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Posts Tagged ‘copper button’


My donkey, Pauline, and I have ridden a couple of lazy miles down the narrow dusty lane, and have stopped for the day. The air has a dry sweet grassy smell, and my skin is a rosy pink from the Turkish sun. There are some towering boulders near a grove of piney trees in the yellow-flocked flowered meadow, and I settle in, tethering my donkey to a lone shade tree with a thick patch of grass for her to munch upon, spreading a worn wool kilim on the ground, and propping myself up against the largest rock to eat a well-earned dinner. I have prepared a simple hamper of local chow, and unpack my provisions with….anticipation. I wipe off my turquoise pottery plate with a linen cloth, and lay down dinner; some Turkish feta-potato rolls (Fırında Sigara Böreği), purslane tomato salad (Pirpirim / Semizotu Piyazı), and a goblet of sparkling pink lemonade. I need to unfasten the domed copper buttons of my faded black linen waistcoat before desert.
“Feed me with the horror of the past
with the juice and sap of the future.
Hang cherries on my ears as earrings wash
my kerchief with basil herb.
Impress on my memory the crazy thunder
let the echoing nights close on me.”

(By Nihat Behram)

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It is early morning, and I love the morning. I’m sitting up in my king-sized bed, nestled in a French blue down comforter and four giant puffy pillows, a curled up Francy purring at my feet, and your wire on the nightstand. I’ve just started reading The Fires of Vesuvius: Pompeii Lost and Found by Mary Beard, which consists of 364 pages of intriguing and vicarious cultural intrigue. After finishing a carafe of hot candy bar coffee, I get dressed to meet you. I am wearing a green and rust pullover, a black suede waistcoat with seven Italian domed copper buttons, a wide black belt studded with copper rivets in an ornate arabesque pattern, scruffy black 501s, and green suede Desert Boots. It is your birthday, so I stop off at Bäckerei Riegler to buy you a cake. They have a perfectly sized dobostorta, which I have them wrap up in a violet box with silver ribbons and bells. The rule is that everyone gets cake on their birthday. Whistling a silly song, I make my way to the café where we have planned to meet.
Day-o, Day-ay-ay-o
Daylight come and me wan’ go home
Day, me say day, me say day, me say day
Me say day, me say day-ay-ay-o
Daylight come and me wan’ go home
Work all night on a drink a’ rum
Daylight come and me wan’ go home
Stack banana till the mornin’ come
Daylight come and me wan’ go home
Come, Mister tally man, tally me banana
Daylight come and me wan’ go home
Come, Mister tally man, tally me banana
Daylight come and me wan’ go home”

(By W. Attaway and I. Burgie)

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I’m in a hurry as I depart from the train at Gare de Luxembourg, and accidentally snag one of my black deerskin leather waistcoat’s copper coin buttons on a railing. The button rolls away, and despite crawling about on the pavement and peering into cracks like a cranky would-be archeologist, I cannot find it. I grumpily lift my vintage pebbled black leather suitcase, grab a taxi, and ask to be taken to the Hôtel Parc Beaux-Arts. After checking in, I shower and rummage about in my bag for a needle and thread. Luckily, I have a spare button and some twist. I’m staying in the Tranquility room; it is difficult to remain cranky with the afternoon light pouring through the windows like sweet, yellow honey. I call room service for a Tarte Tatin aux pommes and a cappuccino to tide me over until dinner, and start my mending. When you arrive tomorrow, we are planning on renting scooters to play tourist. Peggy Lee sings huskily from my iPod, and I am content again.
“Sun lights up the day time,
Moon lights up the night,
I light up when you call my name,
And you know I’m gonna treat you right.
You give me fever,
When you kiss me,
Fever when you hold me tight,
Fever,
In the morning,
Fever all through the night.”

(By E. Cooley and J. Davenport)

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Googoosh is playing “Geryeh Konam Yaa Nakonam” on the stereo, and the winter sun is setting. I’m almost done with my spiced hot chocolate, and am dressing to meet you at the corner Italian restaurant. I’m mulling over the past two weeks and thoughtfully fastening the copper faux antique coin buttons on my indigo and persimmon windowpane check wool waistcoat. I take my grandfather’s gold pocket watch from its velvet-lined ebony box, attach my timepiece with a T-Bar chain, and slide the watch into my silk lined vest pocket. There is a soft rustling, and I withdraw a piece of carefully folded yellow notebook paper. It appears to be either a shopping list or a mash note, and reads “one pear galette, three pounds of fine salmon, a bag of brown sugar, five assorted chocolate bars, one pound of mixed stars”.

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