As I put up last night's post, I got to thinking about my mother and the leopard suit she lovingly constructed for me when I was four. There were fabric remnants left over from the leopard suit and with it, she cobbled together a bikini for me, edged sassily in red trim. I have photographic evidence that I wore it in public a few times. One occasion was at a backyard swim party on my 5th birthday; In the photograph, I look like Tarzan in pigtails with my friends gathered around me in their suitable and subdued swim attire. This first foray into fashion recklessness can be squarely planted at the feet of my hip, outlandish mother.

I suppose I should thank her though I didn't appreciate it at the time. Growing up in Fresno, California, it was cool to wears jeans and overalls and matched kid sets they sold at Lerner's. When I came of school age, I was sent off to the classroom dressed not in Garanimals, but in concoctions born of my mother's fertile imagination.

My mother was a product of a big, progressive city. Growing up, she gravitated to the latest fashion trends that seized young women in London. For her, it was perfectly natural to impulsively peroxide your hair, wear a dangerously short skirt or dress like a beatnik with a beret. She never abandoned her sense of fashion outrageousness when she settled in California and she had no intention of sending me out in the world looking like one of the locals.

At that age, the notion of fashion parameters hadn't entered my mind (I would have worn the leopard suit to school had I been allowed) so I was hardly in a position to resist her clothing selections. It was only after a few weeks in kindergarten that I knew I didn't quite belong. That's a feeling not easily forgotten.

To this day, I simply have no clue where my mother dug up some of the get-ups she dressed me in because you couldn't find such things in Fresno. I'm secretly convinced she had some of her friends in London send her the odd bit they picked up in Carnaby Street, but I'll never know for sure. I know there were some "sensible" items, like jumpers with t-shirts and plaid dresses with Peter Pan collars. But what I remember in crystal clear detail are some of the fashion disasters that I trotted off to school in. Those particularly haunting ensembles were:

-A lime green suit, with a little Chanel style tailored jacket, pleated skirt, lime green fishnet tights and white Mary Janes
-A white sleeveless shift dress covered in Pop Art images with white patent boots
-A magenta pantsuit with huge bell-bottoms with collar and cuffs trimmed in black ribbon
-A canary yellow go-go mini dress with wide bell sleeves and hem that was very hard to sit in
-A paisley teal peasant top and matching bell bottoms, covered with laces (the one benefit to this outfit is I learned to tie a shoelace practicing on the laces of these funky pants)

I'm sure there were many more, but these five are seared into my memory.

It may sound cute now, imaging a goofy five year old with a Beatle haircut in these silly outfits. At the time, however, I was an object of complete derision and suffered some horrendous teasing at the hands of my schoolmates. Eventually, I came to realize that most people in my hometown did not dress this way and my rebellion against swinging 60s fashion ensued. We managed a compromise for the next few years as I buried myself under high collars, sweaters and anything that wouldn't allow me to appear conspicuous.

She must have known she'd sewn some seeds in me, though, and I credit her for her patience as I grew into adolescence. One day I woke up and I wanted to look hip and goofy again (and well, I had some boobs now that filled clothes out better). We started trading and sharing clothes and shoes, something we continued to do until her death.

One last story that must be told here because it illustrates perfectly this shared bond between us, once we came to an understanding. When I was in my early 20s, I found a magnificent dress on sale for the unheard of price of $35. This dress was a knee length flapper style sheath, lined in lambswool and completely covered with layers of gold sequins. Where would I wear such a garment? Who cares? At $35, you can't go wrong! So I bought the dress and made occasion to parade it out. It gleamed like a mirror, had to be cleaned with formaldehyde and was heavy to wear, but it always made a fabulous entrance. In the 20 years I've owned this dress (and I still own it), it made its way from me to my mother and back again a dozen times. I can't think of many people who would want to wear it in public...except for us.