Wearing a Crown

My dear husband was thinking of me this past Saturday as he pursued yard sales. This is quite a hobby for him, and I have to say that quite a few articles in our home, including one of my favorite sweaters and his easy chair, have come from yard sales. Not to mention a lot of books.

I had received an email suggesting that I had done a poor job on an article I wrote, and I was pretty upset. I went off to exercise class and Wes went off to yard sales. (Side note: I have found that I do not like to attend yard sales with him. He follows the same route every Saturday, and I would like to try different neighborhoods. And he tends to whip the car around, in what feels to me a very dangerous way, when he sees a Yard Sale sign. And I get bored with them much earlier than he does.)

When I got home, there was a new book waiting for me on the kitchen table: Crowns, which is a photo-essay on African-American women in their Sunday hats. I was so touched. I needed that little gift (which cost a whole dollar). It made me feel loved.

Back when we first moved to the Washington, DC area, we drove down Georgia Avenue on a Sunday. I was fascinated and amazed by the African-American women in their hats and perfectly-coordinated outfits. I had heard of the book, and I had always wanted to read it. I love hats. I have a few, but I hesitate to wear them because I feel I'm calling too much attention to myself.

Anyway, I eagerly sat down and began reading the fascinating stories of these beautiful women and their gorgeous hats. Some of them were hilarious. I was impressed with the dignity and pride of many of them. What a great legacy and tradition.

So I went up to my room and took down my big lavender Nordstrom hat box. I dusted off the top and lifted the lid. I took out a cute black and natural straw and put it jauntily on my head. I wore it with a black T-shirt and khaki shorts. And I felt great.

I love hats. I think I will overcome my shyness and wear them more. The Crowned ladies have inspired me.

A Comfortable Home

I once wrote an article about what makes a house a home. I think that a chiming clock (the kind you wind up, not electronic chimes), the occasional smell of fresh bread baking, and a piece of Belleek china (or some other little thing that is the best quality of its kind) are necessary in every home.

My home means a lot to me. I am home alone for the second day in a row, nursing a head cold and trying not to get a sinus infection. I love being here all by myself. The light came through the skylights in my living room this morning, bathing it in a golden glow. Then came some thundershowers. It was nice to sit here with chocolate and a book, cozy on my comfy couch, with not a lot to do, listening to the clocks mark the hours with their gentle ticking.

A home is a refuge from not just the elements, but the cares of the world. Making it a pleasant and inviting place is not a priority for many people any more, but it still is for me. I know my children like coming back here.

So we continue to do things to make it more enjoyable, attractive, and safe. We have a few landscaping projects to do, and need a new driveway, and we need to get some furniture reupholstered. It will probably never be done, but that's okay. It's home.

Time Marches On

I talked to my dear friend Lisa yesterday for almost two hours. She just turned 50. We have known each other since our husbands were undergraduates and she was a law school student in the early eighties. We each had boys a couple of months apart in 1983, then went on to have girls (she had four, I had two). When we moved east in 1984, Lisa and her family moved to New England. Last year, however, she moved back to Los Angeles. (She and her husband, and Wes and I, are all from Southern California.) We have kept in touch for 25 years. It's been very interesting.

When we were young, I'd say things like, "In 20 years, we..." and now it's coming true. We shared stories about frustrating in-laws, kids doing stuff of which we don't approve, turning 50, siblings, aging bodies, books we've read, etcetera. Funny, how inside your head you stay about 25, but the years march on and your body ages. Lisa gets the unvarnished me, and she still likes me. I'm grateful for that!