Posts Tagged ‘coat 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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Today it is all about the tootsies! I’ve been on a wild stripped sock binge, greedily seeking hose with wide lines, pinstripe lines, vertical lines, lightening fast zig-zag lines, sporty horizontal lines, and more. I’m currently wearing chocolate brown and leaf green socks with multi-width stripes, coupled with short deep brown alligator skin boots with domed bronze metal button fasteners. I’m admiring my dapper choice in footwear, feeling like a debonair rake with a faint touch of French clown. The cats agree, and are eying my buttons with tail-twitching fascination. It is another day of soulful pre-spring dash-titude!
“Now if there’s a smile on my face
It’s only there trying to fool the public
But when it comes down to fooling you
Now honey that’s quite a different subject
But don’t let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Really I’m sad, oh I’m sadder than sad
You’re gone and I’m hurtin’ so bad
Like a clown I pretend to be glad
Now there’s some sad things known to man
But ain’t too much sadder than
The tears of a clown, when there’s no one around”

(By Motown genius, Smokey Robinson)

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I remember strolling through Golden Gate Park on my way to meet you. It was dusk on a Thursday in the early spring, and the gardens were starting to bloom in a profusion of greens. We were rendezvousing near the Moon-Viewing Garden, where we planned to share a wee park bench picnic. A delicate, warm spring drizzle started, so I threw on my brown corduroy newsboys cap, and fastened my olive and tan Glen plaid rain cape’s olive green leather buttons. Blinking, I skidded to a sudden stop; there was a posse of grey squirrels with their short furry arms linked to form a barrier across the walkway. Would I make it on time, or would I be delayed by bushy-tailed bandits?
“Every time it rains, it rains
Pennies from heaven
Don’t you know each cloud contains
Pennies from heaven.
You’ll find your fortune’s falling
All over the town
Be sure that your umbrella
Is upside down.
Trade them for a package of
Sunshine and flowers
If you want the things you love,
You gotta have showers
So when you hear it thunder,
Don’t run under a tree
There’ll be pennies from heaven
For you and me.”

(By J. Burke and A. Johnston)

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I’m deluged in a flurry of preparation for the Upcoming Year. I want to make firm resolutions, yet I’m drawn to my soft bed and slumbering cats like a heat-struck moth to a wavering, deadly candle flame. To counteract my lack of rectitude, I am stomping up and down the hall carrying towering boxes of unwanted clothing and knick-knacks to give away as I clean my home. Each lap down the long hallway is punctuated with a heart-felt intention for 2011; I will finish writing my memoir; I will travel Sognefjord, I will successfully tailor a Federal officer’s single-breasted frock coat with classic gunmetal buttons, and I will expand my repertoire of baked sweets. In the meantime, I take a break in my rust velvet upholstered Eastlake recliner to eat a slice of Crispy Mushroom, Potato and Blue Cheese Galette and drink a tall glass of sparkling mineral water.
Climb every mountain,
Search high and low,
Follow every highway,
Every path you know.”

(By Rodgers and Hammerstein)

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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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