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Wedding dress, for sale, never used
A year before we moved to town from our farmstead home of 30 years, Alice decided to sell her beautiful 51-year-old wedding dress, carefully hung in its original protective bag, worn only by my her and our babysitter (our daughter had chosen something reusable for her ceremony).
“I don’t know who I’m saving this for?” she sighed, “Maybe you can sell it with the property.”
I agreed to write an ad, but wanted Alice to handle the transaction, knowing ownership would be a nostalgic ache in this decision.
A week later Alice looked up from the breakfast paper. “Listen to this. It sounds like me: Wedding Dress, For Sale, Never Used.”
The ad was a romanticist’s storyboard regarding a precious possession let go with reluctance. “It sounds like more closure than a sale,” said my Missus. “Like an owner wanting to find a good home for old Shep.” I agreed.
“I’m going to call and inquire. Maybe she needs to tell her story. Wedding Dress, Never Used, I feel it right here.”
Alice did call. More than once. She received several attachments, including photos and a copy of the pricy invoice. On the pretext of buying it for our granddaughter, she arranged a visit. “I’d like to see if it comes close to fitting before I bring up the idea of an encore wedding dress.”
She came back all tears. As expected the young woman’s story did need re-telling. Alice is a good listener.
Tim Theriault, the dress owner’s fiancé, fished lobster with his dad May through June, then fancied-up their boat for whale watching July through Labour Day.
He was a handsome, funny, thoughtful, only child who loved the sea, loved working with his dad and loved Ellen MacKay, his beaming bride-to-be.
It was Set Day along Nova Scotia’s western coast, the most dangerous 24-hours in the short lobster season, when scores of water-wise fishers gunned their trap-laden boats to time tested grounds, salting the sea with colorful buoys roped to hundreds of traps nestled below.
As if in answer to a thousand fisher prayers and priestly blessings, the seas were bath water-flat as the fleet left harbour.
DFO phoned at 4:33. Amanda II had run aground with half its traps still aboard. Harley Theriault’s body had been spotted by a fisher and brought to Yarmouth. His son, Tim, who wouldn’t be caught dead in those damn orange suits, was never found.
Harley’s death was declared a heart attack. They surmised he’d tangled in a line laying traps.
Tim must have dived in to save his dad without that vital ring hanging on the cabin wall, blocked behind all those un-laid traps. Tim couldn’t swim.
Alice said she searched for a condolence, but was empty of words. “I just reached out and held her,” she said. “I held her as if she were my own, and in that moment she was.”
But only for a moment... “You’re about my granddaughter’s size,” she said. Would it be asking too much to see how the dress looks on you?”
Ellie’s eyes went wide for a nano-moment before she nodded and proceeded to disrobe as if they were sisters, not strangers.
“I was so moved,” said Alice. “I just broke down and wept.”
Ellie fitted a comb and extensive veil in place. “This was Granny’s. I would have been the third generation to wear it.”
“Ellen MacKay was made for that dress,” said Alice. I told her that. I told her I’d buy it. I doubled what she was asking and never gave it a second thought.
“I’m putting this on lay-away for you. It will always be yours should you consider marrying again. Please, keep that as an open option.”
Then it was Ellen who burst into tears, grabbing my wife tightly. They just stood there bawling like babies.
That year we sold the property, downsized by two/thirds and moved to Annapolis Royal. Rest assured, there was still space in our reduced closets to hang two wedding dresses, one never used.
Four years later we down-sized by half again and moved to a senior’s community in Dartmouth, this time without Alice’s classic gown for whom she had found a grateful candidate.
Ellie’s wedding dress was gone by then as well, jubilantly used by the one it was intended for all along.
