The Scents of Fall

I switch my light summer fragrances to those with warmer accords when the air turns cool in September. More often than not, the perfume I reach for on chilly mornings is Chanel No. 5.  When I drive over the misty bridge that spans the cove in my town, I often shiver into my scarf or turtleneck and catch a whiff of the blanketed dusty rose that makes up part of the composition of the world's most famous perfume.

Searching for vintage Chanel No. 5 ads is so much fun that I may do a series of them here.  The copy on the ads is very sweet too.  But this one, speaks to my schoolgirl days when I too, walked to school on leaf-strewn streets.  The scents of those days are so embedded into my psyche that as soon as the calendar turns to September, I go into overdrive with nostalgia and memories, helped along by No. 5.

Also underneath the crunching sidewalks that led to school, were acorns and tiny decomposing apples that mixed with the wafting smoke from rusty barrels of burning leaves and branches.  These marvelous things blended together to create an olfactory soundtrack to fall.

Too, there were high school football games held in the old cement stadium known as Kelliher Field.  The seats were gravestone-cold but the cocoa, in perilously thin paper cups, was so searing hot that we could barely sip it for fear we would scorch our tongues.  But it smelled wonderful and deeply chocolate-y.  And somehow it went better with the fragrant buttery popcorn that assaulted us from the moment we stepped though the field's gates which compelled us to buy small red and white cardboard boxes of it.  Oh and didn't our mothers pull out the meatloaf recipes torn from Ladies Home Journal's and stuffed pork chops with sage again that filled our homes with such rich savory smells?  And cinnamon apple pie, anyone?  Back to perfume...

One golden fall, a friend's mother began to sell Avon.  That was the year I wore Sweet Honesty, Avon's answer to the 70's back-to-nature mania.  I fell for the all-natural look of the packaging which appealed to my personal style at the time:   bell-bottomed jeans and long straight hair shampooed with Herbal Essence.  Sweet Honesty came with me to school in a little roller bottle which I'm sure replaced my summer Strawberry Fields scent that year.  I liked Sweet Honesty for its peppery note that was perfect with fall's burnished colors of smokey gold and magenta.  Like autumn, it was both strong and gentle.

The following year I was away at college.  Still in New England, but housed with young women from all over the country.   And since I wanted to fit in, I wore their uniform fragrance - Revlon's Charlie.  Who can forget Shelley Hack's leggy strut across our Seventeen's centerfold in a chic plaid pantsuit?  Charlie was known as the sexy-young fragrance and "sexy" was not an adjective that graced Seventeen much before then.  It was so new and wearing it, we all felt new - and free and young and sexy...

I began wearing Chanel No. 5 when I was gifted a bottle from a woman who knew my father.  She thought as a young working woman, I might like a sophisticated perfume.  But I wasn't quite ready - it smelled cloyingly sweet to me.  I preferred to find my own fragrances and so for many years, I experimented with Cinnabar, Fracas, and that harlot of a perfume - Opium.  But I never did find one to settle on until I tried No. 5 again.  By then, I had read about Chanel and the origins of her iconic perfume.  Suddenly, it was if I were ready for it.  And it has stayed that way for over 20 years.  I always want a small bottle of  Chanel No. 5 on my dresser top come fall.  It's comforting and oddly reassuring.  Like walking in fallen leaves...

~

What are your favorite fall scents? Please share in comments...

And in keeping with back-to-school style, please read my essay on Rebecca Tuite's marvelous book, Seven Sisters Style:  
http://www.fashionstudiesjournal.org/4-reviews-3b/2017/7/28/seven-sisters-style

Seventeen Summer

No matter what age I was, all my summers were Seventeen Summers.  They were filled with the glories depicted in what I consider Seventeen Magazine's golden years (1960's - 1970's).  Neither cell phones nor iTunes were part of my Seventeen Summers.  We had small transistor radios to listen to the Top 40 but with the sound kept to a respectable neighborly level.  There was no such thing as a designer handbag with a dangling fur-ball charm or must-have designer sneakers.  If we wore sneakers, they were a simple pair of Ked's fetched out of a bin at a sneaker barn near Boston for less than five dollars.  Handbags were small and ladylike and gifted to us by grandmothers to be used and loved for years.

The playing field was level because no one in my hometown could afford designer clothing and that's if we even knew what designer clothing was.  If we didn't sew our own summer clothes and many of us did, we bought them in the same small clothing shops on Main Street or at Filene's, Jordan Marsh or Sears, just like everybody else.  Those stores are where we would find all the pretty clothes we saw in Seventeen.  The simply daisy-printed shift, the cute little short set, or the nautical skirt - all accessible straight from the page.  There were no $7000 dresses in Seventeen Magazine.

And yet, somehow we all looked adorable.  Maybe it was the inexpensive cosmetics, like Yardley's Pot-o-Gloss or the grass-green bottles of Herbal Essence shampoo, all as close as a stroll to the local Rexall.  We didn't need to wander around a big box store to get our beauty stuff.  If Rexall didn't have, we didn't need it.  Maybe it was because we followed Seventeen's monthly beauty column that told us we could make ourselves lovely in the comfort of our very own teenaged bedrooms that we decorated ourselves.  There were no nail salons for mani/pedi's on each and every corner.  Or waxing and threading spas.  We plucked.  Using slanted steel Tweezerman's - the same kind Grandmother used - while peering into the True-To-Light magnifying mirrors we got for Christmas.  Our Saturdays were not devoted to facials, tanning, and massages. Seventeen days were meant for meaningful pursuits.

Such as reading a big fat book lying on a blanket in the backyard.  Or seeing who could find the best rock for our parents to set the picnic table with to keep the paper plates and napkins from blowing down the street on the 4th of July.  Sometimes we were told to corral the little kids at the barbeque and play games with them so the adults could talk.  It was expected that we were participating members of a different kind of gang - The Family.  Maybe we babysat neighborhood children for 50 cents an hour.  Some of us taught crafts at the Recreation Department's day camp where we would instruct elementary children in lanyard making or gum wrapper chains.  Some of us were lifeguards at the town's wading pools or we manned the concession stand at the beach. Others supervised at Vacation Bible School or volunteered at the hospital as Candy Stripers. Everyone walked everywhere or rode bikes.  Mother's gardening time was never disturbed for just a ride because it was perfectly safe and healthy to walk a couple of miles a day if we had to get somewhere.  No one had a car of their own but almost everyone had a friend to walk and chat with once they met up at the corner.  Arrangements for meet-ups were organized by using the one family telephone that hung on the kitchen wall with an extended chord.  That is, if somebody else wasn't yapping on it first.

If we were older, our Seventeen Summer may have included tennis court dances and dates to the local hot-dog stand at the edge of town.  We went to the drive-in in groups or we cozied up at beach bonfires and concerts.  If we had saved money from our varied jobs, there may have been a late summer bus ride with a chum to the city for back-to-school togs and school supplies. Whatever we bought, I guarantee it was culled from Seventeen.

Despite all this activity, there was still time to noodle through Wuthering Heights or to get an early start on required summer reading lists.  Long hours of lollygagging prepared us for the upcoming rigors of high school and we better be ready for it.  We kept diaries, sent postcards, played cards, ...vegetated...talked.  And we attracted boys with lively conversation and sandwiches like Boy Trap #51.  No twerking involved.

There wasn't much drama in a Seventeen Summer.  Life was simple and we knew our place. Seventeen Magazine just assumed we wanted to volunteer, help out, expand our minds all the while having fun without the narcissism that plagues so many young people today.  We wanted to look good but we didn't obsess about it.  We used our natural beauty and enhanced it with a few well-chosen affordable cosmetics.  And then we forgot about it.  Which made room for rewarding connections, stewardship, laughter...

...and more than a few dreams.

Back-to-School Style.

Here's the great sixties model Colleen Corby in a classic back-to-school outfit from the pages of Seventeen.  My allegoric new year always starts September 1st, a left-over feeling from my own school days.  Mom took us shopping for little wool skirts, matching sweaters, jumpers and tights.  Our shoes were t-strapped skimmers or real loafers - a shiny new penny lodged in each toe.  But alas, the first weeks of school were often too warm for wool no matter how much we longed to don our new clothes.

Currently, I am reading a Rebecca C. Tuite's book "Seven Sisters Style", about America's seven "sister" colleges and their influence on preppy fashion.  Some would argue that true American prep  owes everything to the seven sisters - Radcliffe, Mount Holyoke, Smith, Vassar, Wellesley, Bryn Mawr, and Barnard.  It seems that the capable, brainy women who attended these elite institutions challenged fashion's strict status-quo with a casual �lan that was often borrowed from the boys.  They wore plaid kilts and pearls to classes but added sneakers and ankle socks which lent a playful air.  Their campus style certainly influenced the way women dressed and may have "birthed" the visions of some of today's designers; namely, Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger.  Tuites' book is really fun to look at especially if you make the parallels to today's American look.

Last year, I attended the John Meyer of Norwich exhibit in Connecticut where preppiness was laid out thickly with pastel Shetland sweaters, cotton Peter Pan blouses and tartan pant suits.  These were the clothes of my beloved Jr. High teachers, one of whom did not attend a seven sisters school but was a very spirited Perdue alum. As for me, I went to a private Catholic college that was barely co-ed, having been all-men until the year I entered.  The first day of classes I couldn't help but notice a pretty brunette in a baby blue Fair Isle sweater over a crisp button-down white shirt.  A slim gold bar pin which looked like it was snatched from Granny's jewel box, kept the collar pinched closed.  The rest of us looked insincere and a little less vivid in our bell-bottom Landlubbers, clogs, and muted t-shirts.

I am not saying that seven sister style is not my cup of tea - I just may be a bit too girlie for its sometimes tomboy flavor.  I do think a wonderful mingling of my personal style and seven sisters' occurred in the film Mona Lisa Smile.  Set at 1950's Wellesley, I found the fashions evocative of my mother's school style and so I was drawn into it easily. But I adored the full skirted silk dresses and matching gloves in the wedding scenes. In her book, Truite emphasizes that the seven sisters never neglected their lush ballgowns and evening wear, even when wearing wool Bermuda shorts and knee socks to class. They just wore Daddy's fur coats over their party dresses!

Below is the cover of the Seven Sisters Style book and below that is a picture of my mother on campus.  I think she made a great preppie in her seven sisters style.

Consolation

In high school, I wanted to be a cheerleader more than anything.  I adored the uniforms:  black and orange wool skirts with wide pleats, cozy crewneck letter sweaters, black socks and saddle shoes.  I especially loved the oversized chrysanthemum poms the cheerleaders wore on their left shoulders at football games and how their maneuvers made the creamy petals fall like flakes of snow at their feet.

But our cheerleaders were not just enthusiastic sideline champions of the boys football team - they were fierce competitors in their own right who had been winning competitions all over the state for three years.  This meant that to be chosen for this elite club, one needed to be able to jump high, hold the weight of another girl on the shoulders and thighs, and make military precision arm movements in unison.

The year I tried out, I practiced every day after school in the driveway.  But no matter how hard I worked, I simply could not improve my jumps - I was always just an inch or two too low - a subtle difference but one that would not go unnoticed by the judges.  In addition, my mother had already spoken to the cheerleading coach who had told her that only one twin would be allowed to join the squad.  This meant I was competing against my sister, whose jumps were consistently higher than mine by those inches.

I felt no animosity toward my twin and fully expected her to win a coveted spot but I tried out anyway.  I was in good shape from years of ballet and was proud despite the fact that unless there was a miracle, I would not be selected.  So I was not too disappointed on the late bus that pretty spring afternoon and I was genuinely excited for my sister.  The noisy bus distracted me from my loss as I listened to other school stragglers like the girls field hockey team and detention inmates.

When we pulled up to the grassy field at the top of our street, I saw my mother sitting on the wooden bench near the road.  She stood up as the bus door opened for me and underneath her arm I saw a large white box tied with a yellow paper ribbon.  I remember the soft smile in her eyes and the words she said, "I didn't know who was getting off the bus today but I brought a present for her".  My mother said she could not see the differences between my sister's jumps and mine, no matter how many times I tried to show her but I was never sure I believed her.  A placid breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and early blooms as we sat on the bench while I untied the ribbon and opened the box.  Inside was a beautiful broadcloth peasant dress in the richest grape hue I've ever seen.  It was trimmed in large red rick-rack and had puffed sleeves and a small flounce at the hem.  "This dress will look so nice with your new red patent clogs", my mother said, still smiling gently.  She clearly felt much worse than I.

I don't think we spoke on our walk down the hill that led to our house.  I held the dress box and my mother carried my books and purse.  When we reached the backdoor, the warming sun was just dropping behind the town's massive water tower and I could smell dinner cooking in the oven.  When I passed the dining room on my way to hanging up my lovely new dress, I noticed the table had been set - one of the chores that was always left for me.