Saying it with Flowers

I like nothing better than a good embellishment. Not the the Christmas sweater variety, but a slightly fancy, pretty little thing on a belt, handbag, or shoe. And mostly I like flowers.

The problem is, once a woman is past a certain age, floral embellishments can look, well, old ladyish. The trick is to use these feminine touches in a way that's modern and new and shows an appreciation for poetic vintage looks in contemporary dressing.

I think that Caroline Herrera's collection from 2011, based on 18th century botanicals fits the bill to perfection. The pieces are reminiscent of Mrs. Delaney's paper mosaiks and yet have a fresh and current appeal to them. The skirt is paired with a crisp white blouse and t-strap sandals.

I cannot give up my floral embellishments and flowers have always been the feminine symbol of beauty throughout the centuries When worn with restraint, embellishments can seem both timeless and modern.

School Days

I attended a large unruly jr. high school in the late sixties. It was run by the strong arm of Principle Leo Brennan, a stoic ex-military, ex-professional football player of enormous size and few words. He was someone to reckon with and during this Age of Aquarius, when life as we knew it was changing fast, we needed him and his iron glove ways.

In 7th grade, I was assigned a locker beside Shawn Maroney. Being petite and mouse like, I suffered through this loud, tall, gangly boy’s daily teasing as he reached above the top shelf of my locker to remove books from his. His trickery involved making a “by all means, after you” presentation only to adroitly hone in and elbow me out of his way, pretending to let his heavy books slip out of his hands onto the top of my head, and repeatedly opening and closing his locker door in feigned forgetfulness until the bell rang, often making me late for class. He was smooth and had the Eddie Haskell down cold.

One late winter day, I had enough and hauled back and kicked him in the shin. A millisecond later, I felt a baseball mitt sized hand on my shoulder. Mr. Leo Brennan saw the kick but not all that went before.

That mitt led me down to the principle’s office where I was told to sit while a call was made to my mother. Mr. Brennan did not have to punish me as I was punishing myself with hysterics. I cried so hard that the next day, I had two half-moon open sores under each eye from the wet salty tears I shed.

As it happened, my mother was entertaining my grandparents that afternoon and they all piled into Mom's Chevy station wagon and drove to the school. While my grandparents comforted me in the little anteroom off the school office, my mother met with Mr. Brennan behind closed doors. But instead of taking me home, Mom told me I was to stay at school for the remainder of the day. After she and my grandparents left, Mr. Brennan asked me to follow him into his office.
There he rendered the most tender apology I have ever received. He did not realize all I had suffered at the hands of my classmate, he vowed to pay closer attention to such shenanigans, he said Mr. Maroney would never bother me again, and then ever so gently, ever so fatherly, he told me how terribly sorry he was that he had frightened me by marching me to the office.

The next morning at my locker, my neighbor was the epitome of polite reserve as he stood out of the way while I fetched my books. Over my shoulder, I glimpsed our imposing principle standing sentinel in the background.

Years later, I found out that Mr. Leo Brennan had a large brood of children of his own. Surely he knew something about sensitive girls.

Linda

Linda rented the upstairs apartment - the one with the palladian window, French doors, clawfoot bathtub, and hardwood floors. The day she moved in, I just knew she belonged there. I glimpsed her belongings as they were whisked to the third floor walk up by the movers. She was obviously a knitter which thrilled me. I was delighted to see her needles and pattern leaflets. Next came her books including a complete set of very vintage Jane Austen in blue leather and gold trim. An oversized framed needlepoint of a colorful garden, a mahogany dining set - the kind that is inherited and not bought. A well-seasoned cast iron skillet and an embossed silver teapot were wrapped in a beautiful lace curtain panel. Her belongings were romantic and feminine and it appeared her personal pursuits were as well. She had her grandmother with her that day for decorating support and as a devotee of my own grandmothers, I found that charming.

The fact that I was her younger "landlady" meant we probably wouldn't be pals but I thought she might become a private muse and as it turned out, Linda knew how to live well.

Like the poetess Emily Dickinsen, she dressed in white alot. Two piece white cotton dresses with cutwork hems, gossamer pintucked white blouses for summer. In winter, these clothes were replaced with textural white wool sweaters, arans, and creamy cashmere often worn with tweed wool pants, or long skirts and boots. She had a lovely way of dressing.

One night she tapped quietly on our door to pay the monthly rent wearing a luxurious fur coat. I complimented her and she responded by telling me that she had treated herself as it was something she always longed for. She smelled divine too. What was she wearing? Balmain's Ivoire perfume of course. She told us that night that she had also bought a piano and it would delivered through that palladian window by a crane the next day. The newspaper came and took pictures. After that, there was always free dinner music which softly floated down the stairs like a warm rolling fog every night.

Before long, she let us know that she would be married to the attractive young doctor we noticed visiting alot. She did ask if there was something of hers in the apartment that I might want to keep. Too well bred to tease about the fur coat or piano, I chose the beautiful white lace curtain panel that still dresses my window.

Mrs. Delany

I must tell you about a book that has been entrancing me for several months. "The Paper Garden: Mrs. Delany Begins her Life Work at Age 72" by Molly Peacock has been on my nightstand since summer. I have not found the words to describe it until now and even so, I am still not sure I can do it justice.

The title tells us that Mrs. Delany did not get going until age 72 and we learn what a remarkable feat it was for a widow who should have been in the dotage of her life, to create art in the form of paper flower "mosaicks" that are still intriguing us more than 200 years later. As Molly Peacock draws parallels with her own life and Mrs. Delany's, I draw them with mine, Mrs. Delany's AND Ms. Peacock's.

So many women give up at a certain age, often well before the age Mrs. Delany began cutting her flower mosaicks. They stop going to movies, reading books, connecting with friends, creating loveliness. In all fairness, physical ailments may be the cause of some of this but certainly Mrs. Delany must have had arthritic fingers as she snipped at her colorful papers. Certainly her eyesight had deteriorated a bit by age 72. Yet this heartbroken widow, at the home of her best friend one morning, saw a red geranium petal fall to the floor and upon studying it began to replicate it with scissors and paper. The work consumed her until over 1000 mosaicks were created.

My interest in Mrs. Delany was piqued enough that I read three other books about her, including a book of excerpts from her letters where she pontificated on all manner of things from fashion and dining to how to properly discipline children. Her fascinating life still fascinates as I pluck her message of second chances and never giving up. That there is life after deep sorrow, that the human spirit can continue despite physical limitations, that one can pick up scissors, needle, pen, and begin anew. That craft heals and that we as women, can be vital, happy and productive well into our golden years. The best is yet to be....

(More about Mrs. Delany in subsequent posts)

Hat Lady

I am a hat lady. I wear them. A lot. I love straw hats in the summer but I especially love winter hats. I would not have been caught dead in a hat nearly all my life. Then I went to a funeral and met a woman in a simple lilac jacket, a nice pair of black trousers, stilettos, and a straw hat. She looked like a little china doll and she was of a certain age too. I was enchanted by the hat and asked her about it. "It was my mother's from the 1930's", she said. She looked great. With a fussier outfit, she would have morphed from a chic woman in a hat to a blowsy hippie-type. The key is keeping the clothes simple - the streamlined jacket, the silk camisole underneath, and the shiny black stilettos allowed for the small straw hat with the slightest bit of netting and a silk flower. I was sold on hats at that funeral.

I began buying any hat that reminded me of hers. But when summer was over and winter came, I looked for warm stylish hats. In Newport, I found a terrific hat shop and there, I learned about felted fur hats, which are the ultimate in a structured winter hat. The hats are usually rabbit fur which are felted and blocked on wooden molds. It takes quite a long time to felt and shape a fur hat. The shop had hundreds of them, all in lively colors like teal, magenta, and purple. By the time the shop closed five years after I first found it, I had amassed a cranberry cloche with a thick self tie around the brim, a black bowler with a thin grossgrain ribbon, and a warm chocolate brown with a silk flower.

I try to wear a hat on the bitter cold days we have here in New England. This year I'm wearing a lot of knit hats with matching scarves and I cannot believe the warmth they afford me. Now I feel cold and exposed without one of my hats on. To keep it chic, I remember the simplicity of the woman at the funeral - too many colors, patterns, and fabric and a woman risks being thought of as a pagan or cat person (nothing wrong with either but that's not me).

Meg Ryan says in "You've Got Mail" that she saw a butterfly get off the subway where she imagined it was "going to Bloomingdale's to buy a hat which will be a mistake as all hats are". Well, I don't believe that...not all hats are mistakes and I'm sure that butterfly is wearing a chic fedora right now. Instead, I offer you this sweet and romantic hat quote that suits better:

" A hat is to be stylish in, to glow under, to flirt beneath, to make all others seem jealous over, and to make all men feel masculine about. A piece of magic is a hat." (Martha Sliter)

........Dear Readers, my blog seems to get a lot of traffic but few comments. Is anyone enjoying my corner or are you all just flying by?

A Time and Place

I put my homecity in the rearview mirror right after college and until recently, I never looked back. It wasn't a town but a mini-city and one with an identity crisis, small town in feel but metropolitan enough to be classified as a city. I discovered the reason it seemed like Mayberry when I went back recently. My tour consisted of the street where I grew up and a few other parallel and perpendicular ones that would look like a bunch of tossed pick up sticks from the air. All life took place here in these congested and crossed streets and alleys.

An artist friend once told me that there are always people who create art and bliss for others and there are others who enjoy the art and bliss others have created. And so it was in our little city, where each year the Lions Club made Santa Claus come down Main St. in a firetruck the week before Christmas and the ancient Miss Elderkin held free ballroom dance lessons for children every winter Friday night at the Congregational Church. I marvel at the tender memories I've read on my hometown's Facebook page since my visit home.

Many from the group mention the quirky old water tank on stilts that sits high above the city like a huge alien from another world. We talk about Miss Elderkin and her piano player, the agony of waiting to be asked to dance or asking only to be turned down. The discussions are about whose parent worked at which shoe factory, what happened to so and so, and when did Starbucks go in where the A & P use to be. It's banal and boring and I love it.

Living within a stone's throw of the sea now, I don't think I could ever go back to being landlocked again. I use to pity my homecity, although only an hour from salt water, and couldn't imagine being so deprived of the ocean. But I've learned it has a place in my heart because of all the dear things it did for me when I lived there. The fact that people looked out for each other, that there was no shortage of adults to tell me what to do, the natural beauty that was kept so for our pleasure. This meant skating ponds in winter, hills for sledding and for running down with scads of milk pods waiting to be opened and spread like germs on fall days. The shoe outlets in the factories where the smell of leather enticed us as we put our feet in practically free shoes. One classmate on Facebook lamented how much he missed the crabapples which fell to the ground in nearly every yard and park, a reminder of the city's pastoral past when it was mostly a place of orchards and farms.

I am amazed at how tender my feelings are for this odd little place, how I wish I could go back for just one day and walk "upstreet" to the bookstore and the Rexall. I want to get dust on my shoes at the grammar school where we trudged outside every Flag Day to sing God Bless America as loud as we could. I want to hear Miss Reilly from her front porch tell me not to walk near her boxwood hedges on my way to school. I want to open a milk pod and watch the fluffy white stars sail down a hill until they can't be seen anymore.

For now, I will be at rapt attention online when my old neighbors and friends start waxing poetic about the long departed dentist who gave out animal shaped erasers, the kind yet strict school principle we adored, and especially when the subject turns again to a ridiculous looking water tank on skinny legs that somehow I cannot stop pondering.

Winter Becomes Us

In the depths of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible
summer. ~Albert Camus

I have no quarrel with winter and I love that January's promise is to begin anew. Winter is a time of thoughtful reflection to prepare for the renewal that occurs in spring. Thus, I have created the following list which may help in appreciating the beauty of the season.

• Spend some time outdoors even if its just a bracing moment or two before bed on the front porch, taking in the special star show that can only be seen on clear crisp winter nights.
• Stay cozy with warm woolen throws at the ready: on the bed to pull up for an extra layer at night, and near your favorite reading nook for quick naps. Having throws can help still a housebound household as everyone settles in under their favorite blanket.
• Drink tea and make it a winter ritual by laying out a lovely tray with fruit and one perfect cookie each afternoon.
• Practice at-home yoga with a DVD. The gentle stretches and poses will help keep you warm and will aid in weight control through the cold winter months.
• Make healthy suppers after work by planning ahead with shopping menus. Eating well is so much easier when one knows ahead what is to be made and that the ingredients are on hand. Use a crockpot so that meals cook during the day and are ready at homecoming. Cook healthful soups and take leftovers for lunch the next day.
• Set the table at night using the beauty of candles for illumination and atmosphere. Have your homecooked meals at the dinner table and make it a daily pleasure and ritual to lay out your china and glassware.
• Have a "caring hour" each evening before bed. Indulge yourself with warming baths and luxurious body creams. Spray a little scent on your pillows. Try a new eye or throat cream.
• Make an effort to wear soft and warm nightclothes, matching pajamas sets, and pretty woolen socks. Have a favorite robe to slip into as you relax before a fire, quietly making your list of weekly menus. If you do not have a favorite robe, wear a soft pretty cardigan over your pajamas. Winter is not a time to give up on beauty.
• Have an attractive pair of foul weather boots that are also waterproof and cozy. Having the right "equipment" for dealing with challenging weather can make a big difference in how we perceive the season. Keep your snow brushes and scrapers in the same place for quick access on icy mornings too.
• Wear hats. It's been said that most body heat is lost from the top of the head and not being afraid to wear hats will make for a much more comfortable winter. Keep hat hair at bay with some hair care items in your "candybox" at work.
• In winter's depth, let your wardrobe reflect the outdoor landscape by wearing icy pastels in merino wools and cashmeres. Garnish your sweaters with favorite silver jewelry or the incandescense of pearls. Put away your browns and moss greens and opt for illuminating blues, greys, creams, and lilacs.
• Cherish the nights when the weather is too stormy to go out. Watch a parade of films that feature lovely feminine fashion and style such as Love in a Cold Climate, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, Being Julia, Tea with Musssolini. Rent series of movies from the library that you've missed out on because of warm weather activies.
• Drink lots of water. I dry out much quicker in the winter and having a glass of water with lime or lemon nearby replenishes and restores me. I also keep bottles of mineral water in the ice box and pour myself a glass to sip while I am making dinner after work.
• Indulge in books. Winter is a perfect time to borrow those large decorating books from the library. Pour over them on Saturday afternoons looking for inspiration and ideas for spring projects.
• Believe in the power of hibernation to reflect on what's really important in your life. These quiet frozen days will lead to your spring ressurection when the earth again wakes and blossoms. So, too, can you, if you have laid the groundwork through these thoughtful, quiet winter months and used them not only to plan but also to indulge and pamper yourself with thoughtful care, healthy homecooking, and a contemplative lifestyle. When it is crystalline without, yet serene within, you will see that winter becomes you!

Picture credit: http://www.marryyoume.com/2010/12/glitzy-rustic-winter-inspiration-shoot.html

Dress Code

Tonight is Christmas Eve and even though I have a small house with limited seating, my annual party has a dress code. I don't expect ball gowns and tuxedos but I do expect a little upgrade dressing. No jeans. I love that my daughter's boyfriend has already called for a wardrobe check. For myself, I try to select something festive and pretty. Tartan is meant for Christmas Eve and I have a floor length skirt. But I wore that last year. Of course, no one will remember except the photo album but this year I can't help thinking how nice something sparkly would be to mirror the stars that will be dotting tonight's clear and cold winter sky.

Christmas dressing in the past was always resplendent. Somehow the pine green shantung silk shirtdresses of the 50's were lost along the way. So too, the wide shouldered dresses and suits of the 40's that gave Christmas Eve its importance and significance. But tonight, I just want special for a special night. I hope I will see some chic cashmere separates, perhaps a beaded sweater or charmeuse blouse in a lovely jewel tone.

In my favorite Christmas film, Since You Went Away, Claudette Colbert's character Anne Hilton entertains her eclectic war-time company in a green Dacron dress and large brooch. Her daughters wear velvets in green and red. All wear heels. They look lovely and fine, even though the year without Pop, who is missing in the Pacific, was painful and difficult. They showed up in finery befitting the holiday. And somehow, it speaks to hope and a better life ahead.

I am indeed hopeful that 2012 will be wonderful, and to show how much, I've decided that even if I don't wear sparkles tonight, I just may grace myself with the prettiest and flirtiest crimson bow you will ever see.

When Christmas Happens

I never know the exact moment when Christmas happens for me. It could be the day I trim the tree, the afternoon I settle in with Victoria's A Woman's Christmas, or the private moment driving home from work when I notice the Christmas lights for the first time. I only know it's at that very moment that Christmas happens and all the wonderful things about the season begin to surround me like a warm cozy blanket.

I get misty and giddy by turns when I think of all the happy Christmases I had at my grandmother's, the wonderful little things my mother did for us that made us wiggle with delight, the neighbors who always visited on Christmas Eve, the majesty of attending our church's midnight mass, the carols I sang my heart out with the girl scouts. All those things made Christmas happen to my little girl heart.

Then there were the years I lived with him, when I decorated our house with abandon and had the money to do so. I still recall the teddy bear he gave me with the new pearl earrings in its newly pierced and furry ears. Later the years my darling daughter sang in the church choir and made cookies with me, both of us in our bunny slippers, made Christmas happen and come in a rush.

My memories of the Christmases of yore by no means diminsh the Chrismas of now or the ones in the future. I just never know when that magical moment will kick in and Christmas, the holiday I wait for all year, suddenly and joyously, happens!

Thanksgiving

My older brother played football in high school so those four years, Thanksgiving dinner was not at my grandmother's but at our house. There were some things we could count on at Thanksgiving: all three of my grandparents would be there, cider, the relish tray, and the comment my maternal grandmother would make at the end of every meal "Pete (my father), you will have to roll me back to Boston tonight". We loved it. We also loved that because our kitchen was so tiny, it was impossible for us to help clean up. So everyone under age 20 got to watch TV with my grandfather until the all clear was rung and dessert was served.

At the time a cheese tray was not fashionable so Mom kept to the tradition of having a "relish tray". I'm not sure where the name came from, but a relish tray was really a celery tray and it wasn't really a tray but a divided dish that was filled on one side with celery stuffed with cream cheese and sprinkled with paprika, and the other side filled with black olives. I remember we all put the olives on our fingertips, which for some strange reason was allowed. It could have been because it was a tradition that was irrisistible for small children and both my grandmothers knew something about children, having both been raised in families of more than 10 siblings.

Mom bought cider from a farm in town we drank that with our turkey and all the fixings. Dessert was pie, apple, pumpkin, and mincemeat. Dad would put the leaf in the dining room table which then took up the entire room. We didn't have enough chairs so a bench on the side of the table took care of at least three of us.

Thanksgiving at my house is going to be quiet and small this year. Just one brother, my mother, and my daughter. Last night I called my mother to ask her to bring along her electric knife. We chatted about Thanksgivings of yore and then she said something unexpected I won't soon forget. Mom asked if I remembered a coat she bought me one fall - moss green tweed with an attached scarf to wear on Thanksgiving day when I was six. "Yes. It itched", I replied. "Well", she said, "I keep seeing you in that coat tonight". Nothing could be sweeter to have with the turkey and all its fixings, the cider, the pies, and that marvelous and simple relish tray with the celery and black olives.