Transcript for the Piece Audio version of My Pink Easter Dress

My Pink Easter Dress
by Mary Van Pelt

I must have been eight years old on that Saturday morning in March when Grandma Van Pelt and I rode the bus into downtown Denver. Having grown up in New York City, grandma was no stranger to urban life; she now worked for an accounting firm in downtown Denver. At the age of eight, most of my life had been lived in small towns; the big city was a complex, overwhelming and frightening place.

The fear of getting lost has been with me ever since I can remember -- the fear of not being able to find my way home, and the fear of not being able to find my way in the world. Because I was with my grandmother I felt safe in this hurried, noisy, careless city that would otherwise swallow up an eight-year-old girl. She showed me the way. She knew when to pull the cord that rang the bell signaling the driver that a passenger wanted off. How did grandmother know which stop was the right one? What if a passenger pulled the cord for the wrong stop, I wondered? It was all a big city blur to me, like snowflakes in a spring blizzard. The stops all looked the same: busy, crowded, surrounded by tall buildings in a maze of congested traffic. Could I ever, someday, learn to ride the city bus by myself? From my small town perspective, mastering the city seemed like a daunting task.

The purpose of our Saturday morning adventure was to shop for an Easter dress. We got off the bus at Lerner's. The large window displayed stiff manikins modeling fashions of the early sixties along with tulips and daffodils sprouting from artificial grass. We were shopping for a spring dress, but the Colorado air still had a winter chill. Inside we found circular chrome racks stocked with girl-size dresses in a wide variety of styles. Each one was pink. Dodging other mother-daughter shoppers, Grandmother and I moved the plastic hangers around, picking out a few dresses for me to try on. Unlike previous shopping trips with adults where there was conflict between what I liked and what grown-ups thought appropriate, grandmother and I easily agreed when we had found the right dress.

It was pink taffeta with a scalloped and layered skirt. The dress had shiny pink buttons down the back and a wide sash that made a large bow. The rounded neckline had a Peter Pan collar. Stiff underskirts allowed the top skirt to stand out and sway in a feminine way that made me feel like a ballerina.

We were so excited by this perfect dress that Grandma said, "You need matching shoes." This was an extra purchase she hadn't planned to make but grandma was a well-dressed, fashion-conscious woman and she knew when a special dress called out for matching shoes. I think she was also helplessly caught up in the moment of being able to spoil her oldest granddaughter who had only recently moved to Denver.

We ate lunch at the Woolworth cafeteria, a place Grandmother frequented. The two-story five and dime, that took up an entire city block, was always a part of our downtown shopping excursions.

After lunch we went to a shoe store where grandmother bought me pink patent leather shoes with low heals and narrow straps that buckled on the side. Socks, pink anklets edged with lace, completed my very-pink outfit.

Riding the bus home was another lesson in city survival. Packed tightly with our shopping bags crushed against strangers, we stood for the first part of our journey. The cramped space and stale air was claustrophobic and smothering until passengers disembarked. It was a long stop-and-go ride back to the suburbs of southeast Denver.

Before I was ten I had outgrown my favorite pink dress and matching shoes, but the experience of being gently guided through the city, and then through life by my Grandmother Van Pelt has stayed with me.

My grandmother's name was Grace which means divine love and protection bestowed freely. She died in September of 1988 at the age of seventy-nine, but I believe she is still watching over me, gently guiding and showing me the way.