way while the stitching was done.

I often look back on those days with a certain fondness. It was happy work, in spite of the occasional “bride-zilla,” or worse, “mother-of-the-bride-zilla,” who knew nothing about sewing, and who had perfected nitpicking, complaining and making annoying comments to a fine art.

We seamstresses were like the Wizards of Oz behind the curtain, placing threads here, cutting a hem there, taking a tuck in one place and letting it out at another to make the dress fit the beautiful bride.

Snippets

. Shepherd, spinner and knitter Sally Michaud of Vassalboro will demonstrate her skills 6:30 p.m. Thursday, May 8, at the Bangor Public Library. Michaud will appear as the guest of the library’s knitting club, which meets at 6:30 p.m. Thursdays at the library. Michaud also will do a “woolie” demonstration for children at 11 a.m. Saturday, May 31, in the Story Room at the library.

. The DMC company has invented a new board game called Stitch-opoly. The object of the game is to become an expert stitcher and build a needlework empire by buying and trading needlework stitches. To learn more about the game and where it may be purchased, visit www.dmc-isa.com and click on DMC Products.

. Last year Warm Woolies delivered 5,724 pieces of warm, hand-knit clothing to children in orphanages in Russia, Kazakhstan and Mongolia, and to Pine Ridge and Rosebud Indian Reservations in South Dakota. To learn more about the organization’s charitable work and how to help, visit www.warmwoolies.org.

To learn how to assist the Afghans for Afghans organization with its mission of providing hand-knit or crocheted blankets and garments to the people of Afghanistan, visit www.afghansforAfghans.org.

ahamlin@bangordailynews.net

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