The May Day Dirndl

Making something from almost nothing is a tradition that goes back a long way in Laguna Beach.

My mom once made me a dirndl skirt for a third grade May Day project in 1965. I was ever after convinced that she was actually a wizard. A lady wizard..

I grew up in Laguna, which was and remains a magical place below Los Angeles County and above San Diego County.

My elementary school, El Morro, is across Pacific Coast Highway and has an unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean. We would often hear someone cry out “whales” and would rush the chain link fence at the west part of the playground, and watch the whales go by, sometimes spouting, but always mysterious and yes, magical creatures. I feel the word has been disabused for so long that I say, it was not always so abused. It simply was.

There was a May Day festival planned, and at the grass circle at the front of the driveway of the school, the school had plans to turn the flag pole into a May Pole with long ribbons for us to weave in a dance. I felt very adequate with my dancing skills, having attended dance classes as a five year old taught by Mrs. Rosalie Warr, who taught several generations of very young girls the basics of dance in Laguna. Though she would have firmly disavowed the title wizard, I would say she nonetheless taught many of us about the magic of dance, in a very lovely place at the Veteran’s club on Legion Street.

I had to ask my mom if I could buy or make a dirndl skirt, as that was a requirement for being in the dance. I recall carefully thinking about just how and when I would ask. Mom was very busy those days with me, my big sister, and our biggest sister’s three children, who were often in “our” care while my eldest sister attended college.

Time and energy were in short supply for Mom. I was mindful that any demand on my mom created a small crisis. Then there was my dear grandmother who lived in what had been my big sister Patty’s room. She was my only living grandparent and so certainly had a quality of grandeur to her, in my mind.

After several and false tries, I asked her just before dinner, when we could look out at the ocean from the “backyard” of the house, which had a magnificent view. The view was on a hill, from the southernmost area of Laguna Beach, to the northernmost. It made up, somewhat, for the daredevil driveway which descended from Skyline Drive down to the top of a short set of steps. We would warn visitors, there is no street parking. Listen carefully. The driveway is so steep that you could end up with the undercarriage of your car perched at the top, with the front end and tires dangling helplessly in the air.

A few guests had ventured to park heedlessly, and were towed away. Dad offered sympathy but had warned, and thus felt absolved of any needless guilt. That was certainly a lesson for me. The dangling front end of a car, the calls to a tow company, and the offer of a sorely needed drink to a guest, have always been a cautionary tale for ignoring good advice.

Mom was taking a moment to collect herself, after preparing a meal for all of us, to her exacting standards. She wore hearing aids, which helped a little bit, but you had to be sure she was very focused or you might end up discussing something very different than what you had intended.

”Mom,” I started … “I need a new skirt.” Mom looked at me intently. “What?” I repeated it, this time with careful enunciation. She wilted and gathered her arguments. “A new skirt, why? School is almost over and you will be wearing nothing but bathing suits all summer long.”

Money was always an unspoken barrier to any plans. I smiled brightly and told her, “but we would have to sew it. Do you know how to sew?” She smiled. “I sure do. Go into town and buy a yard of cotton. For your dirndl.”

I smiled my widest smile, and she handed me $1. I figured with the cache of change I had in my top dresser drawer, I would find some pretty fabric.

The very next afternoon, after school, I walked down the back trail of the house that led to Manzanita Street. The trail was about a half a block long, very dry and rocky. It was so steep in spots. When the weather was really hot I could hear the rattle of snakes but my parents insisted I was imagining things. I most certainly was not.

I walked down to Manzanita Street, and cut through the other small path the led through one neighbor’ garden, and into the overgrown garden of the big house on the other side, the abandoned one. I was sure it was haunted but figured as long as I ran fast, nothing would catch me.

The fabric store was on Forest Avenue, a short downhill trek from Manzanita Street to Park Avenue, to a right on Glenneyre Street, and a block later, Forest Avenue. Even an eight year old could make it around town in those days. Laguna Beach was like living inside a beautiful painting, and as much fun during the colder months when no tourists came to town.

Forest Avenue was about three blocks long and had everything anyone needed. The Electrical shop had refrigerators with fake plastic groceries. Marriner’s Stationary sold books and all writing supplies, and it was a favorite of mine. Shoes, clothes, and two pharmacies. There was even a grocery store there with old time doors and it was the best place to get a cold soda in summer, even thought the vegetables and fruits were ridiculously expensive, and not the freshest.

Trotter’s Bakery had everything from fresh eclairs to a soda fountain. The Elves and other paintings on the brick walls inside the bakery made a visit there tempting. I crossed Forest and went in the opposite direction from Trotter’s, straight to the fabric store, determined to find just the right fabric for a dirndl skirt. Then I could be in the May Day dance.

The lady at the fabric store saw me staring wide eyed at the fancy fabrics and shiny satin ribbons in every color. “Can I help you find anything?”

I had no idea what cotton fabric was right for a dirndl, so I sort of spit it out. I told her it was for school. She smiled. “Oh, yes for the May Day costumes! We have a selection of fabrics over here.”

The fabric was all disappointingly boring. I recall navy blue with sprigs of flowers, plain brown gingham, and other rather dreadful fabrics. I wanted something really pretty, given that Mom would be sewing it just for me.

The shop clerk sensed my hesitation and told me to go upstairs and look at remnants. “Remants?” But her attention was on a real customer by then, so I went up the stairs at the back of the shop. The room at the top had books, a big filing cabinet, and a set of shelves with packets of fabrics of all kinds.

I looked at the folded packets, so different from the big rolls and bolts of fabrics downstairs. The packets were small, with notes “1/2 yard” and I searched out the packets 1 years and larger, ending with a small pile of some rather interesting fabrics. Velvet, tulle, something that had huge flowers and felt like curtains, but nothing that seemed right for a dirndl. I had no idea really what a dirndl would look like but I had seen the film, Heidi, and felt if Shirley Temple would not have worn it neither would I.

I finally found a cotton fabric with embroidered holes in it. It felt like cotton. The holes had thread filling in the edges, and the design was flower like. It was beige, rather plain, and so was the threading. There was a heard and a half and the price was 75 cents. I wondered if I could put a green color underneath so the other kids could not see my underwear through the holes. There was a kind of thin green cotton in a small bundle for 25 cents, and so I took my purchases down to the clerk.

”Do you need notions?” This was a rather perplexing question. I gathered my dignity and my cash, and said, “thank you, no, I have my own notions.” She smiled and took my money and sent me off with my little bag of fabric.

I celebrated with a root beer float at Trotter’s, ordering like a professional soda fountain customer. Someone bought me a cookie. I was thrilled and thanked the nameless admirer, who was probably just the waitress who enjoyed serving children.

I went to the post office and put a dime into the pay phone, dialing our home number, then hanging up after two rings. That was the signal for Dad to come pick me up, He arrived in the Bomber, our aging but dignified Cadillac. “How was your day, bumming around town?” This was one of his favorite questions. “Fine, dad, I got what I needed.”

Mom was happy I had gotten cotton, but not so happy that I was deviating from the plain design of the school handout. She smiled and got out our Singer sewing machine, and scissors, and cut rectangles just long enough for a skirt, and wide enough for the dancing. I asked how she knew how big it was supposed to be. She said the fabric was 44” wide, and my hips were less than 22”, so the skirt would be full enough. She cut waistbands out of the rest of the fabric. A little bit was left and mom said I could make a Barbie dress out of the leftovers.

She let me watch as she threaded the machine with beige thread. “I will sew the lining with beige because no one will see it.” She could tell I was disappointed and so set me off to find green thread to match the lining. She made the bobbin of beige and sewed the top skirt first, with a single seam and a straight hem. She wound just a bit of green thread onto a bobbin for the linin and redid the thread on the Singer.

The lining took the same amount of time, almost none. I watched her carefully, wondering how she could work so quickly and not sew through her fingers.

Mom sewed the tops of the lining and skirt together with a longer stitch, and the pulled the lower thread to turn it into gathers. She had left a small opening at the tops of both sets of fabric, and said I didn’t need a zipper. That was fine. She found hooks and eyes for the closure and sewed them on at the very end of the project.

Mom made a waistband and fit it around my waist. Pinning the gathered skirt onto the waist, she sewed it on and then threaded a regular needle and showed me how to use it to enclose the raw edge. I was so proud to finish that skirt. I vowed I would one day make beautiful things from fabric.

May Day was a huge success. The other girls, like me, pranced around in our simple skirts, and the boys wove their ribbons into ours. The finished basket was a bit weird looking, but we felt we had accomplished so much by celebrating the first Day of May.

I recall we never celebrated May Day again at school, as some parent complained it was also Lenin’s birthday. I was surprised. Who cared? Who knew?

Making that skirt and seeing how thing could be made by imagining, and knowing how to put things together, was magic, and I was a little lady wizard With needle and thread.