Monday, May 16, 2016

My Tiffany's

Holly Golightly said that nothing very bad can happen to a person at Tiffany's.  I second that.  The real world slips away and we are lost in fantasy and beauty and like Holly, we feel safe.

I'm not talking about physical safety because sadly, that's never a guarantee anymore.  I'm talking about emotional safety.  A congenial spot of happily-ever-after.  At least while you are there.

For me, that place is sweet and wholesome Country Curtains.  I adore the faux windows with swags of dotted swiss, lace, or linen.  There's nothing prettier than the imitation landscapes just beyond each one -pastoral scenes with sloping hills and light.  The calming colors charm me with possibilities.  The porcelain lamps with pristine shades and flirty finials inspire me with their graceful lines - all warmly lit to welcome me. Bright yet tasteful cushions on fabricated beds invite me to fall into them.  So soft, so enticing...

The ladies at Country Curtains are efficient and kind.  They believe in me -  in my ability to hang a pocket curtain rod as well as my dreamy vision.  If I want an orange print pillow for the rocking chair in my blue living room, they are completely onboard as they run around the shop fetching fabrics to drape together, showing me how perfect my fantasy is.  The deep blue sky is the limit as far as they are concerned.  They even remember me, no matter how long I've been away and ask how I made out with the lace panels I bought two years ago and do I still love my floral shower curtain?  If I want the valance to match, the ladies know just where to put their hands on it.  

Everything at Country Curtains is built to last.  The springy hooked rugs scattered on the handsome hardwoods look like they were hidden in Grandma's attic yet are as fresh as yesterday.  Tiny silver salt and pepper shakers shaped like mini-artichokes look both new and vintage.  There is an air of craftsmanship and timelessness that satisfies, even if I am only "window shopping".

In a world where vulgarity rules the day, I can always slip into Country Curtains for a touch of lang syne.  The quality of the merchandise and the friendly and kindly staff make me feel that anything is possible again.  Like Holly, I find my tea and sympathy.  My own Tiffany's...where nothing bad can happen.

What is your Tiffany's?


Sunday, May 8, 2016

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.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Seventeen Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...and more than a few dreams.