1Student Outlet

The NeTTieRebecca Smith

In one of my earliest memories, I lay sprawled on the warm grass of my grandmother’s back lawn, taking in the enormity of the blue umbrella sky as it spread itself around the earth. I had often imagined I was a miniature version of myself, exploring the intricacies of a flower or living in a woodpecker hole in Grandma Nettie’s old spruce tree. Gazing up at the sky, however, I didn’t have to pretend. It was there that I felt like something other than myself, tiny and insignificant, yet full of magic and life. There I had spent countless summers drinking up the sun and clear northwest air, lying in the grass, a princess under her kingdom in the heavens.

It was early May, nearly two decades after my summer musings at Grandma Nettie’s, when the call came. The phones in the workroom had been ringing off the hook for nearly an hour and I was about ready to let the machine start serving its purpose when my cell phone joined the chorus. I wondered aloud how anyone expected me to get anything decent ready for the runway show less than one week away if they wouldn’t stop calling me.

For days, I had been working over my collection, wholly aware that I was missing one key unifying piece. So many times I felt like I was on the verge of some grand idea, only to be interrupted by the harsh ring of a telephone. I took a deep breath and flipped my cell open. To my surprise, it was my dad, trying to remain strong and composed. Through stifled tears, he informed me that Grandma Nettie had passed peacefully in her sleep near dawn that morning.

“I don’t expect you to come out, I know how busy you are,” he was saying.

“No, Dad, it’s Thursday, I can take a long weekend. I’ll get a flight out early tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he choked. I hung up the phone, waiting for the tears to come.

I was surprised after a moment that I felt fine, which of course made me feel guilty. Who doesn’t cry when

their grandma dies? I took a deep breath, shook it off and answered the ever-ringing telephone. “Ryleigh McCartney.” It was back to reality, at least for the moment. The two and a half hour flight from L.A. to Portland wasn’t as relaxing as it should have been.

My first class seat, though roomy and soft, provided no real comfort as I worried about what awaited me in Oregon. I fretted as I counted out the months since that Christmas. I hadn’t seen my dad in over two years. Remorse flooded through me as I realized it had been the last time I had seen Grandma Nettie as well.

Why hadn’t I visited more often? The two Christmases since, they had spent alone, with only each other to exchange small gifts. They were the only real family I had left, and over them, I had chosen L.A., its nightlife, and my career in fashion.

How could I scoot the two people I love most in the world to the sidelines for so long? I didn’t expect my father to forgive me. Though he had insisted it would be no trouble to pick me up at the airport, my dad finally consented and allowed me to take a cab

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to Hillsboro, the peaceful little town near Portland where the farmers keep their fields filled with rich green grasses and fragrant flowers almost year round. The cab pulled down the dirt drive of the McCartney family farm around noon, sloshing in the spring puddles left over from the previous night’s rain.

The overcast sky shed cool, gray light over Nettie’s old farmhouse. A wave of nostalgia threatened for a moment to catch my emotions off guard, but it quickly receded, leaving my guilt alone. My father came slowly down the steps of the screened-off porch to meet me. “Oh, Ryleigh, I’m glad you came, kid,” he said sadly, hugging me close and then reaching for my suitcase. “How ‘bout some lunch for the weary traveler?”

“Sounds great, Dad,” I sighed, following him to the house. The next couple of days were spent making funeral arrangements and setting Nettie’s affairs in order. It was tiring work, and I could tell it was taking its toll on my father. He hadn’t said much about her since I arrived. I knew, though, that his heart was breaking with every reminder of his mother.

Sunday we spent in the basement, pulling out old boxes and rummaging through eighty-three years of memories. Early in the afternoon, the steady dribble of rain that had drummed on the windows all morning slowed to a trickle. I was sorting through boxes of old clothes and admiring a pair of particularly wild pink heels when my dad called me over to look at a freshly- opened box.

Inside was a great big photo album—the ornate leather kind that no one buys anymore. It was dusty and cracked, its pages yellowed with years.

“Hey, that’s me as a baby, naked as a jay bird,” said my dad, his eyes squinting into a grin. I smiled, pulling the book closer.

“And what about Grandma Nettie? She looks about as happy as any woman I have ever seen,” I added.

“Well, who wouldn’t be with such a good lookin’ husband and that round, little baby?” He chuckled as

he turned the page. “Wowie, will you look at that get up?”I leaned in and looked at the picture. Nettie was no more than twenty-five. Her hair was bigger than any beehive I had ever seen; it was dotted with little white flowers behind her bangs. She wore a sleeveless dress that was rather plain in construction but exotic in attitude. The skirt of it spread away from her tiny waist almost straight out before bending downward and ending near her knees.

“Huh,” was all I could manage to say. We sat flipping through the pages of photos until nearly dinner time.

“Well, kid, I suppose we should go find something to eat,” said my dad finally, stretching his back. I set the book back in its box and followed him out the door, flipping the light switch as I passed.

I could tell my father hadn’t been grocery shopping for a few days, as we had mostly exhausted the food supply in the little refrigerator. We ended up having bologna sandwiches for dinner. As I assembled mine, I couldn’t keep the worry I had been hiding all weekend quiet any longer.

“Dad,” I said quietly, “I’m really sorry I wasn’t here.” That did it. The tears came before I had gotten half way through my apology and didn’t stop.

“Oh, honey.” My dad moved around the counter and wrapped me in his arms.

“I should have been here with you,” I started again, but he cut me off.

“Ryleigh, there was no way any of us could have known when this would happen. Don’t you feel bad for one second. We had a good life here, the two of us, these past few years.”

“But I left you all alone, I didn’t call enough, I never came to visit. Grandma Nettie probably forgot she even had a granddaughter.”

“Stop that.” He said it with such sudden force that I stopped whining and looked at him. I suddenly felt about eight years old again instead of twenty-eight, the little girl chastised for only thinking about

She wore a sleevless dress that was rather plain in construction but exotic in attitude.

““

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herself. “Like I said, we had a nice life here,” he sighed and glanced briefly down the hall. “Let me show you something.” We walked down the little hallway to the sewing room at the back of the house.

My dad flipped on the light as we walked in, then swung his arm toward the left wall. I stared in shock. My grandmother was famous for her wall. Growing up, I used to help her cut out pictures from magazines and the newspaper and tack them up with push pins. From floor to ceiling, the wall was always covered with cut-outs of the glamorous and famous. It was probably where I got my first exposure to the world of fashion, and I hadn’t even realized it. But the wall had changed since the last time I had seen it.

Floor to ceiling, pinned haphazardly across the room, were cutouts of my pieces. Some were printed on cheap computer paper, some were dingy black-and-whites from newspapers, and some were the shiny high-gloss found in magazines.

“Your grandmother loved you very much,” said my father, smiling at me through wet eyes. “She was so proud of you. She made me print every picture you ever emailed me as well as any I could find on the internet. She would sit out there in that rocking chair for hours with her tiny little scissors carefully cutting out every dress she could find with your name on it.

She always said you were out living your dream, and hers, too. She would never criticize you for that.”

Though guilt flooded through me at first, it was washed out by the sudden love I felt from my grandmother. Sadness, too, spread its gray clouds over my heart as I remembered I wasn’t going to get the chance to share with her how much I appreciated her love and support.

“Ryleigh,” my dad said, turning toward me, “I want you to know that we both felt that way.” He smiled, and added, “Well, it was never my dream to become some hot-shot clothing designer in a big city, but I am so proud that you have gone and made a name for yourself. You make us proud every day.”I hugged him then like I hadn’t done since I was a little girl.

In all my working life, I never received such pure love and acceptance as I found here. I again wondered what had kept me away. I went to bed that night feeling like an unseen burden had been lifted from my weary shoulders. I sat in the bed and thought about my childhood memories of Grandma Nettie. She always had a blanket she was quilting, or a dress she was making, lying in her lap while she told me stories of her life. I remembered sitting on the floor of the sewing

room sifting through piles of lace, trying to help her pick out the perfect one to line the hem of a dress. Her house was where my education as a designer had begun.

I wondered what she would say to my present predicament. What would she add as the final piece for my ever-approaching show? I only had three more days until everything would be on the runway, and one of those would be spent in Oregon and traveling home. I suddenly remembered the photograph in the album I had been looking at earlier in the day. I quickly climbed out of bed and headed to the basement. I Pulled out the photo; excitement bubbled up inside me. Something like that could work.

I hurried back upstairs with my inspiration and flipped the light on in the sewing room. My own creations lining the wall behind me, I opened a big plastic storage bin under Grandma Nettie’s sewing table. I began searching through the neatly

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folded piles of fabric for something I could work with. There was fabric of every color and texture, but most of it was scraps.

Looking around the room, I found a few cardboard bolts that hinted there might be larger quantities of fabric lying around somewhere. On the top shelf of the closet, I found it. The pale teal and blue iridescent fabric was exactly what I needed. The color changed as it moved and light hit different places. It was just stiff enough to hold its shape without being too rigid and unnatural looking. In another storage container,

I found scraps of white lace in every pattern imaginable. Ideas forming almost too fast to keep up with, I sat down at the sewing table and began sketching out a plan. By about one in the morning, I had a mock up of my final piece done in plain white muslin. With the help of a petticoat, the skirt of the dress was going to fall perfectly from the high waist.

Giddy with excitement, I got to work using the teal and blue fabric to make the real thing. I worked until my fingers ached and I had trouble keeping my eyes focused. I closed them for a moment, imagining my grandmother’s warm smile as she would sit in the little blue chair. She looked so peaceful in my mind, a half-knitted scarf across her knees. . . .

My dad’s voice woke me from my uncomfortable slumber.“Wow, kid! How late were you up?” I raised my groggy head and looked around.

“Um, I don’t know exactly,” I answered truthfully. I honestly couldn’t remember how far I had even gotten on my dress.

“Well, shoot, it’s still early. You better go get some sleep in a real bed for a couple of hours. I need some help moving that stuff out of the shed before you pack up and leave me this afternoon.” He walked away down the hall toward the bathroom.

I stood up, stretched, and reached for my latest creation. Fitting it on my grandmother’s old metal mannequin, I could see its form take shape. After pinning the back and adjusting some edges, I stepped back to inspect my work. I held up my grandmother’s photo next to it.

Overall, I was pleased with my work. My dress had the same basic top, though the neckline was cut out to reveal a delicate lace across the bust. The beautiful down-turned bowl of the skirt was perfect. The ribbing held it out away from the waist and as the skirt fell and folded in on itself, it exposed the raw edges of the many ripped pieces of lace I had used in its construction.

With a few minor adjustments, it would be perfect. Although I was tired, I didn’t go back to sleep, but helped my dad as much as I could before I had to leave. I headed back to L.A. for three days so I could finish up last minute preparations and attend the runway show.

It was hectic and not without its setbacks, but the preparation and the show went off without a hitch. As the music pounded and the last model stepped onto the runway, I caught my breath. The thin girl of course had heavier makeup and crazier hair than my grandmother ever did, but the resemblance was quite close. I could almost see Grandma Nettie stomping fiercely down the runway as a young girl, enjoying every moment of it. My grandma-inspired dress had turned out to be the missing piece I had been searching for.

I stayed for the after-party that night only long enough to shake hands and dole out thank yous to the most important admirers then headed home to gather my things together for the trip back to Hillsboro. After my first relaxing night’s sleep in weeks, it was back to the airport and off to Portland again.I arrived this time around eleven in the morning. The dreary skies had finally parted on my way from Portland to Hillsboro to reveal a bright sunny sky.

I hugged my father as I walked into the house. Friends of Grandma Nettie were helping clean up the house and get ready for funeral guests. The services were being held in the backyard near Grandma Nettie’s favorite old spruce. She would be buried not far from it, next to the grandfather I was never fortunate enough to know.

About half an hour before the services were to begin, I went to get dressed. I opened my wardrobe bag to retrieve my somewhat conservative black dress. Packed there along with it was my latest creation.

It only took a moment of hesitation before I pulled out the blue and teal lacey dress. I quickly put it on. I frowned as I considered my shoes. I wished that I had brought more than the patent black leather pumps with me.

On a whim, I headed to the basement and pulled out the clothing boxes I had been organizing a few days before. There on the top of one box were the bright pink high heels I had admired the week before. It was either luck, or some sort of divine inspiration that made my feet fit into shoes a size too small, but they worked.

In the bathroom, I swooped my hair up off my neck. It wasn’t as big as Grandma Nettie’s, but it had the

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same feel as I pinned it around the back of my head. I finished off the look with a strand of pearls and bright red lipstick. As I walked down the back step into the backyard, I could practically feel the critical eyes of Grandma Nettie’s neighbors boring into me. I stepped to the front of the gathered group of people to be near my father, ignoring the whispers of, how inappropriate! and who would wear such a thing to a funeral? How disrespectful.

The service was simple, but nice. My father spoke briefly about the wonderful woman and devoted mother and grandmother Nettie McCartney was, and then the time came to lower the casket to its resting place. I stood, a bright interruption among the shadowy-clad funeral guests, and watched as Grandma Nettie was buried next to her husband’s grave. Three men helped my father place a headstone, carved to match Nettie’s love’s, over the freshly turned earth.

People slowly moved off toward the house to share condolences with my father and get a piece of homemade pie provided by thoughtful neighbors.

I, however, remained at the side of my grandmother’s grave. After a few minutes, a young boy ran out from behind the nearby spruce, his little sister at his heels. He stopped as he came near me.

“Your dress looks like an umbrella,” he said matter of-factly. “No,” said his sister, smiling up at me, “It looks like the sky.” When her brother shrugged and ran off, she danced after him like a tiny princess.

I glanced up at the nearly clear sky with its wispy clouds near the horizon line. It was then that I realized the dress had been years in the making. It was the culmination of what I had learned at my grandmother’s little house in the country throughout years of visits. It was my imagination and her love in physical form.

As I pondered this thought, my dad came up behind me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

“Well, I haven’t seen this one before,” he glanced down at my dress. “What’s it called?” he asked, referring to what name the dress would be sold under.

“The Nettie,” I replied.“Ah,” he said, squeezing me closer to him, and

letting out a small chuckle, “Well I’ll make sure I cut out a picture of that one for the wall.”