There’s a wonderful short story by
Irwin Shaw titled “The Girls in Their Summer Dresses”. No one much reads Irwin Shaw any more,
but the title of that particular short story is so evocative that I think of it
as soon as the days begin to grow long and hot and lazy. Shaw’s summer girls wore demure flouncy
dresses in ice cream pastels; today’s girls favour very short short shorts and
tank tops in bold colours with bolder messages.
My grand-daughters go to Catholic School, and they are burdened by a dress code. They arrive here after school dressed the way a grandmother likes to see her grand-daughters dressed, and then they change into something more to their liking but to less to mine.
I went to an Anglican girls school. In winter we wore navy tunics; long-sleeved white blouses; black stockings; black oxfords and a red blazer with the school crest. In spring we wore navy tunics, short sleeved white blouses, knee-length socks, black oxfords and a red blazer with the school crest. I still remember the thrill of the sun on my knees.
Perhaps because I spent my formative years in uniforms, I have no interest whatsoever in clothes for myself, but I love watching what other people wear. There are many young, lovely fashionable women on my street, and I get a boot out of watching them dressed for the dozens of events young, lovely fashionable women attend.
Yesterday I had lunch with my friend, Marjorie. Among the many topics we covered in our long and indulgent lunch was the immense pleasure we take in the fact that we are of an age where we can wear sensible shoes and comfortable clothes. But as we sat talking of weighty matters, Marjorie and I both took note of the many girls in their summer dresses who brightened the tables of the restaurant. Irwin Shaw wasn’t there to celebrate their sunny beauty, so we did it in his memory.