I have vague memories of VJ Day (I was four) but have been more fully aware of the cessation of many other "hostilities" As my Viet Nam-era Navy Veteran friend puts it, however: "No war is ever really over," even if the U.S. has definitively declared victory or claimed to have accomplished a mission.
The beginnings of wars are a different matter. Someone must have 'shared' the crossing of the 38th parallel when I was in grade school, and the Korean Conflict was a staple of Current Events for a long time while we learned to 'duck and cover' and fear Communism.
As a 17-year-old USO volunteer, I wondered why so many of the Marines were talking about going to Laos, but the Southeast Asian wars started very gradually, perhaps as a holdover from WWII and Korea.
Since January 1991, when Steve and I watched the almost ritualistic start of Operation Desert Storm on CNN, I've been all too conscious of the starts of wars. Thus Saturday's launching of missiles into Libya brought back that memory, along with one of being in Idaho, on the phone with Sandy, while the U.S. invaded Iraq.
I don't watch international news on CNN anymore. It doesn't take a lot of theme music and rhetoric to help me recognize atrocities. NPR's calmer coverage -- punctuated by Tivo'd doses of Jon Stewart's outrageous observations -- keeps my adrenaline level high enough.
My high school Latin teacher, proud to be a Reserve officer, liked to shock the boys with predictions of how he'd be ordering them around in the Middle East as soon as they graduated, if not before. I can't imagine Mr. M lived to see George Bush draw a line in the sand, but I often wonder whether he made it to Southeast Asia.and met any of his old students there.
Now Operation Odyssey Dawn brings flashbacks to and from the shores of Tripoli.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
greener on the other side
On Wednesday, Steve and I visited the Theodore Payne Foundation for Wildflowers and Native Plants in Sunland and, on our way home, the Japanese Garden at the Tillman Water Reclamation Plant in Van Nuys. In between, we had lunch at a small Lebanese cafe in Sunland. This was a rare midweek outing made possible by the cancellation of Steve's regular Wednesday noon piano-playing gig.
I thought I had visited the Payne Foundation as a child, but my memory was of something more urban, and a place where there were more of the cacti and succulents my parents were collecting at the time. The real TPF is the only nursery where I've seen a sign warning customers to watch out for rattlesnakes. It hangs on the edges of a canyon and is topped by a wildflower trail. A small lizard was the only wildlife I saw.
My goal at TPF was to buy California poppy plants. After years of coveting neighbors' poppies and sowing numerous packets of seed, I finally chose what I hope will be an easier way of getting the state flower to bloom among our cacti and succulents. Four-inch pots of poppies were $4.00 each, and I indulged in two: one classic orange and one multi (white and/or cream, I hope). The rain promised for this weekend should give them a boost and, though it may be too late to hope for blooms this year, may encourage the taproots that make poppies perennial in favored locations. Meanwhile, I squint at nasturtiums and visualize future poppies, asking for the zillioneth time why birds have not brought poppies to me along with Sprenger asparagus fern and other unwanted invaders.
I was tempted by TPF's native ferns and white clematis, but decided to wait until fall, when I can also buy more poppies if this week's fail. In the gift shop (unavoidable because we had to pay for the poppies there) we were happy to find books for two grandchildren's upcoming birthdays: one volume on the whys and wherefores of backyard possums, and one on how to tell which are the friendly insects. Both were beautifully illustrated.
The Lebanese cafe was located at a former fast food site -- Taco Bell would be my guess. I love to see chain restaurant buildings recycled into one-of-a-kind eateries,* whether they're thinly disguised, as this one was, or almost unidentifiable, as most Orange Juliuses which often can be spotted only because of their proximity to car washes. My falafel and Steve's shawarma were wonderful, served with the thinnest pita bread I've ever seen. We seemed to be the only WASPs in the place, which is probably why we were given baklava on the house for desert. How could we ever visit TPF without stopping for more Mediterranean food?
Unlike TPF, the idyllic Japanese Garden was much as I remembered it from a short visit after an LWV meeting a couple of years ago. Spectacular white herons, little brown-black ducks, huge koi, and tiny minnows were among the wildlife we saw. We watched gardeners pole a boat out to one of the islands and place a turtle trap, so we know we didn't see all the resident fauna. BTW the gardeners used a garden rake to propel the boat; this was multitasking at its best.
One detail that I did NOT remember from my previous visit was that the acres of green lawn were made up of pure dichondra; only one small area showed a bit of oxalis. Of course I was tempted to do some weeding, but kept hands (and feet) off.
As beauty is in the eye of the beholder, dichondra grown with a lavish supply of recycled water is in the eye of the gardener who's pre- (and post-) occupied with making this gorgeous ground cover flourish similarly at home. I was inspired to pull more than my daily quota of chickweed, oxalis, and perennial grasses, and to use laundry water to keep the parking strip green through the dry months of summer.
- - - - -
*The new and trendy A-Frame, in a former IHOP location trying to throw off the bad karma of an unsuccessful Mexican interlude, serves an Asian fusion cuisine and is a Beard new-restaurant award nominee.
I thought I had visited the Payne Foundation as a child, but my memory was of something more urban, and a place where there were more of the cacti and succulents my parents were collecting at the time. The real TPF is the only nursery where I've seen a sign warning customers to watch out for rattlesnakes. It hangs on the edges of a canyon and is topped by a wildflower trail. A small lizard was the only wildlife I saw.
My goal at TPF was to buy California poppy plants. After years of coveting neighbors' poppies and sowing numerous packets of seed, I finally chose what I hope will be an easier way of getting the state flower to bloom among our cacti and succulents. Four-inch pots of poppies were $4.00 each, and I indulged in two: one classic orange and one multi (white and/or cream, I hope). The rain promised for this weekend should give them a boost and, though it may be too late to hope for blooms this year, may encourage the taproots that make poppies perennial in favored locations. Meanwhile, I squint at nasturtiums and visualize future poppies, asking for the zillioneth time why birds have not brought poppies to me along with Sprenger asparagus fern and other unwanted invaders.
I was tempted by TPF's native ferns and white clematis, but decided to wait until fall, when I can also buy more poppies if this week's fail. In the gift shop (unavoidable because we had to pay for the poppies there) we were happy to find books for two grandchildren's upcoming birthdays: one volume on the whys and wherefores of backyard possums, and one on how to tell which are the friendly insects. Both were beautifully illustrated.
The Lebanese cafe was located at a former fast food site -- Taco Bell would be my guess. I love to see chain restaurant buildings recycled into one-of-a-kind eateries,* whether they're thinly disguised, as this one was, or almost unidentifiable, as most Orange Juliuses which often can be spotted only because of their proximity to car washes. My falafel and Steve's shawarma were wonderful, served with the thinnest pita bread I've ever seen. We seemed to be the only WASPs in the place, which is probably why we were given baklava on the house for desert. How could we ever visit TPF without stopping for more Mediterranean food?
Unlike TPF, the idyllic Japanese Garden was much as I remembered it from a short visit after an LWV meeting a couple of years ago. Spectacular white herons, little brown-black ducks, huge koi, and tiny minnows were among the wildlife we saw. We watched gardeners pole a boat out to one of the islands and place a turtle trap, so we know we didn't see all the resident fauna. BTW the gardeners used a garden rake to propel the boat; this was multitasking at its best.
One detail that I did NOT remember from my previous visit was that the acres of green lawn were made up of pure dichondra; only one small area showed a bit of oxalis. Of course I was tempted to do some weeding, but kept hands (and feet) off.
As beauty is in the eye of the beholder, dichondra grown with a lavish supply of recycled water is in the eye of the gardener who's pre- (and post-) occupied with making this gorgeous ground cover flourish similarly at home. I was inspired to pull more than my daily quota of chickweed, oxalis, and perennial grasses, and to use laundry water to keep the parking strip green through the dry months of summer.
- - - - -
*The new and trendy A-Frame, in a former IHOP location trying to throw off the bad karma of an unsuccessful Mexican interlude, serves an Asian fusion cuisine and is a Beard new-restaurant award nominee.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
flowering
Hyacinths and ranunculi are coming into bloom in our largest flower bed. The hyacinths are a blue-purple that blends well with four varieties of lavender and predominantly purple freesias, but each ranunculus sprout produces a surprise. A fat red bud was the first to open, revealing a variegated orange and yellow blossom. Its neighbor is pink and white, while orange buds are waiting their turn.
This is only the second year I've grown ranunculi. They are newcomers among plants that go back thirty years and more: a big white azalea, now covered with large single blossoms; a pink camellia just ending its long season of bloom; calla lilies that have come and gone; the shrimp plant and meyer asparagus fern that were here in 1975 when we moved in.
Our front garden doesn't get enough sun to grow really great ranunculi. The flower fields of San Diego County's north coast, most notably Carlsbad, face the Pacific and so get strong sun almost all day every day. There's no way to compete with this 50 acre paradise, or even with blogger Wayne's desert garden grown from WalMart tubers. But I will persist in buying a few ranunculus tubers every year at the 99 Cents Only Store, and planting them in the sunniest spots I can find.
This summer I plan to dig and divide all my freesia and hyacinth bulbs, and will plant new and naturalized ranunculus tubers in between. They stand taller than the freesias and hyacinths, and thus provide contrast in height as well as color. Ideally convolvulus mauritanicus (ground morning glory) will fill in around the base, bearing blue-purple blossoms and staying green while the bulbs' foliage dries up.
"Ave, ave, convolvulus mauritanicus," I wrote several years ago in a poem about "the true and graeco-latin names of all the plants," yet I've never tended these unassuming perennials as well as I should. Steve's mother, Alice, bought them for me during an Easter visit years ago. She liked to go to one of the big local nurseries after our festive meal, and always encouraged me to choose a hostess gift.
Mexican sage has also received short shrift from me. It bears beautiful dark purple blossoms, but I don't care for its strong odor or sprawling shape, so have pulled it out many times. At last I think it's fighting its way back in an appropriate place, in line with the lavenders.
I love the constant planning, evaluation, and compromise involved in gardening. These activities provide focal points for memoir and, at the same time, open up paths to new learning. All this, and an excuse to wallow in dirt!
This is only the second year I've grown ranunculi. They are newcomers among plants that go back thirty years and more: a big white azalea, now covered with large single blossoms; a pink camellia just ending its long season of bloom; calla lilies that have come and gone; the shrimp plant and meyer asparagus fern that were here in 1975 when we moved in.
Our front garden doesn't get enough sun to grow really great ranunculi. The flower fields of San Diego County's north coast, most notably Carlsbad, face the Pacific and so get strong sun almost all day every day. There's no way to compete with this 50 acre paradise, or even with blogger Wayne's desert garden grown from WalMart tubers. But I will persist in buying a few ranunculus tubers every year at the 99 Cents Only Store, and planting them in the sunniest spots I can find.
This summer I plan to dig and divide all my freesia and hyacinth bulbs, and will plant new and naturalized ranunculus tubers in between. They stand taller than the freesias and hyacinths, and thus provide contrast in height as well as color. Ideally convolvulus mauritanicus (ground morning glory) will fill in around the base, bearing blue-purple blossoms and staying green while the bulbs' foliage dries up.
"Ave, ave, convolvulus mauritanicus," I wrote several years ago in a poem about "the true and graeco-latin names of all the plants," yet I've never tended these unassuming perennials as well as I should. Steve's mother, Alice, bought them for me during an Easter visit years ago. She liked to go to one of the big local nurseries after our festive meal, and always encouraged me to choose a hostess gift.
Mexican sage has also received short shrift from me. It bears beautiful dark purple blossoms, but I don't care for its strong odor or sprawling shape, so have pulled it out many times. At last I think it's fighting its way back in an appropriate place, in line with the lavenders.
I love the constant planning, evaluation, and compromise involved in gardening. These activities provide focal points for memoir and, at the same time, open up paths to new learning. All this, and an excuse to wallow in dirt!
Thursday, March 3, 2011
déjà vu
Getting POSToccupations from 2010 ready for hard copy publication is taking me back to many pleasant memories, interspersed with more than a few disappointments when things didn't turn out as anticipated.
Last year's tomato crop, so hopefully outlined in tomato madness (March 31, 2010) can only be described as a total flop. The five varieties purchased at the Farmers Market bore no fruit at all. The one volunteer plant, which I was training up into my woody old rosemary tree, bore one tough, thick-skinned, two-inch orb. Finally, the rainbow mix of cherry tomato seedlings never looked promising enough to transplant.
Meanwhile, my neighbor's two lush tomato plants produced countless beefsteak beauties, which we were given carte blanche to pick. Moreover, she had NO tomato worms. Nor did we, but then our plants hardly seemed worth molesting.
But wait! Whereas the 'Bush Goliath,' 'Brandywine,' 'San Diego,' and one of the 'Roma' plants had vanished completely by midsummer, the original volunteer, the 'Costoluto-Genovese,' and the other 'Roma' are in the running for stardom, along with a second volunteer from early 'fring.' In fact, we have picked and eaten three passable fruits from volunteer #1, and two from the 'Genovese.' Two fat Roma tomatoes are nearly ripe, and all four of the plants are blooming prolifically.
Last year's tomato crop, so hopefully outlined in tomato madness (March 31, 2010) can only be described as a total flop. The five varieties purchased at the Farmers Market bore no fruit at all. The one volunteer plant, which I was training up into my woody old rosemary tree, bore one tough, thick-skinned, two-inch orb. Finally, the rainbow mix of cherry tomato seedlings never looked promising enough to transplant.
Meanwhile, my neighbor's two lush tomato plants produced countless beefsteak beauties, which we were given carte blanche to pick. Moreover, she had NO tomato worms. Nor did we, but then our plants hardly seemed worth molesting.
But wait! Whereas the 'Bush Goliath,' 'Brandywine,' 'San Diego,' and one of the 'Roma' plants had vanished completely by midsummer, the original volunteer, the 'Costoluto-Genovese,' and the other 'Roma' are in the running for stardom, along with a second volunteer from early 'fring.' In fact, we have picked and eaten three passable fruits from volunteer #1, and two from the 'Genovese.' Two fat Roma tomatoes are nearly ripe, and all four of the plants are blooming prolifically.
I have 'wintered over' tomatoes in the past, but never with much success. Traditionally they are "tender perennials, grown as annuals," but I have little to lose by letting them live. Of course they'll soon be joined by new plants from the Farmers Market, as 'tomato madness' strikes once again.
Other notable failures marred summer 2010's veggie harvest, and may be described in future posts.
But what of the successes?
- Creeping fig, the subject of my first post, overcame an unpromising start to climb up about 12 rows of bricks. It's not very wide, but I've supplemented it with a row of grass-like succulents whose name I do not know. This identification is a goal for 2011.
- Gopher purge, one of the tolerated euphorbiae, is standing up to 30" tall and bearing its strange flowers. I had never noticed the lavender tinge on its stems, but am finding it a great component in bouquets of purple sweet peas or freesias. I flame-seal the stems to avoid poisoning my featured flowers -- an extra effort that seems worthwhile, if only that it preserves the gopher purge.
- Last summer's Swiss chard is still bearing edible leaves and stems, and this year's SC seedlings will soon be ready to set out.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
you, percy bysshe shelley!
Kaye reports, from Wisconsin, that they've had snow on the ground since early November, and sends the season's second set of photos to document the depth on their deck, in front of the barn, and in the woods. Her trees look tired.
I have the gall to reply: "In bloom right here right now: azaleas, camillias, freesias, nasturtiums, sweet peas, tomatoes, violets, pansies, calla lilies, dogbane, african basil, and various succulents." I forgot to mention the sweet alyssum, the strawberries, and four varieties of lavender but will not send an update, as Kaye's response ("No. . . you cannot call that winter!") does not sound receptive though she invites us to visit in April or May.
A trip to the mid west in April would be a great treat. Lilacs, peonies, and tulips are among the spring flowers I miss most, but they will not grow in our temperate climate.
Yesterday's Prairie Home Companion, broadcast from San Diego, poked fun at SoCal's current winter storm. They had "some rain," said Garrison Keillor, noting the sailboats in the bay and the palm trees in the canyons, the natives in their woolens and the tourists in their shorts and sandals.
Personally I think the worst of our winter hasn't happened yet. Our coldest nights often come during the first two weeks of March. On warm days I celebrate fring (the green days that start with our rainy season), but I will not acknowledge the change of seasons until the vernal equinox.
To misquote Shelley's Ode to the West Wind,* "If winter comes, spring can be far behind," as Kaye is undoubtedly thinking.
Meanwhile the ranunculi are sending up blossom stalks with fat buds, and the hyacinths have healthy leaves since I cleared out so many of the Stars of Bethlehem that were crowding them. One of last year's hollyhocks is standing about 18" tall, and looking like it wants to send up a blossom stalk.
- - - - -
*I had forgotten that the poem is a set of five sonnets. When those romantic poets "recollected in tranquility," as Wordsworth prescribed, they brought form to their "strong emotion" and thus made it even stronger.
I have the gall to reply: "In bloom right here right now: azaleas, camillias, freesias, nasturtiums, sweet peas, tomatoes, violets, pansies, calla lilies, dogbane, african basil, and various succulents." I forgot to mention the sweet alyssum, the strawberries, and four varieties of lavender but will not send an update, as Kaye's response ("No. . . you cannot call that winter!") does not sound receptive though she invites us to visit in April or May.
A trip to the mid west in April would be a great treat. Lilacs, peonies, and tulips are among the spring flowers I miss most, but they will not grow in our temperate climate.
Yesterday's Prairie Home Companion, broadcast from San Diego, poked fun at SoCal's current winter storm. They had "some rain," said Garrison Keillor, noting the sailboats in the bay and the palm trees in the canyons, the natives in their woolens and the tourists in their shorts and sandals.
Personally I think the worst of our winter hasn't happened yet. Our coldest nights often come during the first two weeks of March. On warm days I celebrate fring (the green days that start with our rainy season), but I will not acknowledge the change of seasons until the vernal equinox.
To misquote Shelley's Ode to the West Wind,* "If winter comes, spring can be far behind," as Kaye is undoubtedly thinking.
Meanwhile the ranunculi are sending up blossom stalks with fat buds, and the hyacinths have healthy leaves since I cleared out so many of the Stars of Bethlehem that were crowding them. One of last year's hollyhocks is standing about 18" tall, and looking like it wants to send up a blossom stalk.
- - - - -
*I had forgotten that the poem is a set of five sonnets. When those romantic poets "recollected in tranquility," as Wordsworth prescribed, they brought form to their "strong emotion" and thus made it even stronger.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
collecting thoughts
Beverly and I talked about collections and collecting (among many other topics) at a leisurely Spitfire Grill lunch yesterday. I felt compelled to tell Beverly I'd mentioned her in collection completion compulsion, a blog post from last January.* She was off and running when she heard the word completion. One of the things she likes best about her primary collection -- eyeglasses and related paraphernalia -- is that there's no way to complete it. One of the things she likes least is that there is no association of eyeglass collectors with whom to share her hobby.
The distinction between finite collections, such as the 50 State Quarters, and virtually infinite collections, such as Beverly's eyeglasses and my parrots, reveals more about the personality of the collector than it does about the item being collected. We relish the thrill of the chase and the discovery of finding our special objects in different forms. Beverly proudly showed me a brand new scarf holder (what we called a neckerchief slide in Girl Scouts) in the shape of rhinestone-studded black plastic eyeglass frames. No doubt she will wear it with rhinestone-studded black eyeglass frames and a silk scarf printed with eyeglasses.
Collecting is a habit, though its objects may change over time. Beverly told me she had collected Japanese Kokeshi dolls as a child, and recently enjoyed talking about them with an elderly Japanese woman who had lost her beloved collection when she was interned during World War II. This is the kind of thing I meant by "collecting things, we collect friends," the thought with which I completed my first post on collections, and the line with which I hope to begin my long-awaited poem about collecting and collections..
My compulsion to obtain every faux parrot in the universe has waned, but a couple of months ago I was happy to find a bright red ceramic parrot vase. Being tall but not too slim, it will be wonderful for calla lilies, flowering ginger, or the silver dollar plant I hope to grow this year.
Collections can morph into events. Several years ago my parrot collection spawned a birthday party where I premiered my mock-epic poem, This Thing About Parrots, and I have conducted two Chia Pet festivals in recent years. Last June, Karen declared Cat Jewelry Month and launched it on Facebook. I intended to make August Parrot Jewelry Month but failed to follow through. Maybe this year.
Steve has purchased a 50 State Quarters album for each of our grandchildren, and is filling them with coins pulled out of pocket change. At some point he'll give the albums to the kids, hoping they'll take an interest in completing the collections. Thus a new generation of collectors will probably emerge from antecedents on both sides of our family.
- - - - -
* Sadly, it turned out that Beverly was not mentioned in my original post about collections. I know I was thinking about her at the time -- as the quintessential collector among my friends -- but somehow the idea of collecting eyeglasses was a bit too complex for a beginning blogger to handle.
The distinction between finite collections, such as the 50 State Quarters, and virtually infinite collections, such as Beverly's eyeglasses and my parrots, reveals more about the personality of the collector than it does about the item being collected. We relish the thrill of the chase and the discovery of finding our special objects in different forms. Beverly proudly showed me a brand new scarf holder (what we called a neckerchief slide in Girl Scouts) in the shape of rhinestone-studded black plastic eyeglass frames. No doubt she will wear it with rhinestone-studded black eyeglass frames and a silk scarf printed with eyeglasses.
Collecting is a habit, though its objects may change over time. Beverly told me she had collected Japanese Kokeshi dolls as a child, and recently enjoyed talking about them with an elderly Japanese woman who had lost her beloved collection when she was interned during World War II. This is the kind of thing I meant by "collecting things, we collect friends," the thought with which I completed my first post on collections, and the line with which I hope to begin my long-awaited poem about collecting and collections..
My compulsion to obtain every faux parrot in the universe has waned, but a couple of months ago I was happy to find a bright red ceramic parrot vase. Being tall but not too slim, it will be wonderful for calla lilies, flowering ginger, or the silver dollar plant I hope to grow this year.
Collections can morph into events. Several years ago my parrot collection spawned a birthday party where I premiered my mock-epic poem, This Thing About Parrots, and I have conducted two Chia Pet festivals in recent years. Last June, Karen declared Cat Jewelry Month and launched it on Facebook. I intended to make August Parrot Jewelry Month but failed to follow through. Maybe this year.
Steve has purchased a 50 State Quarters album for each of our grandchildren, and is filling them with coins pulled out of pocket change. At some point he'll give the albums to the kids, hoping they'll take an interest in completing the collections. Thus a new generation of collectors will probably emerge from antecedents on both sides of our family.
- - - - -
* Sadly, it turned out that Beverly was not mentioned in my original post about collections. I know I was thinking about her at the time -- as the quintessential collector among my friends -- but somehow the idea of collecting eyeglasses was a bit too complex for a beginning blogger to handle.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
honeysuckle? moi?
You will not see me wearing honeysuckle, 2011's official Color of the Year.
Honeysuckle (the color, not the flower), is a pink with a lot of orange in it, and any pink that I wear must be tinged with blue. The rose and berry pinks are my pinks.
Back in the mid 80's, I had my colors "done." It was a revelation. At that time, I was a member of National Association of Homebased Businesswomen (NAHB). One of our tenets was to do business with each other whenever possible, and so I went to Estelle for a consultation based on Carole Jackson's best-selling Color Me Beautiful.*
Estelle recommended that a friend and a husband accompany each coloree, and so Steve and Sharon -- infinitely patient and good-natured -- joined me. First I was draped with silver fabric, then gold. All agreed that I looked much healthier in the silver. The next choice was between black and navy blue. I looked dead in black, lively in navy. This meant I was a 'summer,' and should stay far away from anything with orange tones. I will not attempt to enumerate the plethora of binary color choices that honed in on my diagnosis as a woman who would always look best in soft colors.
Oddly enough, I had been brought up to believe that I looked good in the bright colors my blonde mother had learned to eschew for herself. Because I didn't sunburn easily, Charlotte figured my skin was dark. I particularly remember a formal she made for me to wear to the Cotillion in 9th grade. It was a heavy silk, with large square plaids of black, gray, and two shades of bright/dark orange. How I envied the girls arrayed in frothy light pink or blue tulle, with white pumps even though it was fall. We may come back to the mother-daughter stories some time. Right now I'm fixated on color. Pun intended.
I have religiously stayed with Estelle's 'summer' palette of clothes and make-up with one exception. 'Concert' black. At first I wore it only for singing or flute-playing events, but since my hair has turned mostly white, I feel that I can get away with black just about any time, especially if I accessorize with my better colors (last night, a splashy print of softer blue, purple, blue-red, and yellow on a black background). Yes, there is such a color as blue-red.
- - - - -
*This seminal book seems to have come out in 1973, but the 1981 and 1985 editions were the ones that everybody talked about. Unflattering colors were a hallmark of 1970's fashion, now being worn as a 'retro' look, but not by me.
Honeysuckle (the color, not the flower), is a pink with a lot of orange in it, and any pink that I wear must be tinged with blue. The rose and berry pinks are my pinks.
Back in the mid 80's, I had my colors "done." It was a revelation. At that time, I was a member of National Association of Homebased Businesswomen (NAHB). One of our tenets was to do business with each other whenever possible, and so I went to Estelle for a consultation based on Carole Jackson's best-selling Color Me Beautiful.*
Estelle recommended that a friend and a husband accompany each coloree, and so Steve and Sharon -- infinitely patient and good-natured -- joined me. First I was draped with silver fabric, then gold. All agreed that I looked much healthier in the silver. The next choice was between black and navy blue. I looked dead in black, lively in navy. This meant I was a 'summer,' and should stay far away from anything with orange tones. I will not attempt to enumerate the plethora of binary color choices that honed in on my diagnosis as a woman who would always look best in soft colors.
Oddly enough, I had been brought up to believe that I looked good in the bright colors my blonde mother had learned to eschew for herself. Because I didn't sunburn easily, Charlotte figured my skin was dark. I particularly remember a formal she made for me to wear to the Cotillion in 9th grade. It was a heavy silk, with large square plaids of black, gray, and two shades of bright/dark orange. How I envied the girls arrayed in frothy light pink or blue tulle, with white pumps even though it was fall. We may come back to the mother-daughter stories some time. Right now I'm fixated on color. Pun intended.
I have religiously stayed with Estelle's 'summer' palette of clothes and make-up with one exception. 'Concert' black. At first I wore it only for singing or flute-playing events, but since my hair has turned mostly white, I feel that I can get away with black just about any time, especially if I accessorize with my better colors (last night, a splashy print of softer blue, purple, blue-red, and yellow on a black background). Yes, there is such a color as blue-red.
- - - - -
*This seminal book seems to have come out in 1973, but the 1981 and 1985 editions were the ones that everybody talked about. Unflattering colors were a hallmark of 1970's fashion, now being worn as a 'retro' look, but not by me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
