Help from the Shelf

Long ago, I clipped a quote from an article about Joan Didion.  She told the journalist that when she was small and upset by something that happened in school, her parents would tell her to "go to literature" for help.  They believed she would find answers in the classics.  When I am unsettled, I also go to my shelves looking for, if not answers, comfort.  My books remind me who I am, where I've been, and where I need to go.

Like old friends, my library is familiar and friendly.  Sometimes just gazing at an image in one of my books takes me back to a version of myself that I may have forgotten.  I am reminded that the person who looked upon that image, sometimes many years ago, still exists within.  And if I can tap into her, I can tap into renewed strength.

I have favorite literature that offers me all kinds of inspiration but I thought I would give you some of the non-fiction books that I reach for in times of trouble.  So, straight from my shelf:

Linda Dannenberg's The Paris Way of Beauty will always be my favorite beauty book.  I purchased my copy in 1979 and as a young single working women, I learned how to care for myself and organize my beauty routine using its tried-and-true French methods.  I still employ the Recipe for a Basic Makeup outlined in the book and the diet advice has stood the test of time. I still get a thrill when I crack it open and a shy but chic young woman meets me between the pages.

Romancing the Ordinary by Sarah Ban Breathnach is not unlike her blockbuster Simple Abundance but it is more concrete in its approach.  I love both of Sarah's books but Romancing the Ordinary speaks to my soul.  Reading a few chapters before bed is like a beloved great aunt tucking me in as she murmurs, "There, there dear".  In times of stress or pain, Romancing the Ordinary provides the quiet comfort I crave.

When I need a good cry about life's heartbreaking tenderness, I reach for Nancy Lindemeyer's Jenny Walton's Packing for a Woman's Journey.  Nancy's stories, drawn from her childhood to young womanhood are so poignantly written that it is one of the only books that can make me sob out loud.  Her stirring essays about the grandmother who adopted her as a small child, tug at my heartstrings like a plaintive violin.  I had the pleasure of having lunch with Nancy once and she told me that the only way to write the stories was to relive each one.  It shows.

My Father by Judy Collins is illustrated by my favorite children's book artist, Jane Dyer.  The story is about a daughter of a coal miner whose life is made radiant by her father's dreams for her.  Dyer's colorful and gently realistic interpretations of what should have been a stark childhood come alive off the page.  This book is perfect for a weary grown-up's lullaby.

I love the art of the Impressionists and so another book I turn to regularly aligns fashion with my favorite art movement.  Dior Impressions:  the Inspiration and Influence of Impressionism at the House of Dior is a beautiful volume that explores the relationship between Dior's designs and 19th century artists use of light, nature and color.  Many of Dior's dresses appear to step right from the gilded frame.  The text is engaging and the book is so spring-like, I can almost smell verdant grasses when I open it.  Mesmerizing.

Bright April (or Fringed Placemats)

"It's a book about Girl Scouts", said the book dealer as I lightly turned the pages of Bright April, a children's book by Marguerite de Angeli.  "Actually, it's a book about diversity", I quietly responded.

I am well-acquainted with Bright April as it is a story I read often to my daughter when she was small.  I spent a lot of time selecting books for my child's personal library.  If even one illustration seemed "off" to me, the book went back on the bookseller's shelf.  But Marguerite de Angeli's books filled up prime bookshelf real estate in my daughter's bedroom and she left them here for me.  For the time being.

Bright April had me at the fringed placemats in the illustration above, so enchanted was I with the details of the picture.  De Angeli's work is so vivid and cheerful and her stories are often about things dear to my heart - like home.  But in Bright April, she tackles a serious issue and she does it gently and with honesty.  Admittedly, the book is just a bit politically incorrect -  but there is only one line I would alter for today's audience.

I did purchase the bookdealer's edition - it is in much better shape than the one I have at home.  The spine and the boards of my copy have frayed and broken apart and are only held together now by strings.  But when I brought the new book home I found not one but two copies of Bright April on my shelves.  One was the 1945 edition that was falling apart and the other one, had a stamp on the inside cover from a church I regularly attended when my daughter was still a pre-schooler.  Suddenly,  I remembered I borrowed the book from the church's library and did not return it in the flurry of moving to a new state.

Right now, my old copy is at the bookbinder's being repaired - I discovered from the bookseller that it's a first edition and therefore, should be preserved.  When I collect it, I plan on sending it to the church as a gift along with their missing copy.  It will be dispatched with a note of apology.  Mine, I will keep on my nightstand to dip into for pure beauty and for the comfort of a bedtime story.

It will also remind me to resume my lifelong search for fringed placemats.

~

More beauty from Marguerite de Angeli:

Something about Heroes

This handsome chap is a friend's grandfather.  His picture received a lot of attention on my Instagram account.  Knowing how much I love old photographs, even those of people I don't know, my friend regularly drops vintage pictures into my greedy hands.  His grandfather reminds me of the Arrow Shirt and Collar man, although he doesn't have the angular planes to his face that the traditional Arrow illustrations do (see below).  Instead, his allure, although masculine, has the softness of a hero in a Grace Livingston Hill novel.  Hill's champions are always strong men with gentle cores that never drift from right decision in everything they do.  They are usually wealthy but conduct themselves with uncompromising integrity in business as well as - and especially in, love. Often, the hero in a Grace Livingston Hill novel spots a woman who is lovely in being but downtrodden in life.  He becomes her sympathizer first, quietly on the sidelines, and then her protector and defender.  Usually a marriage takes place at the end.

Hill's stories are of course, fiction.  Jane Austen subscribed to the same formula and once wrote, "My ladies shall have all they desire, but only after a bit of trouble".  Austen's novels end with voluptuously satisfying weddings.  I love happy endings and I love the good strong men who make all my literary happy endings possible.  They keep me searching for goodness, chivalry and kindness in our upside-down world.  And they give me hope.

Our good-looking fellow became the town dentist who often took no money for his services. I also have a picture of him in his dental office about 1940, and although the place looks like a truly fearsome torture chamber, he is still remembered and kindly so, 70 years later.  Astonishing.  Handsome benevolence - a winning combination for heroes, in novels and in life.

The dentist...far left.

Summer Skies and Lullabies

As we await the delivery of wedding photographs, we are reminiscing about our happy day. Sunday morning dawned with smokey fog but by noon, the skies peeled back to reveal a lovely Wedgewood blue -  the color that transforms objects into something heavenly, as if one has put on rose-colored glasses.  More than once, I felt a catch in my throat - and a longing for something ...more time...more lullabies...a little girl and her dolly...and for other lives no longer overlap ours.  I also had the sensation of being carried around on a cushioned bed of serenity and happiness.  It was my daughter's wedding day!

I remember the rows of white chairs as we strolled down the aisle of our cloistered grotto. The hydrangeas bowed their heavy heads and the hibiscus danced a shimmy at the whispering sea breezes. My daughter's ivory dress suddenly seemed so bright and fresh in the sunlight, the meaning of it so clear...her perfection, her youth, her joy...and all her hopes for the future represented in the chiffon flower, the encrusted pearls, the simple net veil.  Her golden locks were smoothed out and shiny, skin perfect.  At the simple altar, rosebud lips - the same ones I fretted over so worriedly in a hospital isolate so many years ago - whispered "I love you forever, Mom".  She released my arm with a squeeze and I took my place.

The ceremony was simple and hushed and over way too fast - a promise, a ring, a kiss...no drama or hype - no fuss -  so very like her.  I watched them pass by to "Here Comes the Sun" but at the end of the aisle, they stopped and waited for me.  Together we three wrapped our arms about each other and smiled into sets of brimming eyes.  And then, my new son murmured something only I heard:  "She's safe... you don't have to worry anymore".  Oh young man, if you but only knew...

The flashbacks have stopped at last.  I am clearing out her room and spreading out my life. When I went to bed that first night there was a card nestled beside my pillow.  On one side was her love letter and on the other, the instructions for changing the time on my clock radio - something I never got the hang of.

More beauty, fashion, books, art, and life posts coming up...back to my usual musings soon!

Just Beyond the Page

This is Jean-Honor� Fragonard's painting, A Young Girl Reading, 1770.  The reader is enraptured with her book but her mind is soaring with vivid imaginings born on the pages.  I see her as a lass on the brink of womanhood who is about to leave a life of quiet domesticity for a world she has thus far, only read about.  My dear sister bought me a blank notebook with the painting's image on the cover.  The pretty pages are lined and gold-tipped and perfect for jotting down ideas and quotes.  I will take her with me as I head back to work tomorrow after one of the most peaceful vacations I've ever had.

I made a point of staying home a lot and immersed myself in reading - real escapism in the form of Grace Livingston Hill novels.  Critics of Livingston Hill reject the spiritual rhetoric the author interjects in her stories.  But I actually found it comforting, especially after having a particularly spiteful December at the office.  Livingston Hill also includes lots of fashion descriptions and domestic details in her books and I latched onto those too, especially the homey fine points.  The Substitute Guest, The Gold Shoe, and Astra all put me into a wintery nesting mood, helped along by the prettiest little dining room chandelier my future son-in-law gave me on Christmas Eve. 

As fun as puttering about my home was, I also had a mind to the future.  I am writing a book and must find a way to wend that work around my day job.  A newspaper gig I've had for three years has ended and new freelance work is yet on the horizon.  I do still love coming here for naturalness and a bit of creativity.  It's where I write most authentically.  Like Fragonard's reading miss, I have imaginings about my new year that bob just beyond the pages of the books I read this week.  And as I head back through the familiar doors of my job tomorrow morning, my golden notebook will accompany me to capture buoyant dreams for home, work, and love in the new year.

~

Here are some Grace Livingston Hill highlights from this week:

"It takes a canny soul to read her own heart."

"The very chime of the cathedral clock in some dim recess (of the house) seemed like fairy bells."

"They just live in it, like sunshine!"

"The girl saw a sprigged china bowl, the steaming fragrance of whose contents made her know suddenly that she was hungry.  There was a plate of delicately browned buttered toast, a tiny mound of ruby jelly, some crisp hearts of celery, and the cup of tea."

"He stocked up his refrigerator with all the delicacies he could think of for midnight suppers and quiet meals by themselves."

"This home even the brief glimpse he had, showed that there was still beauty and love and good fellowship left upon the earth, still a real spirit of Christmas to be found if one looked in the right place for it."

On the Sixth Day of a Feminine Christmas

This illustration was taken from my copy of Tasha Tudor's Christmas book, Take Joy, which is a charming compilation of traditional Christmas fables.  This is Della from the O. Henry short story, The Gift of the Magi.  She is counting her coins to buy her beloved husband Jim, a Christmas present.  This interpretation sold the book to me because Tasha put Della in a miniskirt in an otherwise traditional "Tasha" book.  As you know, Tasha lived her life as an 1830's woman and yet this book, published in 1966, was at the heyday of the mini, and that's why I find the illustration so intriguing.

Most likely you've read The Gift of the Magi.  The first time I read it I found it completely endearing - its twist ending is known as comic irony and the story is a splendid example.  O. Henry was said to have written the Edwardian-era story in a pub one night.  Sometimes writing is like that...it flows freely to perfection but it really doesn't happen all that often.

What's really perfect though, is the young love between Jim and Della and the lengths they go to find each other's heart's desire in the form of Christmas presents.  It's also about sacrifice because Jim and Della both sacrifice things they each hold very dear to make the other happy.

I enjoy a re-read of this enchanting classic every Christmas...for the reminder of an Edwardian couple's true holiday spirit as well as another peek at a 1966 Della. 

A Day in November

Like Christmas, one of my favorite days of the year comes but once in twelve months.  Yesterday was the day I made my annual trek to my favorite Boston book fair.  This exhibit is small and highly curated with only the most intriguing books and paper, including old letters and journals.  I especially love the children's books.  I saw a full collection of Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne series - the same books my grandparents brought me from Prince Edward Island when I was a girl.  I would have saved them had I known my set would become so valuable one day.  I pawed my way through first editions of Nancy Drew with their colorful 1930's dust jackets.  Nancy was so chic as she, George, and Bess strolled into the Lilac Inn to solve that mystery.  My fingers brushed across the spines of Cherry Ames, Sue Barton, and Trixie Beldon...all pre-teen favorites.  I read a few ancient letters and poked through some marvelous old photographs.

A lot of commerce transpires at this book fair and I've been lucky enough to go home with some lovely things over the years - but not this time.  Prices have risen and I am being cautious.  After our  early dinner, my friend and I strolled through one of the most upscale and elite malls in the country - The Copley Place Mall.  I know this mall intimately as I once had a job with offices ensconced on the third floor above the shops.  The only thing that has changed since I left that job is that the mall has become even more expansive and decadent.  Only the most exclusive shops have real estate at The Copley Place Mall - dark and delicious chocolate emporiums, Italian leather handbag stores, and be still my heart, a gorgeous French lingerie shop.  It was almost too "too" and after peeking into a few stores and watching enormous amounts of credit and cash exchanges, I noticed I was beginning to feel a little sorry for myself.  I WANTED that cozy oatmeal cashmere lounging outfit for $750.  I NEEDED that butter-soft red Italian handbag with the petite brass acorn-shaped clasp that cost what my parent's paid for their first house.

Usually I find browsing delightfully inspiring.  I love looking at the way stylists put together ensembles for store's windows.  I will often take pictures discreetly with my cell phone to remember the unique way colors and patterns are mixed.  I get ideas for writing my style column with these images:  it keeps me relevant and helps with trend-spotting even if I cannot afford to buy.  But this time, a cloud fell over me with the excess and exorbitance. It was all too much and I was overcome with a stifling and urgent need to escape.  As my friend and I headed for the escalators and back to the train station, I suddenly noticed an Asian family huddled close on a small marble bench in the center of the mall near a three-story waterfall.  I saw the father figure bent down on one knee before the bench where I presumed his two small children, wife and mother-in-law were sitting.  All heads were bowed. All hands were touching.  Their eyes were squeezed shut.  They were praying.  I certainly don't know why - it may have been a benediction before having a meal or perhaps they were taking a break from someone's bedside in one of the numerous city hospitals nearby.  I wondered about them even as the crowd pushed us ever forward towards the overstuffed escalators filled with people carrying enormous crinkling shopping bags.  But so moved was I to see that tender private family moment in the middle of all the handbags, trinkets and clothes of my dreams.  As we glided slowly down the escalator, elbow to elbow, I lifted my head above the throng to see if I could get a last glimpse the small family but they had disappeared.

Now I'm not going to tell you I had a big epiphany or that I am banning beautiful exclusive shopping meccas in the future.  But being touched to the core by the poignant image of the praying family, I started to examine areas of my life where I need to slow down and connect in more meaningful ways.  On the long train ride home, I began to make a mental list for some casual suppers I will host for loved ones soon, and other ways I can be kind, generous.  Available.  I made a promise to myself to read more inspiring things and not just the free fashion tomes I receive from publishers.  And I will remember that it is not always the dress I am wearing but the woman inside the dress that I should be most concerned with.

When I arrived home, I quickly scribbled down some of the things I had seen in Boston:  the books, the love letters, the trees at dusk that flank Copley Square's beautiful old Trinity Church.  And yes, the supple leather handbags and silk scarves.  And I wrote about that dear family with heads bowed in a hushed evocation all their own.  After I put out the downstairs lights, I reached for my grandmother's afghan to wrap about me as I stepped onto the porch for a last moment at the end of a long day.  Outside, the night was still and quiet...as if in prayer itself.

Paperdoll Worlds

I loved paperdolls as a child.  I thought they were the most precious things.  My mother tore out Betsy McCall's page from her monthly McCall�s magazine for me and I spent many afternoons on the braided rug in the living room, legs folded under, painstakingly clipping Betsy's dainty dresses with the fastening tabs.  Later, I graduated to Barbie paperdolls and then bride paperdolls that were so romantic and pretty, the dresses so exquisite and lacey - all the stuff of  little girls' dreams.  

I kept my dolls in a dented and chipped round metal cookie tin - a big cheery jumble of paper dresses, sweaters and skirts, coats, knee sox and patent leather shoes.  After I dressed my dolls, I made up conversations between them and trotted them off to make-believe parties and weddings where they would live happily ever after...forevermore...amen.  My plans for my dolls were as expansive as my fantasies.  I never had a friend who loved paperdolls with the same fervor until I met Kay, 40 years later.  Not that Kay and I actually played with paperdolls as grown single mothers - but we rejoiced the day we discovered we were both mad for them as girls.

 

Not only did Kay play with paperdolls but she drew her own.  She vividly remembers drawing a bride paper doll and a groom.  She was playing with them on a dock at her aunt and uncle�s cottage on Chesapeake Bay when a wind blew them into the water. Her uncle saved the day by fishing them out with a crab net, so beloved were they to her.

 

I read recently that empty nesters should ask themselves who they were when they were ten years old.  The theory is to recapture childhood passions and use them as a launch pad to discover what one should do when intense parenting is over.  I won't be clipping paperdolls from magazines anytime soon but I have been thinking a lot about what things will sustain me and feed my soul in the future.  Lately, I've been re-reading some classic childhood storybooks such as The Little Princess and Little Women.  I already know that books will always have a place in my life and after revisiting old favorites as an grown-up, I've observed that the very best children's books can be appreciated at any age.  But reading will not be enough.

 

Kay is a gifted image consultant and states that her clients are like grown-up paperdolls to her - she loves dressing and accessorizing them.  Perhaps her gift was born of all those happy hours spent on a braided rug at her house - or on a wooden dock.  As for me, I would love to have a peek inside that old beat-up cookie tin again.  Even better, find some new passions...but only ones that are as engrossing and thrilling as a paperdoll world.  

  

Come back when you grow up, girl

You've still got a lotta time left in the world

You'll some day be a woman ready to love

Come back, baby, when you grow up

 

Come back when you grow up, girl

You're still livin' in a paper-doll world

Livin' ain't easy, lovin's twice as tough

So come back, baby, when you grow up

 

~Bobby Vee

 

Fatherly Advice

Poetry sometimes throws light into the darker corners of existence.  It offers truths that are based on intuition, keen eyes, and soulful experiences. Just like good advice.  Some days when my thoughts have no safe place to rest, I turn to the words of Andrew Stuart, father to Jane, in Lucy Maud Montgomery's wonderful novel, Jane of Lantern Hill.

When I read Lantern Hill, I hear Mr. Stuart's words spoken by the gravelly voiced Sam Waterston, the actor who played him in the 1990 film of the book.  His voice has a deep resonating element that cheers me, comforts me.  But what I really need is Mr. Stuart's between-the-words wisdom and guidance for good plain living.  And because L.M. Montgomery's stories are so rooted in nature, his advice is spiritual as well as tranquilizing.  Let's see if he can make you feel better too.

"It is the essence of adventure to see the break of a new day, Jane.  What may it not be ushering in?  An empire may fall today...a baby may be born who will discover a cure for cancer...a wonderful poem may be written". 

"When the little moments torture you, Jane, think of the truth and the truth shall make you free...that is the most tremendous saying in the world Jane...because we are all afraid of the truth...and afraid of freedom that the truth will bring you".

"Be sure to have a patch of excitement most every week".

"The most awful and the most beautiful things in the world can be said in three words or less...he is gone...he is come...I love you...it's too late.  Life is illuminated or ruined in words Jane.  And yet, when a poet praises a woman, she becomes immortal".

"Don't let others blow your candles out".

"Watch the stars whenever you are worried Jane.  They will steady you...comfort you...balance you".

"Jane, always remember that death can never fence out love".

~

Father does know best sometimes.

Mistress of Herself

I've written about her before on this blog, but Mrs. Delany continues to capture my imagination and inspire me as my premier muse.  In addition to reinventing herself many times over, she kept living well and enjoying life long after many of her contemporaries had fallen.  Her gorgeous paper mosaicks (sic) created after her 72nd year, her needlework, her shell designs all remain for us to explore. 

I will forever be drawn to flowers on black backdrops such as the awe-inspiring dress above because it echoes so much of her art and needlework motifs.  In fact, if I had $425 un-earmarked, I would be purchasing Gucci's new and lovely Flower Print silk scarf.  With its roses, trailing vines, and even insects, it is the perfect foil for all things Delany.  I have officially embraced the movement.

But it really is the woman herself who draws me in.  Despite bitter hardships and a horrible arranged first marriage, she was always ready for her next reincarnation.  She never looked back.  She began creating her mosaiks during the potent stage of first grief after her beloved second husband's death - a time when one would expect a drawing in of life and creativity.  Instead, Mrs. Delany constructed over 1,000 pieces of artwork that still captivate us with their intricate detail and uniqueness.  She also maintained her friendships with the younger women in her circle through correspondence and extended visits, always curious about the latest fashions and trends. An arbiter of good taste and good sense, she was a woman who stood up for herself in times when women were suppose to be docile and subservient.  Mrs. Delany was no pushover and spoke her mind.  She knew who she was and based her life on that vision.  Lessons for today.  Difficult work for any woman.  Profound for an 18th century one.

Enthusiastic letter-writer, lively conversationalist, skilled needlewoman, social observer, she was mistress to no one but herself.