clothing museum

In the year of our goddess 1972, I graduated from college. (I can't do maths, so I don't know how long ago that was.) That summer, my friend Laura and I decided to take waitressing jobs in New Hampshire. Why on earth, I can't recollect. Probably had something to do with fantasies of being country girl back-to-the- landers. I know I bought a 1954 Dodge pickup "old enough to vote," the seller told me proudly. It wouldn't be the last pickup either: I'm on my fifth now. 

    We landed jobs at a place called the Fitzwilliam Inn. The apron was required wear for the inn, and I sewed it by hand and cross-stitched it myself, with pockets and everything. Hired as a pair, probably because the red-faced host thought two young things added to his staff would bring in lunch trade—the other waitresses being bent over with age and withered by cigarette smoke. The way one of them, a Mainer, described the ham omelet was by saying the ham "ran through there with rubber boots on." The place had pretentions. For instance, the waitresses had to recite the appetizers and desserts, one of which was called "fudge nut balls." Many of the gentlemen who lunched there took great delight in asking me, "Fudge nut WHAT?" And I was too shy to shout, "BALLS!" The ladies who lunched, on the other hand, always asked whether I went to Monadnock High. "No, I just graduated from college." "Really? Where?" "Vassar." Taken aback. "What did you major in?" "Chinese." "Well you should be working at a Chinese restaurant!"

Laura and I didn't last long, and neither did the summer. My boyfriend visited once, but he was a city boy and had nothing to do while Laura and I were at work except play with the ugly Holstein-spotted dog we called Cow that hung around our wrong-side-of-the-tracks apartment building. So we packed up the truck, said goodbye to the creepy neighbors, got in the truck and headed off down the road that would soon lead us to Hawaii and a step up to bartending.

And I have no idea what to do with that damn apron.