The fashion parade

My mom used Simplicity patterns to make clothes for my sister and me when we were kids.

I was never all that interested in clothes. I didn't start to make decisions about what to wear, really, until I started college.

My mom came from a long line of Appalachian women who sewed. I wore homemade shirts until I was about 7 or 8. Her family came from a time and place in Virginia where store-bought was a luxury.

My mom would follow Simplicity patterns and find material where she could: When I was really young, in the 1940s, our neighborhood grocer still sold chicken-feed from a bag in a barrel. He would save the feed bags and sell them to customers. Yes, the feed manufacturers knew that the bags might wind up as clothes, so feed sacks came in plaid, stripes, and other decorative patterns. (And yes, some of our neighbors kept chickens in their back yards. We had a bantam hen and rooster for a time in our yard on Church Hill.)

My grandmother, who taught my mom to sew, put her own skills to work professionally when her kids were older. Granny went to work for Friedman-Marks, hand-stitching and machine-sewing suits for men. You could buy the suits at Rockingham Clothes at 1800 W. Broad St., near the Sears store.

My mom didn't sew jackets or pants for me, so when I was old enough to wear suits, she bought them at Rockingham. My grandmother would make necessary alterations by hand. Nobody asked me what I preferred. I wore what my mom bought, and factors like durability, price and "room to grow" were what counted.

When I was a teenager, my mom went to work at Miller & Rhoads. She took great advantage of the store's sales: She bought all of my clothes there until I was in high school, most often without my even being present. Her thrifty shopping made me look like I was always one step behind and trying to catch up.

I didn't care.

I didn't pay any attention to what I wore in junior high or high school, and many of my friends didn't either. There were girls who wore Villager blouses and guys who wore Gant shirts, but fashion didn't rule.

That changed dramatically when I went to the University of Richmond.

U.R. tradition dictated that we wear a coat and tie to class. I began to insist on some say in what I wore, and I started shopping for myself. It took me a while, but I assembled a wardrobe of blazers, white button-down Oxford shirts, conservative ties, khaki pants, wool crewneck sweaters, and Bass Weejuns loafers. I chose my clothes as student camouflage: I wanted to look like everybody else.

My four years in the Air Force in Germany were lost fashion years. Mostly we wore uniforms, and the only place to buy off-duty clothes was the Base Exchange, where the choices were limited.

When I came back to Richmond, I had to buy new clothes. I relied on the basics -- meaning I updated the U.R. look with contemporary touches because I was working in television. I did take some chances. I bought a red blazer that my dad said made me look like a waiter. (It probably did, but it looked good on TV.) And to add variety to the navy or camel-hair blazers and blue shirts, I began to wear brighter ties to bring some color to the screen. I stuck with that for the next four decades.

Today, after a second career in an art museum, color rules what I wear. To heck with the conservative look. I wore a purple T-shirt to fitness class this morning. My hair is gray now, and I can wear more color than I ever could before. I have knit shirts and dress shirts in every hue of the rainbow including "grape sherbet" and "mango." In the winter, I pair them with equally colorful sweaters.

Late in life, I have discovered that I like color -- and lots of it. It's very liberating. The opinion that counts now is mine. I can indulge myself. Forget durability, price, and "room to grow."

In my closet, however, cleaned and pressed for when a grown-up, dress-up occasion arises, are a blue wool blazer, a white Oxford shirt, gray flannel pants, a blue-and-red repp tie, and a pair of Weejuns. I haven't completely let go of my roots.