In the 1970s, the Duluth Symphony was supporting a once-a-year, pull-out-all-the-stops grand opera performance, complete with rented sets and costumes, the orchestra, opera chorus, soloists and up-and-comers from the New York City Opera Co., plus a professional director to put the whole thing together.

The year they did “Fledermaus,” the organization was missing their wardrobe manager. She had burned out after many years of unpacking and organizing the costumes, doing the fittings and the alterations, getting everyone into their rightful costumes and out onstage. They looked around and saw me doing much the same things for the Duluth Civic Ballet and asked if I would jump in and help them out. And so I did.

The man who was directing the production had a reputation of using his immense imagination and lavish costume designs to accomplish his over-the-top versions of the old classic opera stories. I had not met him yet. The gorgeous costumes had arrived from A.T. Jones, a Baltimore Costume rental house, and I was working away in the Duluth Entertainment Convention Center wardrobe room, altering someone’s pants, when I felt a large presence fill up the doorway.

There stood John Lehmeyer, guest director from the Baltimore Opera Co., scowling at me. He came in, poked around, checking how I had the costumes organized and examined some hair ornaments I had whipped up for the chorus, looked me over and made up his mind right then that I was the one he’d been looking for to build his hats, millinery and bring his wild costume sketches to life. And so I did.

My first set of hats for John was tame. They would be for “La Bohème,” performed by the Baltimore Opera Co. and then owned by A.T. Jones, who would then rent them out until they fell apart. Now, I had watched my mom make her own hats in the 1950s with the ready-made hat frames in funny little shapes. However, opera hats and headpiece frames have to be made from scratch because the singers usually wear costumes that make them look larger than life. So they usually wear wigs — very large wigs — and their hats have to fit over the enlarged heads.

Because I hadn’t a clue what I was doing, I made the frames from Ace Hardware wire screening, edged with folded masking tape to keep the pokey wires from jabbing me. I was sure the opera folks would think I was a real “bumpkin” for using the wire screening, but no, they were impressed because those hats were virtually indestructible. John was happy.

But, here I was, in Duluth, Minnesota, with a husband and children. We were not moving to Baltimore. So we worked it out like this: John would come to Duluth twice a year, at Christmas and in August, take up residence in one of our spare rooms, and relax. I’m sure we became a deduction on his income tax.

For two months a year, he became “Uncle John.” He would shut himself away to do his costume sketches and study his librettos for the coming season. When he was ready, we would make a day trip to S.R. Harris Co. in Minneapolis to gather the fabrics, trim and hardware needed for that year’s costumes. He would leave me with fabric swatches and costume sketches. I would make the hats and headpieces, body armor, belts, Elizabethan ruffs — whatever went with the costumes.

I would ship everything to Baltimore and then fly out to do the final fittings, work the dress rehearsals and go to opening night. I couldn’t work the actual performances because I was not union; I was just “John’s friend from Minnesota.” This cycle went on for about 22 years, two or three operas a year. I loved it. Yes, I did.

One memorable fitting was on a man singing the role of the villain, Dr. Faustus, who sells the magic eyes to the puppeteer smitten with his own doll creation. This 6-foot, 6-inch bass/baritone was an imposing man, wearing a long cape and tall stovepipe hat that I had made. Someone took a picture of me standing up on a step stool, doing his fitting, just before he unfurled the “Magic Cape” and showed the inside. It was covered with three-dimensional eyeballs of every size and configuration. He strutted around, swishing the cape and you could tell he loved it.

Another one was for a very famous soprano who would be costumed for “Kismet” in a sequined and painted body suit and a turban I had concocted, which sported a high cloud of wired ostrich feathers. She was late, but here she came. She rushed into the sewing studio, where we were all waiting, stripped off every stitch of her clothing, struck a pose and sang, “I’m here! Do me!”

And the Italian diva singing “Aida,” who loved my Cleopatra headpiece, made with a gilded rubber snake coiled on the front. She refused to take it off, even to wear the other two headpieces that went with her costume changes. She wore it to the “after-the-show” party. I think she wore it on the plane back to Italy.

How could John know that I was going to love making his outrageous designs? But he was right and so I did.

Next time: Hazardous duty at the Lyric Opera House.

Claudia Myers is a former costume designer for The Baltimore Opera, Minnesota Ballet and has taught design and construction at the College of St. Scholastica. She is a national award-winning quilter, author and a local antique dealer, specializing in Persian rugs.