Illustration by Vian Wrya
We all took our seats amongst the green forests of the Gatineau Hills, just across the river from Ottawa. Cousins, aunts, uncles and siblings craned their necks to catch that first glimpse of the bride. The radiant smile of my niece shone back to us. She tightly gripped the arms of her mother and father and slowly walked toward us. As we smiled back, many of us glanced at each other with looks of confusion and, for some, shock. It appeared that our bride was wearing a dress made 70 years ago by her great-grandmother (my granny) in Wales. This stunning lace dress, safely stored in my mother’s home for seven decades, had become a legend in our family. Could it truly be the same gown?
My Welsh mother was married in 1956, in Swansea, Wales, to my father, who was Canadian. They met during my mother’s first year of undergraduate studies in London. My Calgarian father was also in London, completing his graduate studies. Their eyes had met at a “Paul Jones” dance, where the next dance partner is decided for you: an inner circle of moving women and an outer circle of men stop and face each other when the music cuts out. This is how their story began. My mum was swept away by Dad’s gentle spirit, curious mind and Canadian accent and my dad was swooped away by my mum’s beauty and warmth. They became engaged in 1954, with plans to relocate to Canada.
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So, my Welsh granny took on the project of creating a wedding dress for her daughter. She took the train from Swansea up to London to find the fabric, and mother and daughter met at the famous Harrods Department Store, which was renowned for selling imported fabrics. A gorgeous French lace was selected. Money was in short supply for most families postwar, so knowing that my granny had taken the train up to London to buy this expensive lace would have resulted in many other sacrifices. Our family grew up hearing the story that Granny almost went blind making this dress, as much of it was hand-sewn.
Meanwhile, my dad returned to Canada to start his career as a research scientist in Ottawa. After one year apart, he returned to Wales two days before the wedding. Regular commutes across the Atlantic did not occur in the 1950s.
And so, the threads of this dress began to weave through generations of our family. My mother wore it in 1956, as did her sister in 1958. I am one of three daughters and we all processed down the aisle in this same dress in 1980, 1985 and 1987. We all felt elegant in the gown that our Welsh granny had sewn. There was never a discussion about looking at other options; we all wanted to wear it and be linked to its history.
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Between our families, there are now six young women (and six granddaughters for my parents). All four of the married granddaughters considered wearing the beloved dress, stored in my now 92-year-old mother’s house. The lace had become very fragile and there were many holes where some of the lace had worn away. By holding the dress in their hands, it gave them a chance to share stories with their granny of her happy wedding day decades ago. They also heard again the story of their courtship and the journey across the Atlantic to their new home in Canada, which served as their honeymoon. The dress still held its magic, but repair work seemed insurmountable. None of them wore it on their wedding day.
Seeing my niece walk down the grassy meadow in the 70-year-old wedding gown this summer defied all logic. The dress had been reborn with a new bride enveloped in its folds. A dress that has presided at five marriages, which have endured for decades. She glowed with this special connection to the past.
My prayer is that in wearing this dress, the sixth bride to do so, my niece will be blessed with a unique and loving relationship which will also endure. The threads have linked a new generation to its past and perhaps with other generations to come.
Susan Gibbons lives in Ottawa.
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