A couple of weeks ago, I lost my grandmother Hazel. She would not let us call her Grandma or Mawmaw or, heaven forbid, Granny. Those names were shouted by wild children at the Kmart. They made her feel old. My cousin Jay dubbed her Nana, and it stuck. (The photo above shows her all dolled up in Becco, West Virginia. I love that clutch, those big buttons, and her jaunty hat.)
From my teens into my 30s, Nana and I exchanged clothes, mostly sweaters and shirts, and a leopard print coat. She was (if you round up) 5’2″, and I’m 5’9,” so there were limits. A few years ago, a housemate gave me a bolero sweater jacket covered with big green sequins. I wore it to a party, and then dropped it in the mail to Nana. She received it just in time for a St. Patrick’s Day event with her dance group. (The photo above of Hazel and my grandfather David was labelled “Engagement 1940” in one of her photo albums. I adore the mix of patterns in her blazer and skirt. Who wouldn’t want to lock that down?)
I’ve long admired Nana’s eye for bold prints and colors. She never tried to “dress too young,” as she put it, but she refused to give up her style or submit to the tyranny of the giant elastic waistband or the perma-pleated pant. Hazel and David square danced for many years in West Virginia. She knew how to make the most of a crinoline and to accentuate her tiny waist. I’m not sure what’s going on with that bonnet (or maybe it’s a teeny cape?), but if anyone could make that cool, Nana could. I would be a shame, though, to cover up that glamorous ‘do.
Hazel and David ran a gift store for many years. They closed the store in the early 80s, after the mall moved in nearby. This photo provides evidence that I’m genetically predisposed to like wicker furniture and weird tchotchkes. Hazel looks ready for a fashion shoot in her red, white, and blue ensemble. David was a fighter pilot in WWII, and Hazel had many patriotic pieces in her wardrobe.
For her life full of amazing clothes and vibrant love, I give thanks.