Simpler Days

I have always loved the holidays.  People seem to be nicer, somehow, this time of year.  I like the magic of soft lighting brought on by small white bulbs on the Christmas tree.  I like hot tea on cold days.  I like curling up with a blanket in the corner of the couch or in an oversized chair with a bad holiday movie or a really good book.  I like the crackle of my fireplace--even if it is a fake one on the wall.  And I like holding hands in the car while driving around to look at Christmas lights.  


I can manage most of those things on my own, but that last one, well...I don't know exactly how hard this Christmas will be for me.  I can tell you that the good man I married is now my friend, something we really weren't before we were a couple, but, even the right decisions have painful ripples, and this time of year I am feeling those waves pretty intently.


So, in an effort to combat those rolling tides, I'm trying to remind myself of simpler days, happier moments, the pure joy of Christmas I knew as a little girl.

My grandmother made my dress and my brother's shirt, pants, and vest.  How cute are we?  I think this is 1980, and the one below is, I think, 1982.  Note my mom's amazing feathered bangs.   

Re-Public

Following in the fine footsteps of Amanda and WCP, I've decided to share some of my own oldies but goodies.  God help us all.


I have always liked clothes.  I am as happy in a thrift store as I am in some fancy label driven shop, but regardless of the locale, I'm there for the touching, trying on, playing dress up and pretending in it.  I love putting something on and seeing how it changes me, who I could be, what the things I wear say about who I am.  I have long believed that the people who don't at least attempt to put themselves together are sending a pretty clear message that they don't care about themselves enough to try.  I've had a few people tell me they just don't care what other people think, that's why they adhere to a devil may care policy when it comes to dressing, but my response is always this: I don't care what others think, either.  I dress for me.  These ridiculously archived photos speak to that. 

This first one is me in the only pageant I ever did, a baby beauty contest at teh age of two.  Note the stylin' strawberry bikini top and cut offs.  I was too shy to mount the stage that day, but I've been making up for that fear ever since.  And yeah, that awesomely bearded man who would be at home in any bluegrass/rockabilly band today would be dad.  How badass is he, I mean, really?

I have a print of this one in my classroom.  Note the one piece jumpsuit here that gets reincarnated ten years later in the fourth photo.  I love this picture because 1) my mom is in it and she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, 2) she'd never let herself be photographed in a ratty t-shirt and cut offs these days, and 3) let's face it: I'm looking pretty cute.

After my little brother was born and we both reached the age of the magic bowl haircut, we were often photographed together as all adorable tots are.  We were little blonde beams of light, happily hyper and surrounded by a community of people who loved us.  Unlike a lot of our friends, our grandparents were not only still alive when we were little, but they lived in the same town we did, my paternal grandmother in fact lived next door.  So we grew up charmed, complete with Rockwellian holidays that often meant fifteen to thirty of us out ant Nanny and Grandad's house, great aunts and uncles, second cousins, a cornucopia of family.  This is us in a clothes made by my grandmother: my dress matches the shirt under that rocking vest/pants ensemble of my brothers.

This would be circa 1988.  I am 12, and yes, that is a one-piece pink and lavender plaid shorts jumpsuit monstrosity.  I cannot tell you how much I love that this picture still exists, if only to prove that quasi-mullets should never NEVER be permed.

This one, the best, is last because it best sums up who I thought I was at sixteen.  Yep.  Sixteen.  I look about forty,  but really, all that blonde hair was mine--no dye--just a little help from lemon juice and sunlight.  That's a floral sundress that in the winter I would wear with a black suit jacket and my Docs but here, I think, I've got on some strange slip on sandals that turned my feet black but looked really good.  This picture was taken in the Green Room at the Salina Community Theatre during a summer workshop...can't you just see the "I'm gonna be a star" oozing off of me?  Good grief.