Posts Tagged ‘brown button’

One of the first signs of spring is a lone pale pink petal from a flowering pear tree fluttering on the grey, gritty rain-moistened sidewalk. One delicate petal reminds me of that soon trees will shower their petals into softly blowing pink piles. I am happily strolling in a spring drizzle, my rubber spats tightly snapped, my tweed Inverness overcoat with Italian chocolate brown plastic buttons flapping in the wind, and Hart Crane running through my head.
“High in the noon of May
On cornices of daffodils
The slender violets stray.
Crap-shooting gangs in Bleecker reign,
Peonies with pony manes——
Forget-me-nots at windowpanes:
Out of the way-up nickel-dime tower shine,
Cathedral Mary,


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I’m with my pals at Little Star for a comforting New Years Eve pizza. There is not much that is better than roasted garlic and drippy melting mozzarella cheese when the weather is dank and the year is closing reluctantly. We are salivating as we order the sourdough garlic bread with a creamy bulb of roasted garlic; garlic will stave off any flu germs that might want to sneak in under the wire and the hot bread will comfort our beleaguered souls. I unfasten the marbled chocolate brown vintage button on my caramel-colored variegated cable-knit neck-wrap, and lean forward to share end of the year confidences.
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne* ?
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp !
And surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl’d i’ the burn,
Free morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin auld lang syne.
And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
And gie’s a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willy waught,
for auld lang syne.”

(By R. Burns)

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I am a most fortunate person; three blocks from my home is a wee café that serves exceptionally spectacular tarts and tea. The pie crust is meltingly flaky, and the fillings are just sweet enough to allow the rich flavors to glow. The café walls are decorated with blue and yellow Middle Eastern tile work, the booths are carpeted with wool Kurdish kilims and saddlebag cushions, worn coarse linen cloths cover the wooden table-tops, hanging brass lanterns cast a soft glow, and the tea is served from antique engraved samovars. I arrive at the café, unfastening the Italian four-hole buttons of my espresso brown tweed Norfolk jacket and depositing my drenched umbrella in the pottery stand next to the door. Consulting the framed blackboard, I decide upon a slice of Pear-Almond-Cherry Tart and minted black tea. Siavash Ghomayshi is crooning in the background, and the windows are steamed up, keeping the dank weather at bay.
“You’re sleeping without hearing any stories or lullabies
Sleep without any pain or sorrow
You won’t have any nightmares about winter any more
And you won’t have any regrets in your sleep”

(By S. Ghomayshi – The Last Letter or Akharin Nameh)

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It is midnight, and I am happily awake with Lulu and Francy. Rain is pouring down; I can hear cars splashing by beneath my apartment window and see the reflections of their headlights cutting through the inky night and the storm. I am fashioning bicycle handlebar tassels for my compagnon spécial, and to this crafty end, I am re-purposing discarded and hole-ridden inner tubes. I’m wearing my favorite vintage cardigan, the one with the sky blue suede front panels, matching elbow patches, and square brown leather buttons. Pet Clark is wailing “Downtown” on the stereo and I have a pile of fancy-schmancy salted brown buttery rice crispy treats by my elbow.
“When you’re alone
And life is making you lonely,
You can always go downtown
When you’ve got worries,
All the noise and the hurry
Seems to help, I know, downtown”

(By T. Hatch)

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The holiday season seems to always involve too many buttery cookies and endless tasks. This week is no different, and I find myself wishing that I was submerged in a hot bath…or better yet, a hot tub. It is Friday, and my doorbell rings; a close friend who must have psychic powers to have heard my unvoiced, piteous mewls of dismay is waiting there with a picnic hamper and rented car waiting to drive us down the coast. He has reservations to Pigeon Point Lighthouse Hostel, which has an outdoor hot tub on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We nibble on the delicious treats in the car, and once there I unbutton my jacket with brown vintage buttons and fling myself into the steaming water. I look up at the glistening stars, sniff the salty air, and let my over-taxed brain float away. My friend beside me recites Hafiz and the evening is complete.
“Get a moon-love, and teach thy heart to strive,
Through thy fame, like a sun, be spread world-wide.”

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I just got of off work, and am ambling home in the dark. Walking past the Delancy Street Christmas tree lot, I give in to the lure of the rich piney scent of fresh fir trees. I pick out a wee 4’ tall tree, and lug it the 3 blocks to my apartment whistling “If I Were a Rich Man”. Once inside, my cat flees in horror from the tree and it’s scattered needles, hiding beneath the bed with the stray dust bunnies. I put on the Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack, loosen my Golden Gate Bridge tie, unbutton the top few buttons of my vintage shirt, and remove my green stripped corduroy vest with brown plastic toggle buttons. I carefully unpack my ornaments. The paper chains that I made last year are on top, and I hang them first.
“If I were a rich man,
Daidle deedle daidle
Daidle daidle deedle daidle dum
All day long I’d biddy-biddy-bum
If I were a wealthy man.
I wouldn’t have to work hard,
Daidle deedle daidle
Daidle daidle deedle daidle dum
If I were a biddy-biddy rich,
Daidle deedle daidle daidle man.”

(By Jerry Bock & Sheldon Harnick)

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