IN the attic of this house is a box with a label that reads ‘Christening Gown’. It contains the carefully folded ivory-silk and lace gown wrapped in acid-free paper that our son, Sam, wore at his christening. We have pictures of the day: parents, grandparents and godparents around the font. I am wearing a pink suit and a pillbox hat. I still have the hat, but searching has not produced the box with the ancestral christening gown worn by the three-month old baby boy.
What I did find: a box of white linen smocks and long cotton dresses with
