SUNDAY AT THE PICCADILLY

                                                           

Introducing two new folks, long-time residents of Paxton.

Estelle Emerson finished her after-church lunch well before her husband was done with his.   She never took much time with ordinary things like eating, because food had never appealed to her much; she considered a can of Beanie Weenies apiece to be a perfectly adequate meal.   She hated to have to cook and her sparse larder consisted of instants and microwaveables, with one shelf of the small pantry devoted to boxes of StoveTop and Minit-Raas and jars of Chef Boy ar Dee sauce.    She was a bright spot in the browns and end-of-Winter jackets and coats in her pink shiny jacket and a wide ferny skirt with a blaze of flowers.  

She consulted her purse and emerged with an old-fashioned gold compact, one that she had gotten as a graduation gift.   She did one of those chin-bob, three-point scans in the mirror, touched the corner of her mouth with her pinky finger, and dropped the compact back in.   Then she stood, took a quick brush at her skirt, and set a fast pace to the 50% Off Corner of the Gift Shoppe as her husband finished his pie.

Dennis, intent on scraping every last bit of coconut-laden filling from the stiff, lardy crust, sat there silently in his Sunday khakis and blue plaid 90%-cotton shirt as she disappeared through the archway.  He was used to Estelle's darting, dragonfly ways, her quick, deft movements around the house, and her no-nonsense economy of living life.       He dragged the side of his fork across every surface of the naked, perfect shell of the crust, opened wide and inserted every millimeter of the tine-end into his mouth.  He closed his lips around it, then withdrew it slowly from the tight channel, leaving it as shining as when he'd unwrapped it and its companion spoon and knife from their paper cocoon.   Giving a series of several satisfied little smacks, he checked his watch for Time-Til-Kickoff and sat back to wait.   Estelle liked to take her time.

And he liked to "Watch the Line."  There was always someone interesting or funny or dressed so special at these Sunday noon dinnertimes---from kids with tats and last-night's clothes, slept in or hurriedly recovered from a strange floor when noon-time sleep gave way to the quick, gnawing hunger of the young and hung-over.  Young guys with earrings slid unabashedly past cashiers with their trays of mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, chicken noodles and slabs of chocolatey cake, while their dates heel-tipped past with small plates of green things which they might or might not eat, for fear of spoiling their lipstick or image or both.

An important-bustling smug-faced man with the large hair of a confident preacher herded several older folks to their seats, while a small caravan of well-dressed younger ones and several seasoned waiters followed with trays holding plates with one chicken leg or discreet small servings of turkey and gravy and big mooshy peas which comprised Walt's Senior Specials, along with little dishes of Jello or pie.

Dennis gazed longest at a petite, wrinkled lady in an outfit Twiggy would have killed for---tight little skirt and matching white pleather jacket with an oversized Newsie Cap in the same far-fetched material.   Her white GoGo boots and dandelion hair-to-match gave her the air of having popped onstage between scenes on Laugh-In, and stayed frozen there for the last fifty years, beginning as Goldie Hawn and ending as Golden Girl.     You could imagine her closet at home, with its lingering ghosts of Arpege and Intimate, hanging full of a lifetime of tee-ninecy ensembles of bright sweepy skirts, demure puff-sleeve white blouses, and little pumps with ankle socks.

Golden Girls Goldie's conversation matched her wardrobe---bright and effusive.   Her voice flew up and down the chirpy notes of the treble clef---sometimes like the tweetings of chattery birds, and at other moments, when she was really into her story and smiling wider than wide, it quite resembled the sound of the little plinky bar in a music box.

Estelle reappeared down the hall, carrying a flamingo-covered something which blended with her bright-splashed skirt and shiny jacket.   He realized that it was a bag---90-to-nothing there wasn't a thing in it, because Estelle was an acknowledged "Fool for Bags"---any kind, and shopping ones especially.   She even rotated them with the seasons and often, because her scant grocery list scarce ever filled two, and she liked to show them off.   

A stiff-haired crisp man in a black suit and squiggly ear-wire held the door as a smartly-dressed lady in an off-white pants-suit, pumps, and a dashingly-draped pink scarf breezed in.     Estelle and Dennis waited to go out, and the man's wary eyes continued scanning them til they stepped outside before he let the door swing shut behind them.  The smooth heavy white car, which they assumed belonged to the guarded lady, eased into a wide parallel at the curb, motor running and the driver as alert as the escort, as Estelle and Dennis, one brightly striding like a flitting gaudy bird, and the other headed for his La-Z-Boy, retrieved their own big Chevy, gently rounded a hitchhiking backpacker and turned toward home.  

CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'

 

                                                      

It’s such an honor to be amongst such wonderful, kind people whose words and pictures and ideas and sheer talents brighten every day. I can tune in and find humor, color, bright sayings, little fun tips and trips and stories of families and work and spiritual journeys to inspire and amaze. I’ve had my heart touched and almost broken, my funnybone tickled, my eyes filled with glorious images, and my soul sent soaring through other people’s sharings.

Today, the Springtime-Sunny morning has been brightened a hundredfold, over at LIFE AND LINDA with her invitation to visit her magnificent garden.   Even with all the GREEN springing outside our own doors, scented breezes drifting past the window-open sheers, and such sunny pockets of golden light all throughout our neighborhood, I have been right here at the screen for ages, sighing and smiling over her phenomenal way with plants and scenery and knowledge of the gardening world.   Do go and just get lost in all that wonderful place of such color and scent and fabulous landscaping.    You could just simply stroll and DWELL.   

PLAIN PLANES, PLEASE

 

We live in a little "Ranch" house with a split personality.   One of the main reasons we bought it was that the entire basement had been fully carpentered into technically five rooms---a big "den" space with room for a big dining table, a breakfast area, two "don't count to a Realtor" bedrooms, along with a laundry room with room for our freezer,  and a fully-tiled bath.   I mean "fully"---the very first owners owned a tiling company, and walls, floor, and shower are still shining with fabulous green tiles. ceiling and floor---you could hose the entire place down if you wanted to.    

The house came with fairly lots of Eighties carpets in all the upstairs; over the years we removed them all to uncover the honey-colored hardwoods.  Oddly, there were wonderful "bespoke" draperies on the five windows in the living room, and even when we bought it in 1997, a pristine Sixties Autumn Gold kitchen---counters, fridge, stove and linoleum.  And another kitchen downstairs---just plain green this time, with gleaming maple cabinets and room for our six-burner wide-oven black cast-iron stove, Miss Frankie.   The owners said that the wife liked to entertain her big family, but "not mess up the house," and thus all the gatherings were held downstairs, where everyone could come in the back door and straight DOWN.  

I had already noticed that there were no light "fixtures" as we knew them in any of the rooms---just a square, flat pane of glass screwed in the ceiling to hold several bulbs, which you couldn't change without a step-ladder.   And the walls were remarkably unmarked, as well, but we put that down to having a great plasterer when they repaired any nail or picture-holder before they showed the house for sale.   

But there was another explanation:  The wife hated the thought of anything hanging from the ceiling, or  on the wall or tables or a counter-top.  And she said so, frequently that one time I saw them at our little HouseWarming celebration---she went through the whole house with a frown on her face, and told me, "Well, it's not to MY taste, but if YOU like it . . ."     I did and do, all these years later.   And we took great pains not to burden her with such an unpleasance as our cluttered house thereafter--just wouldn't have been kind.   

                                           

I'd bought a fabulous chandelier on FB marketplace right before COVID, and just left it sitting in the box for these five years, and so the folks who re-wired the whole house last August hung it for us, to shine and flourish its pink tulle bows , and our Memory Tree remains decorated and lit year-round.   Four exquisite pastel silk Cheongsams, each a work of embroidery art, that I found in a pile at Goodwill hang on satin hangers over the guest room curtains, and not to mention, but I will, the pink Nutcracker banners in the dining room, the over-stuffed pink chair befitting Mole's wee abode, the brooches and necklaces and all sorts of twinkly things sprinkled around on windows and lamps.   Just looking into our front windows with all the glitter and sparkle would probably make that poor soul take to her bed.  

                                                 

THE POINT OF GRACE AND THE MOMENT

 

ONE OF MY LAST LETTERS TO MY DEAREST COUSIN SANDRA:

Oh, Sweetpea!   What a wonderful message from you!  You just say the dearest things, and have the sweetest, purest spirit of any adult I've ever known.   There's a wonderful innocence to your brilliant mind, a childlike faith and wonder at the simplest things---I remember your words about bread, about lavender, a Summer breeze, kneeling to receive The Cup, the little creek as it flows---plums and a fresh-ironed cloth whisked onto a table for supper, the gathering of your Loves around that table, growing young together.

Indeed, you DO have words---absolutely reams and scores of them, speaking of only the best of things, the sweetest parts, the simplest, deepest gentle murmurs of the way things should be, as you see them.   You have a way of portraying life as we'd all like to live it, in a simple, slow grace of BEING that we forget could be, or that we've never given a thought in our busy, moving, on-call, duty-filled, get-it-done lives.   You MAKE us think about those things---those better ways, those spirit-filled moments, those days of Grace lived in shade and sun, walking gently where we're impelled to run, to get things over with, to get on with it, instead of enjoying the simple charm of the NOW.

SO love to hear from you---would that it were every day, every hour.   I could read and read your words, drinking in those slaking words, filling up entire with the feeling of beautiful and pure. 

 Remember we loved that "simple" book several years ago---Beth Breathnach, was it?   We all seized upon it as a mantra of sorts, a missal for the Church of the Everyday Stuff---likening a dull morning to a garden ripe with delights, or a chore to a gift to our nearies and selves.  It was a wonderful, fulfilling read, propped in the arbor in the Summer shade.   We thought we could be JUST LIKE THAT, accepting the goods and the simples and the smalls.   Just NOTICING them was a great blessing; having them pointed out was a lovely gift, and would that it had lasted forever, for we drift, we allow, we succumb to the leaving off of things, the dusts of the days, the pilings of THINGS and STUFF and debris of shoppings and hoardings and receivings, stored up in their outlived, useless selves, merely on the possibility of their later use.  

 Oh.  My.   I have to get OUT of that track.   We were Yard Salers, Goodwillers, Thrift Store browsers, picking up a plate here, a set of dishes there, two cloths and an abandoned craft-basket filled with ninety-nine kinds of ribbon and wire, channeling Martha Stewart because we saw exactly THAT PLATTER in the magazine and who knows what entertaining marvels would ensue if I had one of my own??

Mine's all geared to nesting, I've found---home stuff and kitchen stuff and house things---and except for two china cabinets, our La-Z-Boys, and the computer and TV, every single thing we own came from Goodwill.   Piles and drawers of tablecloths and coverlets and curtains for windows I'll never own, with so few things costing more than a dollar or two---can't pass up that twenty-foot Battenburg banquet set, even though our biggest table is eight feet.  

DAYUM.

I'm verging away to the silly now, but life has been such ridiculous DEPTHS lately, of such a surfeit of things to walk over and trip over, that my mind is dropping to the level of those maze-rats---you can change course around blind ends and blank walls just SO MANY TIMES before you forget where and who and WHY you are.   I've lost my words into the ether so much lately, but now that the actual building is completed,  I don't weep so much for the losing of the words as I have of late in my usual self.  

So YES.   I Have lost my words,   And that's just what I've called it.   I can pretty well type anything, as the stream comes from my brain, but sometimes I have to stop and think "Now what is that A-word that I'm looking for?"   or "Do I really mean Accumulation or Assimilation?"   Or I've even gone so far as to offer a guest a cup of cigarette without missing a beat, though not a soul in the room smokes.  

I love you, faraway Sister-Girl.   Sisters of the Spirit---yours "rubs off" in the most lovely sense on me, and I just hope to send you some of the reassurance of your worth and kindness and so-enviable way of living life that I try to pattern and live.   I lived Serene for a long, long time, and the past few years have been beyond NOT.   You're keeping me centered on that sweet focusing-point of Grace and The Moment.

ONE OF OUR OWN

 

Yes, I'm wearing the Green today, in honor of my ancestors with long-ago roots in Ireland. They left the known for the unknown in 1730, when this country was still great stretches of unbroken green, wild and untrod, and those steps were taken on Faith and pure Grit. I'd rather claim those hard-working, hardscrabble farmers, leaving those smoky, humble crofts and taking only their hope and their callused hands to a new land, than anyone's born-to-the-manor family line.


In Keats' A Thing Of Beauty, the first line is widely quoted, often used, and most likely the only part remembered by most folks. But the last---Ahhh, the Last. It stands beautiful head and shoulders above any lines which come before:





I send my herald thought into a wilderness:



There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress



My  uncertain path with green, that I may speed

Easily onward, through flowers and weed. 

And to SWEETPEA, standing in Dublin this minute in her band uniform, ready to step out into the parade:   We're SO proud of you!!!    Happy St. Patrick's Day, with Godspeed and Traveling Grace to guide you back home.

ps   The parade was FABULOUS!!   We're sitting down to warm Bread Pudding and crisp bacon and several fabulous cheeses at 11:20.   May all your DAY be sweet!