Ferns Garden
Fern had been raised one of ten children; children who were taught that poor didn’t equal dirty, and to make the best of what you had. These were skills she learned from her mother, along with how to make the world’s best grape jelly, how to grow a luscious garden out of the hard packed red dirt of Oklahoma, and how to do whatever she needed to do to keep her children provided for. She’d married young: a dashing blue-eyed, black-headed military man in the years shortly following the end of World War 2. The romance had been a whirlwind: short enough that Fern didn’t have time to see the cruelty that he kept hidden behind those baby blues. Within a year their first child was born, a boy they named for his daddy but one who inherited nothing from him but his temper. Three years later a baby girl joined them, and Fern knew that if her children were to have anything it was going to have to be provided by her. So, each morning she rose before the sun getting her children off to school with faces clean and bellies full, then she went off to work for an 8-hour day bent over accounts and calculations at which she excelled, then home again to prepare dinner and clean the house and do the laundry. In between she had just enough time to keep her children safe from the man who’d fathered them, but little else.
Then, when Fern was 45 years old that blue-eyed monster had the good grace to die. Well timed heart attack freed Fern from the prison she’d endured for 25 years. She was free at long last and determined to stay that way. Her children were grown and starting families of their own, thanks to a life insurance policy her home was paid for, and she certainly was no worse off for help than she’d been before. So, she settled into the idea of having a lovely time as one. Life has a funny way of changing our plans…
On Fridays Fern waited tables at a local senior’s center. She’d initially been coaxed into by a friend as a way to help out and enjoy some time together, but she quickly came to enjoy the elderly people she met, and most weekends, the music of the local bands that came to play. Some were truly awful, but most were lively and at least tolerable, and the seniors loved the chance to Charleston or cha-cha as best they could with their geriatric hips and knees. On Friday night February 18 of 1977 there was a new band. This one played old fashioned country music, and what they lacked in talent they made up for in volume. At first Fern didn’t notice the big, toothed bass player, but it wasn’t long until she felt his eyes burning a hole in her back. Each time she glanced his direction, he was smiling at her. A huge, shining smile. A kind smile. She didn’t smile back: her smiling back days were done.
The band took a break and radio music piped into the room. The seniors kept dancing and she kept skirting through their tables. She felt a tap on her shoulder, and turning she found that toothy smile looking down at her a “would you care to dance?” on its lips. “No thank you” she replied, “I’m working” and off she trotted. But he was handsome… The band played its second set, and took another break, and she felt another tap. She turned and before he had the chance to speak, she said “I said I’m working”. The teeth smiled at her again and replied, gesturing to her smiling friend “I paid her to take your shift. You’ve got a little break. Would you like to dance?”
They danced together for the next 33 years of life. They watched grandchildren have children, they traveled to all the states in the US except the two that had nothing to see, and they gardened. For the first time in Fern’s life she gardened for pleasure, and her garden was a riot of colors. Colors that reflected the happiness she’d found at last. Gerbera daisies were her favorite, and their vivid fuchsias, oranges and yellows always filled her front flower bed.
At 86 when she left this life to join him in the next, her family made sure she was wearing a dress covered with bright flowers, and her coffin covered in Gerbera dasies.
Fern had been raised one of ten children; children who were taught that poor didn’t equal dirty, and to make the best of what you had. These were skills she learned from her mother, along with how to make the world’s best grape jelly, how to grow a luscious garden out of the hard packed red dirt of Oklahoma, and how to do whatever she needed to do to keep her children provided for. She’d married young: a dashing blue-eyed, black-headed military man in the years shortly following the end of World War 2. The romance had been a whirlwind: short enough that Fern didn’t have time to see the cruelty that he kept hidden behind those baby blues. Within a year their first child was born, a boy they named for his daddy but one who inherited nothing from him but his temper. Three years later a baby girl joined them, and Fern knew that if her children were to have anything it was going to have to be provided by her. So, each morning she rose before the sun getting her children off to school with faces clean and bellies full, then she went off to work for an 8-hour day bent over accounts and calculations at which she excelled, then home again to prepare dinner and clean the house and do the laundry. In between she had just enough time to keep her children safe from the man who’d fathered them, but little else.
Then, when Fern was 45 years old that blue-eyed monster had the good grace to die. Well timed heart attack freed Fern from the prison she’d endured for 25 years. She was free at long last and determined to stay that way. Her children were grown and starting families of their own, thanks to a life insurance policy her home was paid for, and she certainly was no worse off for help than she’d been before. So, she settled into the idea of having a lovely time as one. Life has a funny way of changing our plans…
On Fridays Fern waited tables at a local senior’s center. She’d initially been coaxed into by a friend as a way to help out and enjoy some time together, but she quickly came to enjoy the elderly people she met, and most weekends, the music of the local bands that came to play. Some were truly awful, but most were lively and at least tolerable, and the seniors loved the chance to Charleston or cha-cha as best they could with their geriatric hips and knees. On Friday night February 18 of 1977 there was a new band. This one played old fashioned country music, and what they lacked in talent they made up for in volume. At first Fern didn’t notice the big, toothed bass player, but it wasn’t long until she felt his eyes burning a hole in her back. Each time she glanced his direction, he was smiling at her. A huge, shining smile. A kind smile. She didn’t smile back: her smiling back days were done.
The band took a break and radio music piped into the room. The seniors kept dancing and she kept skirting through their tables. She felt a tap on her shoulder, and turning she found that toothy smile looking down at her a “would you care to dance?” on its lips. “No thank you” she replied, “I’m working” and off she trotted. But he was handsome… The band played its second set, and took another break, and she felt another tap. She turned and before he had the chance to speak, she said “I said I’m working”. The teeth smiled at her again and replied, gesturing to her smiling friend “I paid her to take your shift. You’ve got a little break. Would you like to dance?”
They danced together for the next 33 years of life. They watched grandchildren have children, they traveled to all the states in the US except the two that had nothing to see, and they gardened. For the first time in Fern’s life she gardened for pleasure, and her garden was a riot of colors. Colors that reflected the happiness she’d found at last. Gerbera daisies were her favorite, and their vivid fuchsias, oranges and yellows always filled her front flower bed.
At 86 when she left this life to join him in the next, her family made sure she was wearing a dress covered with bright flowers, and her coffin covered in Gerbera dasies.
Fern had been raised one of ten children; children who were taught that poor didn’t equal dirty, and to make the best of what you had. These were skills she learned from her mother, along with how to make the world’s best grape jelly, how to grow a luscious garden out of the hard packed red dirt of Oklahoma, and how to do whatever she needed to do to keep her children provided for. She’d married young: a dashing blue-eyed, black-headed military man in the years shortly following the end of World War 2. The romance had been a whirlwind: short enough that Fern didn’t have time to see the cruelty that he kept hidden behind those baby blues. Within a year their first child was born, a boy they named for his daddy but one who inherited nothing from him but his temper. Three years later a baby girl joined them, and Fern knew that if her children were to have anything it was going to have to be provided by her. So, each morning she rose before the sun getting her children off to school with faces clean and bellies full, then she went off to work for an 8-hour day bent over accounts and calculations at which she excelled, then home again to prepare dinner and clean the house and do the laundry. In between she had just enough time to keep her children safe from the man who’d fathered them, but little else.
Then, when Fern was 45 years old that blue-eyed monster had the good grace to die. Well timed heart attack freed Fern from the prison she’d endured for 25 years. She was free at long last and determined to stay that way. Her children were grown and starting families of their own, thanks to a life insurance policy her home was paid for, and she certainly was no worse off for help than she’d been before. So, she settled into the idea of having a lovely time as one. Life has a funny way of changing our plans…
On Fridays Fern waited tables at a local senior’s center. She’d initially been coaxed into by a friend as a way to help out and enjoy some time together, but she quickly came to enjoy the elderly people she met, and most weekends, the music of the local bands that came to play. Some were truly awful, but most were lively and at least tolerable, and the seniors loved the chance to Charleston or cha-cha as best they could with their geriatric hips and knees. On Friday night February 18 of 1977 there was a new band. This one played old fashioned country music, and what they lacked in talent they made up for in volume. At first Fern didn’t notice the big, toothed bass player, but it wasn’t long until she felt his eyes burning a hole in her back. Each time she glanced his direction, he was smiling at her. A huge, shining smile. A kind smile. She didn’t smile back: her smiling back days were done.
The band took a break and radio music piped into the room. The seniors kept dancing and she kept skirting through their tables. She felt a tap on her shoulder, and turning she found that toothy smile looking down at her a “would you care to dance?” on its lips. “No thank you” she replied, “I’m working” and off she trotted. But he was handsome… The band played its second set, and took another break, and she felt another tap. She turned and before he had the chance to speak, she said “I said I’m working”. The teeth smiled at her again and replied, gesturing to her smiling friend “I paid her to take your shift. You’ve got a little break. Would you like to dance?”
They danced together for the next 33 years of life. They watched grandchildren have children, they traveled to all the states in the US except the two that had nothing to see, and they gardened. For the first time in Fern’s life she gardened for pleasure, and her garden was a riot of colors. Colors that reflected the happiness she’d found at last. Gerbera daisies were her favorite, and their vivid fuchsias, oranges and yellows always filled her front flower bed.
At 86 when she left this life to join him in the next, her family made sure she was wearing a dress covered with bright flowers, and her coffin covered in Gerbera dasies.
This one of a kind handmade pullover blouse is re-imagined from a cotton tablecloth circa 1930’s. 100% handmade by the artist. Material sourced in England
Measurements: Bust 40” max Waist 42” max Front Length 16”
Care Instructions and General Information: This one of a kind blouse is fashioned from a garment that is approximately 80 years old. It should be hand washed in cold water and laid flat to dry, iron on medium heat with starch to retain crispness. Due to the age there may be minor discolorations or areas of wear commiserate with age. This is normal and to be considered as part of the beauty of the garment
NO refunds or exchanges due to the one of a kind nature of the garment