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

Have fun and live your life the way you want to live it.

I guess the real fact of the matter is, we don�t know what tomorrow is going to bring and the only thing we really have is right now. So, don�t stay angry for too long and learn to forgive. Love your friends and family with all your heart. Have fun and live your life the way you want to live it. Most of all, don�t worry about people that don�t like you and enjoy the ones who do.

Find One Hundred Ways

I have always loved Quincy Jones' song (sung by James Ingram), One Hundred Ways.  The lyrics stole my heart years ago because, by God, they are true.  If it's violins she loves...well, let them play. Send her roses...just because.  And even better:  in your arms, she will reflect...she owes you the sweetest of debts...yes, let her repay.  Find one hundred ways!

But the lyrics go far beyond romance and reciprocity.  What about living a One Hundred Ways kind of life?

Recently, on a night I had a party to attend, the weather suddenly turned.  By late afternoon,  a sparkling summer day had become dark and chilly.  Rain was not in the forecast but I no longer felt like partying.  So I downplayed it by wearing a boring but comfortable dress, minimal makeup and I regrettably ate too much lunch, even though I knew it would spoil my appetite at the party.  "I'll just put in a appearance and head back home to my bed and watch Netflix", I said to myself.  And then wouldn't you know it -  the party was wonderful and festive and fun.  Our hosts moved the enchanting dinner table from the lawn to the covered porch which was decorated with pots of trailing ivy and bright begonias.  They pulled out all the stops - they found one hundred ways.

Some people naturally live this way.  One sees it in the nurse at the doctor's office who has complete pride in her job.  Her efficiency and manner offer a sense of order and reassurance.  It's the friend who makes your visits special by serving you a delectable warm treat from the oven to go with your mug of tea.  Even when she's dead tired from being sandwiched between needy children and elderly parents.  It's the co-worker with a serious illness, who shows up at the office every day with another new fetching scarf wrapped around her head.  It's the comforting lunch you pack for a loved one that's filled with nourishing food, all attractively wrapped.  It's the elderly woman who still wears lipstick and dresses with care as she sets out on her daily round.

So if flowers are what you love, buy that bouquet for heaven's sake.  If you crave tomatoes, fill the kitchen. Simmer sauce, make tomato tarts, sandwiches, salads.  Ditto watermelon, lemons - whatever it is you're passionate about.  Immerse yourself.  Roll around in it.  Let's stop saving our perfumes, the "good" dishes, and anything tucked away for "best".   "Best" is now.  Use your things. Show them off.  Share them.  Multiply them.

Quincy Jones reminds us that if it's one more star we want, go all the way.  Life is short - shorter than we sometimes realize while in the midst of it.  So, show up.  Be present.  Dress the part.  Go big. Begin today.  Begin again tomorrow.  Do it as long as you possibly can.  Find one hundred ways.

~

Find One Hundred Ways

Compliment what she does

Send her roses just because

If it's violins she loves let them play

Dedicate her fav'right song and hold

Her closer all night long

Love her today

Find one hundred ways

Don't forget there could be

An old lover in her memory

If you need her so much more

Why don't you say

Maybe she has it in her mind

That she's just wasting her time

Ask her to stay

Find one hundred ways

Bein' cool won't help you keep a love warm

You'll just blow your chance

Take the time to open up your heart

That's the secret of romance

Sacrifice if you care

Buy her some moonlight to wear

If there's one more star she wants

Go all the way

In your arms tonight

She'll reflect that she owes you

The sweetest of debts if she wants to pay

Find one hundred ways

In your arms tonight

She'll reflect that she owes you

The sweetest of debts if she wants to pay

Find one hundred ways

Ya gotta believe it whoa

Love her today

Find one hundred ways

Note:  I will be on a special vacation - a journey - for a few weeks.  I'll be finding one hundred ways and I'll share when I return.

My Yellow House

I've dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after...they've gone through and through me, like wine through water and altered the color of my mind." ~ Emily Bront�, Wuthering Heights

Given my blog-documented love of my hometown, would it surprise you to know that I created alerts on my computer when a house in my old neighborhood goes on the market?  I love to take "tours" into these homes, but alas, they are few and far between because my old hood is not a very transient place.  So I was delighted to find for sale, the petite yellow house that sat kitty-corner to my childhood home.

A variation of Pennsylvania Dutch style, the yellow house is one of three "brides" that were built together in the early years of the 20th century.  They all have small rooms and beautiful wood-paneled walls and lots of charming details, such as inset cabinets and hardwood floors.  While growing up, the little yellow house was occupied by an unmarried and kindly woman named Flora Innes, who walked up our hill every night and past our house, after having been dropped off at the bottom of the street from her wearying factory job.  Flora knew all our names by heart and greeted each of us.  She was a sweet, lovely woman who had suffered childhood polio and walked with a marked limp.

After I took an online spin around the inside of Flora's old house, my daydreams began to ignite.  You see, I am in love with a boy I went to high school who lived not too far away from Flora and from me.  Since I "re-met" this boy many years after first laying eyes on him in 7th grade and long after Flora had been gone, I began to imagine all the what-if's that surprisingly bubbled to the surface since spying Flora's yellow house in my in-box.

What if my love and I had found our relationship back in high school?  What if we had actually married all those years ago?  What if we had bought the yellow house from Flora's relatives when it first hit the market 40 years ago and what if we had a family of our own in the yellow house and what if we had had a long life together?  I even went so far as to imagine myself taking family china out of one of those delightful built-ins and setting the dining room table for Tuesday night dinner with his now diseased parents!  In our house...our little yellow house???

I always believed that the dream of what might have been is the most painful dream to let go.  We watch our fervent wishes slip from outstretched hands like rocks dropped from a bridge that disappear into dark water.  But that is only a tragedy when one has to do an abrupt about face of no choice of their own.  I don't feel the dreams of what-if have a similar power over us.  After all, who's to say that the girl I was 40 years ago was ready for that boy I now love?  Who's to say I would have felt the spell of the little yellow house in the town I was so sure I wanted put in my rear view mirror as quickly as humanly possible?  Time changes us...it grinds us and then polishes us if we are open to its lessons.  Only then can we become whole or at least more of who we were meant to be in the first place.  And then there is love - what of love?  Well...love carries its own timepiece, doesn' it?

My fantasies about the little yellow house resulted in some magically entertaining reveries for driving to work last month but I have since discovered "my" house has been sold to a pair of young newlyweds.  I was told that they have already erected a matching shed in the postage stamp of a backyard, replete with matching shutters and window boxes.  I would have done that first too.  And their parents often come to help.  I just know they are enjoying that marvelous wood dining room with the built-ins, which no doubt are storing some family treasures.  I'm so happy for them and I believe that somewhere, dear Flora Innes is happy too.

As for me, I am now wearing the diamond ring that once belonged to the beloved mother and guest at my imaginary Tuesday night dinners.  And I've learned that any color home can be my yellow one - our view and our reflections are ever-changing.  Like wine poured through water...

On Towels...

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers...~William Wordsworth

A friend came to visit last weekend and loved my blue beach towels.  They are now downstairs, washed and boxed and ready to mail to her doorstep.  I wish it had occurred to me to send them off with her on the day we said goodbye.  Still, I am pleased she will have them soon to cheer her as she wraps herself in one after her morning shower - she loved them so much.

My grandmother thought towels were a big deal.  She talked of Turkish towels and the January White Sales often and I think it was a source of pride for her to have a modest stack of quality towels on hand for loved ones.  My mother also waxed poetic about them but sadly, in our house, towels were often used and abused and left as wet tattered rags on the bathroom floor.  I'm pretty sure she gave up her dream of a neat and tidy linen closet with four active children.  Stacks of colorful fluffy towels would only have served to regularly break her heart.

Nice towels in a good price range are hard to find these days.  There are plenty in rich and famous linen boutiques for those who can manage the price tags that are as lofty as the towels themselves. For me, I scour Home Goods for occasional bounty.  I also suggest department stores when they have their seasonal bedding sales.  A plush affordable towel is a very fine thing.

When I philosophize about them, towels are often overlooked but are one of life's little luxuries.  Thick thirsty towels that are soft and at the ready makes one feel that life is abundant, normal - they are oddly reassuring.  An entire blog post about them does seems a bit silly but the latest world events have hit me hard and I, like many others are groping for the little things that seem unimportant but really do matter.  Like towels, favorite books, iced tea in a clinking tumbler with fresh lemon.  And boxing up a bit of comfort for a good friend.

Soda Fountain Stories

He is clearly smitten with her as she sips from his soda glass.  I love her tartan dress which I imagine to be blue and I'll bet the bow wrapped around her ponytail is black velvet. The moody glow from the lanterns, the tile floor, the leather seat covers make this a charming photo of a 1950's couple on what looks like an innocent first date.  Mom and Pop are most certainly at home in front of the picture window, waiting for their young miss to return by 11 o'clock.  I'm sure she will...

In spring, I like to revisit some of my favorite teenage novels - nearly all set in the 1950's.  I call them Soda Fountain Stories because soda fountains figure so prominently in them.  I can't say it's a trip down Memory Lane because I only know the 50's from pictures, my mother's anecdotes, and novels.  But the heroines' travails seem universal and somehow familiar to the struggles of every decade:  there's the fast crowd who refuses to welcome newcomers, the benevolent and understanding teacher, and of course, a shy bookish late bloomer who doesn't know someone in the wings thinks she's fine.

My books are a comforting trip back in time when good manners were valued and expectations for behavior were cut like glass.  Most important to me though, were the stories' emphasis on home and family.  Nearly every novel has a loving mother who volunteers at church and school, sees that her children and husband eat a good breakfast, and still bakes brownies from scratch...or gingerbread, as one of my favorites tells.  Dad works at the office in the city and comes home tired and put-out but shakes it all down with the help of Mother and her pineapple upside-down cake.  The family dog and kid brother help too.  Oh, if only...

Still, as far removed as 2017 is from the Atomic Age (and all those bomb shelters that were never used), we have it pretty good now too.  Medical care is at nearly science fiction-level, we have the internet and cell phones, movies and books on-demand, and many other magnificent things.  I'm not completely idealizing the purity of the 1950's - I'm just saying that it's some kind of wonderful to escape to a simpler time every now and then when the biggest problem in life is whether the prom dress you made will be as pretty as the illustration on the pattern cover.

Come with me to the suburban 1950's.  Your reboot is ensured.

~

Some favorites:

Wait for Marcy by Rosamund du Jardin -  (Marcy is known as "Squirt", a nickname she detests.)

Sister of the Bride by Beverly Clearly - (Oh how you'll cry!)

Almost April by Zoa Sherburne - (A sudden tragedy which surprisingly aligns with the 21st century too.)

~

And, there is one elusive novel that I have never been able to locate after reading it once in the 8th grade.  It must have been dear to me as the story line has never left me.  A girl's mother is institutionalized and while she is gone from home a beneficent housekeeper takes her place.  But when Mother is well enough to return, our heroine is torn between the warm replacement and the mother she all but forgot.  Does this outline ring a bell with anyone?

Finally, do you have a tender 1950's teenage novel that has remained steadfast in your heart?

Vanity Fair

In Chapter Nine of Little Women, the March sisters prepare Meg for a journey to Boston for the long-awaited Sally Moffat coming-out party.  Meg Goes to Vanity Fair is one of my favorite chapters in the Louisa May Alcott book.  As Meg packs her trunk with her finest clothes and accessories, her sisters gather 'round and contribute their own best things as well.  I love the helpful and fluttery way the girls anticipate Meg's opportunity to finally rub elbows with a proper society and their excited chatter about all the wonderful things they imagine will happen to Meg at the wealthy Moffat's.

I am about to venture to my own Vanity Fair and although I have no sisters nearby to help pack my trunk, I do feel the love and support of those who care.  My destination is not Boston Society but an exciting new job with more money, exceptionally wonderful benefits and hopefully, more respect than in my last position.  To prepare for Vanity Fair, I have scripted a checklist for my "trunk" based on all the loving advice I have received about this sudden and perfectly Providential chance.  The new position practically fell from the sky and into my outstretched arms (although I was ready the day my heart whispered to my soul, "Where's your pride?").

~As I enter the door of my new firm, I will tell myself "I am about to meet some life-long friends".  (From my sister)

~I will pack a book as well as a healthy salad for lunch in case my initial lunchtime appears to be a lone one (i.e., lonely).  (From my daughter)

~I will remind myself that this job was a gift from Heaven above and I will be mindful of the Divine's hand.  (From my good friend, Karen, who prayed)

~My look will straddle the more casual dress code of my new company with my natural tendency toward trust-fund-librarian style.  I will strike an appropriate balance until I know more about how the natives dress.  (Also from Karen)

~I will remember that new ventures even at my age, mean a "younger" brain and learning new things will be ever-so-good for me.  (Also from my sister)

~I will carry a small tote bag with a few "comforts" for just-in-case, including an extra set of contact lenses, some tea bags, tissues, and a new notebook for jotting down notes in a pretty way. (My friend Patty, an inveterate self-starter who is a wee bit older than I)

~I will become acquainted with my new commute route well before my start date so I arrive with time enough to compose myself and check my lipstick.  (The Complete Secretary's Handbook - 1962 edition)

Unlike Meg March, no one can pack my trunk for me...but my loved ones have certainly helped me fill it.

A Mute and Elegant Testimony

My pretty mother wore a grey vertical striped shirtwaist dress the day she brought my little brother home from the hospital.  As she knelt in front of us with her tender white bundle, the skirt of her dress ballooned over her knees like an upside down tulip.  I know this partly because I have a picture of that moment in time. It is no surprise that the dress became the most-requested for our birthdays when we each got to choose her outfit for one day.  It's also not hard to understand the special memory that plain and serviceable grey dress held.

But it also conveyed something about my mother and who she was at that time - a practical yet devoted young mother.  I would love to have that everyday dress and some other favorites that my mother wore and for that matter, some of my own dresses, long disappeared.

Augusta Roddis (that is her picture above) certainly understood that clothes have the power to speak to us about the past and that is perhaps why she saved, in her large Wisconsin home, more than a hundred years of family clothes.  The story of Augusta's extraordinary collection, American Style and Spirit - Fashions and Lives of the Roddis Family, 1850-1995, has captivated me and absorbed most of my winter reading time.

The text of the book engagingly gives evocative descriptions of dresses, hats, shoes and other accessories worn by the Roddis family for much of the 20th century.  The rich variety of items are complemented by photographs and letters indicating where the garments were worn and by receipts which indicate where the garments were bought.  It's a fascinating account of an interesting middle-class family that grew in wealth but somehow maintained humble middle class roots.

But this is not to say that the Roddis women were boring - the family often traveled and there was always a charity ball, wedding or party to attend.  The lovely part is that there are so many frocks and fripperies to commemorate each of these events.  The book is filled with photos of not only the clothes, but dress patterns (the Roddis women also sewed!), artifacts and supporting ephemera like ads from periodicals.  It is a spellbinding picture book with an engrossing true story to savor.

Sometime in her seventies, Augusta wrote a letter about what it was like to open trunks in the attic filled with a treasure trove of dresses amply adorned with embroidery and laces that once belonged to her grandmother. "There were her clothes, bearing mute but eloquent testimony...to her very discriminating, fastidious, elegant and feminine taste".  And isn't that exactly what our clothes do for us, whether we are in a ball gown or a plain shirtwaist - silently saying the things we cannot express?

If I were to find my mother's simple grey dress in a trunk today, I suspect it would transmit a wordless message from the past too - just as Augusta Roddis' collection does.

On the Twelfth Day of a Feminine Christmas

This young woman reminds me of a Grace Livingston Hill heroine.  Maybe it's because of the lovely church in the background.  Grace's protagonists were all believers.  If the old Victoria magazine had lasted long enough, I'm sure it would have found Livingston-Hill a worthy subject for its marvelously feminine periodical.  I can only imagine the clothes they would have put the models in:  fur-trimmed wool suits, floral dresses with rustling skirts...I could go on.

Every year I take a peek at Victoria's book, "A Woman's Christmas".  I've used it as a mini-journal, recording various details about my Christmas'.  Yesterday I found a sentimental entry I wrote a few years ago and I'm going to share it here.

~

"I get misty and giddy when I think of all the happy holidays I had at Nana's, the wonderful little things my mother did for us, the neighbors we always visited on Christmas Eve, the majesty of our Catholic church, the carols I sang my heart out with the Girl Scouts.  All these things were part of my childhood and they live on inside of me...

Then there were the years with HIM.  I decorated our houses with abandon and had the money to do it.  Those trees and homes live on inside too.  As well as the small teddy bear he gave me one Christmas morning with the pearl earrings I still wear today pierced into its furry little ears.  And the challenging but glorious years I was a young single mother of the most darling little girl.  She sang in the choir at church, made cookies with me in her bunny slippers and I especially cherish the Christmas morning she pulled her first real doll out of the box and exclaimed with awe, 'She looks just like me, Mommy!'  I hold dear the day I took my good friend Karen to Orchard House the week before Christmas and watched her face from the sidelines as she first laid eyes on Louisa May Alcott's wreathed front door.  All these Christmas memories may live on Yesterday's shelf but they are a part of me for always.

And my reminiscences of yore, in no way means that I am closed off to the bright new gifts of the future.  I have more Christmas' in store for me.  And as I await them, I know the real spirit dwells within...alongside the memories."  ~ December, 2010

~

Merry Christmas!

The Richness of Apples

"I miss the apples", a grade-school friend said to me recently.  He lives in Florida now and was referring to the apples that practically paved the roads and sidewalks, the fields and hills in my hometown each fall. Having been a pastoral place of farms and orchards, only the trees remained but they filled the autumn air with the honeyed scent of apples.  One needed only to bend over and grope beneath the dusty leaves to pluck a fallen specimen to munch on during the walk home from school.  Tart though the fruit was, the atmosphere was sweet with the apples, burning leaves, and wood smoke.

This ad is for Yardley's Pot-o-Gloss lipgloss.  The model, Evelyn Kuhn's cheeks are fever-bright and I bet she's wearing the McIntosh Red gloss or perhaps Winesap.  Her features are strong enough to carry off the orange sweater along with the Buffalo plaid jacket in red and although the stylist may have created a mild cliche with the look, I love it and as a teenager I embraced it entirely.

Our little drugstore carried Pot-o-Gloss and buying a new color was the first rite of passage in fall.  Even if it was still too warm to wear woolens, a new apple-inspired lip color would promise things to come - late afternoon soccer games and Friday night lights, crisp Saturdays at the movies with friends, and sunshiny times outside and when we would not even think about diving into that chemistry homework or covering our text books with brown paper bags.

So now that we are all grown-up, how can we bring apple-richness to lives drawn by responsibilities?  What do we do when our heartstrings draw us back to blue skies, home fires, and long-ago friends?  We can start with an apple-red lip gloss...

My apple-polisher suggestion:

Mac's Fresh Moroccan, a deep apple red softened with gold glints- perfect for crisp days as well as warm Indian Summer ones.  Your fall orchard, re-imagined.

A Birthday Letter

Tomorrow is a big birthday for me.  I  know.  I can't believe it either.  I am not 17 as I am in the picture below (follow the blue eyeshadow trail).  That girl had no idea what she was doing.  If I thought she would have stopped long enough, I would have written her a letter:

~

Dear Donna,

Don't be in such a rush.  Enjoy just being you for a while.  The big things like love and marriage will take care of themselves.  If you can't go out for a night because of studying, don't worry.  You will have plenty of nights to go out.  And after the studying, just be...or read a book.  There won't be much time later for reading books and many other things for that matter.  Life, work, and family will encroach.  It may be years before you can read a book in one sitting again.  Do it now.

Call Nana more.  Someday you will lull yourself to sleep with remembrances of her.  You will reach beyond your memory to search for the very things you can see right now by spending more time with her.  Really look at the way she lives, decorates, dresses, cares for Gramps.  Study the things that will be gone one day.  Ask her about what life was like during the 1920's.  And ask her to show you how to make her pie crust.  Her stuffed peppers too.  You'll never be able to do it if you don't ask her soon.

Have more confidence in yourself.  See the things that others see in you and nurture them.  Your smile, your tenderheartedness.  Embrace those things.  Embrace who you are.  Don't be like the others.  Don't be afraid to stand out.  And while you're at it, defend yourself - speak up when someone steps on your toes.

Don't marry the first person who asks you.  Step back and think about it first.  Would he make a good husband?  Would he be committed?  Will you mind eating on a TV table next to him one day?  What kind of father would he make?  I know he thrills you now but when the baby has croup and dinner isn't made, will he step up to the plate?  If not, wait for the next bus.  And remember, buses come along every few minutes.  Choose the one that's going in the direction of YOUR dreams.

And when you do marry, don't do or be everything.  Keep a part of yourself for yourself.  You'll be a better wife in the long run.  And a better mother.

When you have your babies, sleep when they sleep.  That's a hard one.  But try.  Let the housework go because babies don't keep.  They grow up faster than you know.  You will miss the way the nape of their necks smell and the way they fold into your arms.  Don't worry about the dirty clothes hamper so much.

Have more fun.  Let loose.  Don't take things so seriously.  Dance more.  Laugh.  Be silly.  Be ridiculous.

Ask your mother for advice.  She wants to tell you what she knows and someday, you will be glad of it.  All your life, you will think back and hear the things she said.  Know that she really is wiser than you. You will need her strength on playback until the end.  Get it while you can.

Buy the boots you love.  Yes, they're expensive but you'll be glad you did.  The cheaper ones will never leave your closet floor.

Trust your gut.  It won't fail you.  But be still enough to hear what it is trying to say.

Bloom where you're planted.  Sometimes life takes you in a new direction.  Don't fight it.  Instead, lay the tablecloth and light the candles.  While you are there, you might as well be happy.  And remember that living well is always the very best revenge.

Make a friend of Change and you will make a friend for life.  Nothing is stagnant.  Life is ever-flowing in ways that will soon amaze you.  Be open to the possibilities that come with change.

Be less afraid.  You are resourceful and will land on your feet.  Pink-slips come to all of us.  The landlord that wants your apartment for his son and new wife.  The young boss who cleans house at the office.  It's what you turn the pink-slips into that matters.

Wait three days.  If you're heartbroken or just broken down, three days will make all the difference.  Don't panic. Draw on what you know.  I swear it's magic.  Just 72 hours and suddenly, it won't matter about the new haircut that was too short or too weird.  Or the haircut the kids gave each other.  Or the dishwasher that leaked on the new hardwoods.  Perspective takes only three days.

Appreciate your youth, your endless energy and stamina.  But don't be afraid to get older.  Every decade has its joys.  I know that's hard to believe but its true.  Each age brings new jewels.  You will get smarter. Keener.  More savvy.  You'll choose better friends.  You'll discover companionship can be just as wonderful as love.  Sometimes better.

And know that someday, you will be very glad you are not 17 any longer.

(You'll just have to trust me on that one.)


Love,

Me

A Golden Fall

I got a lucky break one early fall morning when a working mother from a nearby town called to see if I was available to watch her two little girls everyday.  It was a referral from a referral that somehow panned out and yes, I was available to be a "nanny" to her girls as long as I could bring my own daughter along with me.

It was perfect because her eldest, a four year old moppet with red hair would be big sister to my child and her youngest, a sweet toddler, could be baby sissy.  Mom was a nurse who fled out the door each morning for the early shift.  Dad was around renovating their beautiful old home and I was to be cook, chief bottle washer, and babysitter.

It's amazing how quickly I fell in love with my new charges even though the oldest could be a handful.  But it's not hard to become fond of small children whose fingernails you clip and baths you oversee.  I ushered the three girls outdoors as much as possible and fortunately the big old house was located on the expansive and ancient town green.  We spent hours upon hours that fall in the public gazebo playing games, having picnics and putting on plays.  I taught the girls my favorite rhymes and songs and read them hundreds of nap-time stories.  The hardest thing about the job was getting up early and putting my sleepy child in the car to drive the long country road to their place.  It's probably the reason why one of my daughter's first words was "silo" given all the farms we passed on those quiet misty dawns.

When colder weather settled in, Mom filled a trunk with old clothes, hats, and endless strings of beads for dress-up. The girls played so many imaginary characters that once I thought other children had entered the house. One day, the oldest was sporting a very pretty black onyx ring set in rose gold filigree on her finger. "Where did you get that?", I asked.  Apparently, it had been left on top of the toothbrush holder in the bathroom.  She balked loudly when I asked her to place it in my hand and when she finally did, I couldn't help but notice how lovely and unusual it was.  I gave it to the mother later that day and was told that it had belonged to the deceased Edwardian lady whose son the house was purchased from.   He didn't care to have the ring and so somehow, little hands pilfered it and then set it to rest on the holder in the upstairs bath.  During the year I cared for the girls, the ring would periodically show up on various small fingers only to be handed back to Mother again.

As a new fall approached, our days together became numbered - the eldest was to begin school and the work on the house was finished which meant Dad was free to take over the girls' care.  The timing was perfect because my house had finally sold and I was ready to move with my daughter to a distant place so I could work in the city.

On my last day, the girls and their mother had a party for me.  They made Wacky Cake in a flower pot from one of their favorite stories and gave me a small present wrapped fussily with bright yarn and covered with stickers of shiny blue stars. Inside was the onyx and rose gold ring.  But you knew that.

What you may not know is that I don't have to wear the ring to think of them.  In my heart's eye, where time forever stops, I see them playing in the blinding sunshine that comes only with fall's most splendid days.

They are with me still...

Summer Style Note - Dresses

Summer sun dresses were staples in my wardrobe as a child.  Many were made by my grandmother who was a skilled seamstress.  Rick-rack, daisy chain trims, pretty buttons, and deep hems were some of the lovely features of those dresses.  And because I am a twin, Nana made two of each!

I still remember some of my little-girl dresses:  a white pique with a hem-full of bright flowers and verdant ferns, a soft sorbet seersucker in creamsicle.  My mother had excellent taste.  She knew that there is nothing prettier than a little girl in a sweet summer frock.  I knew that too, when I ordered a pink and grey Liberty print sundress from the iconic London clothier for my daughter.  It cost a pretty penny but it is lovingly and carefully stored in tissue paper and boxed alongside her Christening dress awaiting potential future inhabitants.

For years, I never wore summer dresses.  I simply couldn't find many styles I liked.  But the last few seasons there has been a plethora of selections and I have been able to amass a new little collection. One of my favorites is a periwinkle blue number with coral blooms in crisp cotton broadcloth.  The ease of pulling on a perfect summer dress cannot be underestimated on a torrid summer day.  Of course, I no longer wear the traditional sundress but there are dresses out there for women of a certain age too.  And if one doesn't want to show off arms, a fitted coordinating cardigan over a sundress can be very '50's elegant and tres charmant!

Two Mothers

I'm always a little sad when Mother's Day ends.  I have enough self-knowledge to know it's the passage of time that gently tugs at my heart.  Quickly go the years...

These two ladies were neighbors for almost thirty years.  The photo was taken last summer at my daughter's wedding.  The woman on the right is my mother, Joan.  Next to her is my second mother, Rosemary, who receives a Mother's Day card from me each year.

Rosemary is my first best friend's mother.  As girls, Paula and I used to love when our mothers gathered to chat in the heated summer darkness at the end of our driveway.  We pretended to play but we were really hanging onto their every word.  It was during one of these eavesdropping sessions that I discovered my mother was harboring a secret worry that my eyebrows might be taking on the shape of my Scottish grandfather's (believe me, you don't want the flying brows of a scotsman).  I also got advance notices of upcoming vacations and other plans that were still in closed family discussions.  One night the mothers collectively concluded that it was ok for us to begin shaving our legs, long-wished for by us and long-denied by them.  Lots of rites-of-passages occurred in tandem because they were dissected and decided during motherly pow-wows that took place in the still summer air, accompanied only by the waving buzz of cicadas.

We knew it was time for bed when our mothers began slapping at their legs.  The mosquitoes always won out and off to bed we'ld go, a little disappointed there wasn't going to be more said...and more to hear.

Room With A View

I had a co-worker/friend who wanted me to meet her parents and so one lunch hour she took me to their small city apartment.  The first thing I noticed was a rather odd still life on top of the hi-fi in the living room.  There sat pictures of my co-worker and her sister as schoolgirls with hand painted macaroni necklaces slung between the frames.  Also included in this collection were two pairs of bronzed baby shoes, other small childhood artifacts and some long tapered lit candles.  "I told you", my friend whispered as she leaned into my ear.  It was right then and there that I decided I would never have an altar for any grown child of mine.  This vow was made before I was even married.

When my daughter grew up and left home, she left behind a small room with lilac walls and a big empty closet.  I was excited that I would at last have simultaneous summer and winter clothes storage but I also began to craft a view of myself in that room.  I saw myself reading on an as-yet-undiscovered loveseat looking out of the second story window to a sea of green from the woodlands behind the house.  I saw myself sitting in a cozy feminine chair at night in my slippers and shawl sipping a last cup of tea and watching TV.  I saw myself napping, exercising, daydreaming, and chatting companionably to friends on the phone, my leg dangling nonchalantly from said loveseat.  I knew I wanted to claim that room as soon as possible.  And although I have a fair amount of pictures of my daughter, a drawer filled with grammar school art, not to mention Mother's Day presents created by precious little hands, I knew I would have no shrines in this room.

Soon I spackled and painted the walls.  I took a chance and bought an alarmingly large antique armoire to hold the television and DVD player.  I found a faded rose-colored love seat with dainty flowing lines, a little tapestry vanity chair to hold magazines, and a graceful orchid plant.  But the pi�ce de r�sistance which thrilled me the most was a cheap white half-wall bookcase that now holds my entire collection of style books which for years, were inconveniently helter-skelter under my bed.

Last week as I perched on the new loveseat, I surveyed all that is mine and wistfully looked out the window trying to imagine the bare-branched trees in their soon-to-be green dress.  My eyes happily skimmed the titles of the books in my new shelf just before I smugly took stock of my winter sweaters, stacked up in the closet like drums.  The view is of a literary life full of reading and writing, and evening quietude to restore the soul.  But it only took a quick audit to see that as I look to the future, something was missing from the past.  Turns out it was a small round photo of a little girl in a pink tutu.

Sunshine On Her Shoulders...

...makes model/actress Shelley Hack happy in her vibrant floral jacket.  I also love the rays of sun that illuminate her hair and pretty face in this picture, which I recently found in one of my vintage Seventeen magazines.  

Trotting out bright floral-fresh new clothes was always a rite of spring passage.  It began with the Easter outfit which included black patent Marjane's, white lace-trimmed socks, a smocked dress, pastel spring coat, white gloves, and a beribboned straw hat with a too-tight under-the-chin elastic strap. But Easter sometimes came with frigid temperatures and it was back to ski jackets and knit hats the next day. 

April is a changeable month in the Northeast.  A co-worker once vowed that on May 1st, no matter what the forecast, she would begin wearing her spring clothes (turnip!).  I know that longing and since I've never been good at transitional dressing, selecting things to wear in early spring is always a challenge.  I wish dressing now were as easy as pulling on a tropic-colored summer dress over my head.

My daughter and I went shopping yesterday and she couldn't decide if a tangerine sweater was "too bright".  I explained that once the sun shows itself again in earnest, the tangerine will feel just right. She bought the sweater.  I bought nude pumps to lighten up my work pants and sweaters.  

As I yearn for lovely sunshine on my own shoulders, I look back at some of my most memorable and favorite spring clothes:

mint-green "baseball jacket" with rainbow cuffs my grandmother made me

red, white and green striped dirndl skirt my mother bought me when I was in Jr. High School

white piqu� dress trimmed with daisy rick-rack for 6th grade dance

shiny vinyl egg yolk-yellow raincoat with "fireman" hardware closures worn over bell bottoms on rainy school days

double-knit rose-colored date dress with short sleeves, Peter Pan collar, and three matching pearl buttons 

red dotted-swiss dress with white lace trim and back tie worn under graduation gown

(Graduation Day)

On the Sixth Day of a Feminine Christmas

I found myself with a tear in my eye on the way home from work yesterday, thanks to Sirius Radio's Holiday Traditions station.  Toyland, sung poignantly by Doris Day came on the radio and since I was trapped in a traffic jam, I had a chance to really listen to the lyrics.  Toyland was the very first movie my mother took us to and I recall that cold winter day well.  I had never been to a theater before and the screen was so big and the toy soldiers marched straight towards us from afar.

Soon my reveries turned to my big brother Peter and his manic love of Christmas.  He used to wake us at 5:00 am at Christmas' dawn and I well-remember the darkness and the excitement I felt in the pit of my belly.  We were practically shivering with delight by the time we made it to the living room, and anytime I happen to wake at dawn, - even today, I experience that Christmas feeling.

My brother loved his toys and my sister and I were often the recipients of his new Creepy Crawler set or toy gun.  We reciprocated by making him eat cake from our Easy Bake Oven.  I've never known anyone who enjoyed Christmas as much as my brother.  The run-up to the actual holiday was delightfully excruciating for him.  When I was very small, I asked him why we had Easter and quick as a wink, he replied "To hold us over until Christmas!"

But the words to the song tell us how fleeting childhood Christmases are - there are but a few of them and then suddenly, we are Santa to our own babes.  Mystic merry Toyland, childhood's Joyland...once you cross its border, you can never return again...

Find Doris Day's Toyland on youtube...you may see yourself and your siblings there, in between the words of its lilting refrain.

Us

On the Fourth Day of a Feminine Christmas

Love came down at Christmas,

Love was born at Christmas,

Love, all lovely, love divine, 

Stars and angels gave the sign

...Love shall be our token

Love be yours, and love be mine ~ Christina Rossetti

Those are some of my favorite Christmas stanzas.  Rossetti's poem is often referred to as a Christmas carol without a tune.  I love it because it is sweet and sincere and about the sweep of good feelings that often accompany Christmas morning "down the stairs".

The Christmas in the picture depicts a sweep down the stairs of festive boxed perfume sets, the kind of special combinations that perfume and cosmetic houses provide during the holiday season.  I especially like them because one can find coordinating scented products such as body creams and talcs - items that are sold separately at other times of year.  The collections are often boxed with beautiful Christmasy wrappings and sparkles.  But even a lone bottle of scent provides a lovely Christmas gift experience, especially if it's a beloved fragrance.

There is a marvelous scene in the Fred MacMurry and Barbara Stanwyck Christmas film, Remember the Night.  MacMurry's character, prosecutor John Sargent postpones the trial against Stanwyck's thieving Lee Leander because it's Christmas.  Instead, John takes Lee to his family's farmstead where Lee experiences a different kind of holiday than she is used to.  At gift opening time, John's kindly and intuitive mother, played lovingly by Beulah Bondi, gives Lee a bottle of the unopened perfume John had given her the Christmas before.  It is a touching cinematic moment when Lee opens the unexpected gift to find a lovely crystal bottle of Hour of Ecstasy perfume.  She inhales it deeply and gives no clue she knows the present is a re-gift.  Hard-scrabble Lee has not had too many no-strings-attached gifts in her life so I immediately start rooting for her and the budding love that is growing between she and John.  I pray John will be able to drop his lawyer stance and soften his heart for the beautiful kleptomaniac. But most of all, I hope that Lee will be able to receive honest love for the first time in her life and shrug off her tough and suspicious exterior.

A friend told me he still believes that love conquers all, even in today's world.  I cheer for John and Lee every Christmas in the hopes that what my friend knows will be played out on the screen before me again.  I sigh happily when the pretty bottle of Hour of Ecstasy breaks through Lee's icy pain and paves the way for love to come down at Christmas.  Stars and angels gave a scented sign.

Tender Gifts

I try to give gifts that have intimate meaning to the receiver whenever I can.  I fall short sometimes and other times, I think I score.  Some of the "best" gifts are not in a shop at all - precious presents can sometimes be objects in the house that have lost their luster but may turn out to give joyful  pleasure to someone else.  This Christmas, I plan on gifting a friend an object I no longer "see" but is something I think will delight her.  I'll let you know how that goes.  

My sister has had a lifelong fascination with the moon.  I remembered her lunar love when I saw a leaded crystal vase at an antique shop recently.  On the front, an ethereal lass in a flowing white gown, is etched finely on the glass but I couldn't help noticing that she sits slightly off-center.  I didn't reject the vase because of this quirk because the upper left back of the vase has a charming sliver of a moon and a smattering of white stars. Only after I stared at it atop an old dresser, did I realize that the lady is not centered because she was carved to appear as though she were gazing up at the back of the vase, where the moon and constellation hangs.  Suddenly I knew this work of art belonged in my sister's home and so it became a birthday present to her with along with a bouquet of coral roses.  I think she likes it and I hope my gift conveyed that I see her tender heart.

I have been the recipient of some wonderful gifts that touchingly hit my bulls eye.  I especially remember a pair of shoes a boyfriend gave me on my seventeenth birthday.  He often played "Houdini", as my grandmother called it, when he would disappear and not call for days.  It was agonizing at the time but blessedly, our tumultuous sweep-me-off-my-feet relationship was short-lived.  He knew he wasn't good for me and looking back, I think he just couldn't help it.  But my ardent heart would always take him back even under my grandmother's disapproving eyes.

The object of my affection and I were window shopping one night when I spotted a striking pair of peacock blue velvet shoes.  They had just the right amount of Seventeen magazine bohemian romance that I adored and spoke to the hidden place inside where the girl I wanted to be resided. They were dainty and pretty and instead of a strap they were tied with small silk ribbons, each with a dangling charm - a silver dove on one and a gold heart on the other.  They were charming.  And expensive.  

A few days before my birthday, my boyfriend staged his disappearing act again and I was bereft. When he finally resurfaced, just in time for cake and ice cream, he had an unwrapped box with him. Inside were the velvety shoes clearly bought on the fly. My mother and grandmother thought shoes were an absurd gift for a teenage girl but I knew what they meant.  He saw the dreamy bohemian girl I was inside too and although he didn't stick around to see the shoes on my feet, they became a souvenir of our time together.  They were a risky but tender gift.  Our last parting was tender too...a tender mercy.

It has been said that the scent of the rose remains on the hands of the giver and I believe that.  If someone has been thoughtful enough to choose something they believed would touch my soul, I am grateful for their love.  I enjoy giving my family and friends small luxuries I know they won't buy for themselves and if my presents offer them comfort and a little bit of joy, I am happy.  It doesn't have to be expensive or elaborate...just something that says I tried a little tenderness.

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.