Baby Don't Go

A strange phenomenon occurs when the summer is just about to depart. Like an expectant mother who, although weighted and unwieldy, suddenly throws herself into frenetic nesting, I try to fit in every last bit of the season despite the obvious shortening days and slanting shadows.  Right now, I am pool swimming each night after work, eating ice cream cones every chance I get, patio lounging with potentially ruinous abandon, and chasing the scent of lobster rolls to every shack and hole-in-the-wall around. Next weekend will be my last under-the-stars outdoor theater night until next summer.  I don't even want to talk about fall.

Maybe it was because this year's winter was so cold and cruel and I'm not anxious for a repeat.  Or maybe it's because this New England summer has been so lovely.  Or perhaps it's because I no longer have such a soul-crushing job and therefore, have the time to, well...smell the roses.  And the lemon-scented geraniums.  And the tomatoes...and fried clams...

But that doesn't explain this activity of mine at the end of every summer.  There is just something about the feeling that one is going to have to say goodbye soon that really makes me want to savor every last drop...of peach iced tea, that is.  Like the couple that visits New York City just before they are to be parted...running about experiencing everything "New York" just in the nick of time.  Making memories to sustain them until they meet again.

I can't imagine what it will be like when I don't reach for my favorite khaki shorts and sleeveless t-shirts anymore.  There is something so magical about a light breeze tickling the hair on one's bare arms.  This is the real fashion ease that we style editors are always extolling.  I dread thinking about layers and frozen toes and flannel nightgowns.  And yet, I feel the vibrations of those days - those sweater days - just over the pink and gold sunset.

Oh I'm sure they will arrive.  And once they do, I will adapt and even embrace them.  But for now...for today...you can find me lollygagging at dusk on a chaise in my backyard, or sitting at the town dock, ice cream dripping down my naked arm.

I Capture the Castle

The title of this post is from the marvelous book by Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle.  The story is dreamy and funny and shimmers like a crystal bowl in a shaft of sun.  A timelessness clings to the pages but it reads as though it were written yesterday afternoon.  Cassandra Mortimer overcomes poverty and dramatic family secrets to come of age in a decrepit old castle that she does indeed, capture.

I especially love the character of Miss Blossom, the ever-present dress form that resides in Cassandra's ramshackle room and to whom she throws her voice when she and her sister, motherless, are in need of consolation and advice.  (I used to do a Miss Blossom bit for my niece Hillary and she still addresses her letters to me with "Dear Miss Blossom"). These days, Miss Blossom is speaking to me as I begin to fall in love with my house all over again...warts and all.  Her voice is soothing and comforting as she says over and over, "all will be well" and "in due time, my dear".  The feelings of being overwhelmed are slowly dissipating.

Of all things, a simple shower curtain has helped too.  I saw it in a window at a local curtain shop.  It has all the botanical beauty I can stand with trailing vines, wandering wisteria and roses - always roses.  I walked by it three times before ducking in to finger it and then order it.  Lucky me to find an old "Miss Blossom friend" working there, from my favorite once-was Laura Ashley shop.  When Judy told me I should have it, my mind pictured my bathroom and I asked if there was a valance for the window too?  And fabric to make a cafe curtain for my vanity?  Oh yes, yes, and yes, I was told.  And a sale price.  I thought of the dresses the Mortimer girls crafted for the dinner party they were invited to that promised to elevate their status with a marriage proposal.

I left the shop with a fabric swatch large enough to hang over the rod. But the funny thing is, this scrap of fabric had me taking my floral plates off the wall and cleaning them, rearranging my potions and lotions and generally tidying up while I wait for my new things.  When I was done there, I finally opened the door and took a gimlet eye to the bedroom my daughter recently vacated.  What will this space actually be?  With (floral) notebook and pen in hand, I set to work scribbling a list of furnishings and belongings I would move into the room:  style books, my desk, a sleeper love seat, television and cabinet, baskets for files.  The closet will hold off-season clothing and hats.  I had a plan after flailing about for a few weeks and nearly purchasing another place to begin all over with.

But this house has tender memories, creature comforts, and a certain charm I wasn't able to find in the other one.  I have a comfortable and beautiful terrace that abuts a wooded grove with hidden ferny grottoes.  The property lines are encircled by an ancient stone wall most like built by the Native Americans who lived in this spot centuries ago. The sea is over the tree tops from my second story windows.  Yes, there is work to be done including painting which I hate.  But little by little, twig by twig, I will tend to it all.  I am a one-woman show but I will ask for help, hire when necessary, and stick to my plan.  I WILL capture this place.  A wise woman once told me that intention becomes reality.  Now it wasn't Miss Blossom who said that - but it sure could have been.

~

"I can't dance or sing but I can turn a house into a living, breathing thing".

(Paraphrased quote that I cannot recall the source of, but I love it!)

The Custom of Compacts

I watched a poignant documentary a few weeks ago on public television called Tea Time.  It followed five Chilean women who have been gathering together once a year for tea since graduating from high school over 60 years ago! They take turns hosting the teas which include a delectable number of pastries and sandwiches.  In between takes, the camera captures flowery tea leaves gently unfurling in hot water as we hear the ever-present sound of a ticking clock.  When we first meet the women, they are already quite elderly but very lively with great affection for one another.  At the end of each tea, all the women perform a charming ritual as familiar as the ticking clock:  they take from their handbags small round compacts of powder and tubes of lipstick and freshen up.  It is here that the camera hones in on each lined face for this final act of feminine primping before the women face the world at large again for another year.

Many of my favorite vintage films include scenes where the heroine carefully powders her nose in public.  Even Meg Ryan's character Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail, pulls out her compact to pat at her face only to violently snap it shut when she catches sight of her b�te noir Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) in its mirror.  

Just before bed the other night, I was paging through an old 1972 Seventeen magazine when I saw an ad for a familiar petite tortoiseshell compact.  It was divided into two sections, containing a cream blush and a lip gloss in best-friend hues of soft pink and vibrant rose.  I realized I had once owned the same pretty compact in high school.

I remember how clever I thought the idea of having two products in one place was and this beauty aid was especially nice and small enough to carry in the palm of my hand or tuck in the pocket of my jeans.  I never had a need for pressed powder or nose-powdering but I loved the idea of an old-fashioned compact which appealed to my girly sensibility, especially with its mirror, satin smooth shell, and satisfying click upon closing.

A quick internet search did not reveal anything quite like my high school compact but I discovered lots of cream blushers in small artful compacts and I bought a beautiful polished black one with a gorgeous flush-pink rouge inside.  It is just the right size to be reminiscent of my old blush-and-lipstick combo.  I had forgotten how lovely it is to take out a nice compact to freshen up my face and check for spinach.

Soon I will gather with my own high school girlfriends at our annual summer picnic.  After lunch, I'll remember to use my glossy new compact which is deft and discreet enough not cause much attention.  But if someone should notice, they will be told that I am performing a feminine ceremonial that crisscrosses time and place.

~

http://www.golocalprov.com/beauty/ri-beauty-expert-the-art-of-blushing-creamy-color-for-summers-end

It's In His Kiss

I love this beautiful photograph of a father and son.  The dad's arms are strong and handsome as they tenderly encircle his small child.  The picture is dated July 4, 1957, so I know it is Independence Day and I am willing to bet that's a hotdog in the boy's hands.  This loving kiss wasn't done just for the camera.  How do I know?  Because of the way it's being received. The child's nonchalant, easy-going receptiveness says, "Yeah, Dad's kissing me.  He does that alot".

I also know that this is true because I happen to know this little boy as a grown man.  And by all accounts, his father was a loving and kind figure in his life.  They spent many happy hours in salvage yards, piecing together old cars.  His father was a great provider, going to college on the GI Bill and eventually working for the Federal Government in charge of nursing home standards.  He was an active church member and took care of extended family members.  Most importantly, he modeled excellent husband behavior and treated his wife with respect and admiration.  He once told his son that everything he and his brother were, was owed to their mother's influence.  My friend's father was modest too.

But sometimes the end-of-life is very difficult and painful, and so it was for this man.  I asked my friend how he was able to reconcile the last wretched years of his father's life with his wonderful childhood memories of him.  He swiftly shot back, "His life was worth more than that"!  I believe he learned that from his father too - that a life is worth so much more than its ending - it is worth the whole damn beautiful sum total.  And how do I know this about a man I only "met" through anecdotes and stories?  You can see it in the picture.  It's in his kiss.  That's where it is...

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!

Wish You Were Here

I like to take a little something home with me each time I go to the beach.  Sometimes I find a pretty piece of sea glass or a perfect creamy white shell.  These little tokens stay on my desk for a time or the windowsill in the kitchen.  But eventually, they seem out of place, especially when the light changes in September.

Wearing summer perfumes is another way of pocketing souvenirs. When I summered on Cape Cod as a teen, Houbigant's Chantilly was never beyond my reach in the envelope compartment of my small floral suitcase.  Later, I swapped fragrances with my best friend and wore her Emeraude for my strawberry oil roll-on.  Our scents made their way into our long windswept hair and the collars of the open jackets we wore at night.  Most perfume back then could be bought very inexpensively at local drugstores and we tried everything from Chanel 5 to Jean Nate.  Later, I discovered Love's Baby Soft which was catnip for not only my boyfriend at the time, but also for me.  It was like a heady drug and I could have rolled around in it - I craved its innocent scent so much.  It was the soft powdery element that I wanted - so childlike and tender.

As a young mother, I was given Elizabeth Arden's Eau Fraiche, a light cult classic that's meant to be sprayed all over the body.  As it dries down, it smells like fresh-cut lilies that are just about to burst forth in a sparkling crystal vase. It's delicious but alas...the fragrance is ephemeral and vanishes quickly, much like the season.

My point is that special perfumes worn only in summer, are like bright picture postcards sent home to be cherished and read and then re-read. They are unexpected keepsakes of our warm-weather days. And when we suddenly happen upon them later in winter - clinging lightly to a scarf or sweater, or dabbed behind our ears after finding a bottle tucked away in a drawer - we are transported back to our golden fleeting summers.  As for the messages in those bottles?  It is but the same - wish you were here.

I Can Row a Boat...

This sweet black and white is most likely Central Park.  It reminds me so much of the Boston Public Garden and the lagoon where my grandmother often took me for summer swan boat rides when I was a girl.  I was always put in a pretty pastel dress with white gloves for our city jaunts and I'm not sure if it was always so, but I recall the soft frothy pinks of magnolia blooms encircling the trees like spun candy.  The Public Garden has a Victorian touch and the gardens are beautifully done within the bounds of good taste.  Ditto the monuments and fountains and the rod iron benches that line the meandering pathways - tailor-made for hand-holding and strolling.  It is very genteel with its pastoral remnants and botanically-crafted gardens and is a deeply romantic place.

As my daughter's wedding day approaches, I find myself nostalgic and easy to persuade with pictures, music, and scents.  Flash backs and memories infuse my days and I am taking many voyages to yesterday.  But now, in addition to the nuptials, I may be moving from the home I've known for 18 years to a beautiful cozy new place.  The challenge is not to be blown away by every wind in the process.  It may have been folly to begin this right at this time, but it's as though I am being led by something unseen yet strongly felt.  Whether it comes to pass, is still unknown but I am pleased to discover that even though I am a weakling in many ways, I can venture into uncharted waters alone and hold my own. I've learned things that I've never known -  how to ask for what I need, negotiate when necessary, and stand down change and fear even when the other shore is not yet on the horizon.  I find I can indeed row a boat....(can you?).