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Then

I’m eating Twinkies. I haven’t had one since I was a child. And it was rare then, only upon occasion.

Then the mailman’s name was Ray, and the mail was delivered twice a day. When there was a letter he would ring the doorbell or shout through the screen door. If it was a letter from my brother he would persist until someone answered. (My brother was off fighting whichever war we were giving then.) He didn’t have to persist often or long—we always watched for the mail.

There were milkmen who delivered milk in glass bottles and you could hear the bottles clanging in the carrier as he walked to your door. Some people got chocolate milk and we knew the houses they went to.

We played softball in the street in front of my house and quit when the streetlights came on. We had to go home then. If earlier and some other reason to go home, you would hear someone’s father’s whistle. We all knew the different sounds and pitches that belonged to us.

Those nights you could hear the sounds of laughter, and children’s voices, and cicadas calling with the tree toads, and a few birds still visiting. Sometimes you could hear wandering bullfrogs calling for their mates. And crickets. The sound of crickets was the music we fell asleep to. Once in a while you would hear a car go by, and the thump, thump of the tires as they went across the tarred strips.

It was quiet on Sundays, after the morning of ringing church bells. Whole families walked down the streets to the Church, girls wearing dresses and gloves, just like their mothers, men with hats, and suits and ties. Almost everyone went to church and afterward you came home to your big Sunday dinner and the readying for Monday—schoolwork, newspapers, clothes laid out, shoes polished.

We knew all of the neighbors and the houses around our block, and the stories they held. We knew the house where the woman had hung herself in the basement because her husband went out with other women. We knew the house where the poker parties were held on Saturday nights. Sometimes there was a special game on Friday night and you knew because of all the cars parked in the alley.

After supper you had to eat your desert inside, before going out. You couldn’t walk out with a Popsicle unless you had more to give your friends. And you ate your Twinkies inside, or out on the back porch.

stanisław wyspiański (1869-1907), portrait of józio feldman, 1905, pastel (national museum in kraków, poland)

stanisław wyspiański (1869-1907), portrait of józio feldman, 1905, pastel (national museum in kraków, poland)

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Catching Up

Again

Today the haunting began. I can go only so long without writing or reading, or thinking the thoughts of beginnings and endings. Updike liked centers. I don’t. The centers are suffocating, stagnant, the places of boredom and illness. We stir around within them, buying things, sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping may be the singular warning of middles. That’s where you can hear the other voices and you drown.

Anne Packard (1933) Barca a remi sul blu

Anne Packard (1933) Barca a remi sul blu

In this painting you cannot see the line on the horizon. You might think you can, but you cannot hold it. It looks as if it should be one solid blue, top to bottom. But it is not. The water ends where the sky begins, though they merge. It isn’t just the horizon line, you see, it is also the boat. The boat, and the rower, the oars, traverse the blue and say: this is it, this  is the water through which we travel. And this is where we are.

 

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Those Were The Days

Quite a few years ago my son and I were talking about music and playing a variety of records. At that time, back in Iowa City, most everyone had a turn table and a collection of records. I had a very large accumulation myself—everything from classical and blues to folk and rock.

Janis Joplin was playing, loudly and passionately while we sang just as loud and just as filled with passion. After all, it was the only way to listen to some things. We had just moved into the game of “Oh! Remember when this came out?” when he asked to play Peter Paul and Mary. “Well,” I said, “we can, but I’m really not all that into nostalgia.”

He feigned a look around the room. “I don’t see any shag carpeting…”

Not getting the connection I responded, “What? Nobody does shag carpet anymore. There hasn’t been any for years. New anyway.”

“Huh. And you do know that Janis is nostalgia, right?”

I was shocked. I didn’t know. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. With some things the old days get carried right along with you to whenever you are.

janis

Janis Joplin on her Psychedelic Porsche, 1968. Photographed by Jim Marshall

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Extremes In Time

Doesn’t this look like so much fun? I’ve studied it to see where the sleeves might land should the arms be lowered to a natural length. I don’t believe they would drag too much on the ground. I wish the site had posted photos of different arm positions. And then, given my want, I thought of a garment enhancement to address any long-standing length issues. I’m thinking a hook and eye, maybe even more than one or two, could be placed appropriately on the sleeves so that if one wished, they could be used to shorten and fill out the sleeves. These should be placed on the back of the flowing gatherings so they would not disturb the form when applied.

Then also, I had to think—wouldn’t such a thing be gorgeous today? And well it would, although I do believe it would be more ridiculed than welcomed. Today the critiques would run along the lines of “totally impractical” to “ridiculous.” Certainly nothing for the average citizen to wear. I do believe that many people, especially the critical, would be taken aback to learn this is a fashion design of years in the past.

And I, for one, would have it in a heartbeat even if I had to make up a reason to wear it. So maybe it’s not the extremes of the times—any times—so much as it is the extremes of people willing to embrace them.

Big Sleeves Day - Elsa Schiaparelli, 1950s

Big Sleeves Day—posted by Vintage Fashion Uncovered

The satin pants aren’t too shabby either. Although the protruding pockets would demand a form quite thin. Very thin. Indeed.

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National PI Day

Today—3.14—is officially PI day. I think the celebration that is called for is a freshly baked pie. The bakery where I go says that they do sell many more pies on this special day, so they always bake extra, and they are always all gone by the end of day.