Classic Gunmetal Button

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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Gunmetal Button

The sun is a nothing in the sky; palely trying to shine, but only managing a thin, runny yellow. The clouds are white turning to slate, and hold the promise of dankness. This in-between weather annoys me. I either want storms filled with pouring rain and winds that whip my umbrella inside out, or I want honeyed sunshine and breezes smelling of greenery. Francy, Lulu and I share the windowsill in our discontent, counting crows, pigeons, and clouds respectively. Finally, I throw on my torn, velvet-patched denim jeans jacket with domed gunmetal buttons, grab a blue batiked napkin filled with shortbread, apricot and walnut bars and stomp outside to wrangle the weather into a decision. It is unlikely that I will be successful. I turn up the music in my iPod in hopes of dispelling my black gloominess.
“Birds do it, bees do it
Even educated fleas do it
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love
In Spain, the best upper sets do it
Lithuanians and Letts do it
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love
The Dutch in old Amsterdam do it
Not to mention the Fins
Folks in Siam do it – think of Siamese twins
Some Argentines, without means, do it
People say in Boston even beans do it
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love”
(By Mister Cole Porter)

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Gunmetal Button

I adore being decisive; I have booked a compartment on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express train, and will be traveling by train from Paris to Istanbul. I have rented dove grey vintage Morris Minor 1000 2-door saloon to drive to Paris. I have piled my worn leather valises into the boot, and installed Francy on a black velveteen cushion on the passenger’s seat. After strenuously shopping for provisions to sustain me until Paris, I finally set off at 10pm. The moon is full, and is colored a watery violet with a pale yellow halo. I am wearing a espresso brown and tan tweed riding jacket with slanted pockets and domed gunmetal buttons, a tan flannel shirt, a red ground foulard tie, red, black and white checked Tattersall waistcoat, tan jodhpurs, and triple-strapped knee-high brown boots. With a tip to fate of my brown light-weight felt fedora chapeau, and a sip from my thermos of hot Velouté de Lentilles aux Marrons , I turn up my iPod to some traveling music, and drive off pointing towards Paris.
“The night is young, the skies are clear
So if you wanna go walkin’, dear
It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s de-lovely
I understand the reason why
You’re sentimental, ’cause so am I
It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s de-lovely
You can tell at a glance what a swell night this is for romance
You can hear, dear Mother Nature murmuring low “Let yourself go”
So please be sweet, my chickadee
And when I kiss ya, just say to me
“It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s delectable, it’s delirious,
It’s dilemma, it’s de limit, it’s deluxe, it’s de-lovely”
(By the ever clever Cole Porter)

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Domed Metal Button

I sneeze because of the dust and old leather book smells that are wafting up from the mismatched, wooden shelves. The floorboards smell faintly of wax, and creak as I shift my weight from foot to foot. It is dark in this bookstore, and I am the only person in the Weimar culture section. I sit on the splintered rungs of a painted green stepladder, open a first edition copy of “Christopher and His Kind”, and leaf through the finely drafted illustrations by Don Bachardy. My wine-colored corduroy jeans are smeared with cobwebs, and my black velveteen jacket’s domed gunmetal buttons are sewn on clumsily with red embroidery floss. It has been a long and lonely few weeks, this time before the start of spring. I fumble in my packet for a date scone, the words of “The Harder Ships of the World” dancing in my head.
“We sail the harder ships of the world
To the greater grips of the land
And we get closer to nowhere
You know we ran to the shores
And lost in the race
But they’re all standing tall, humble and brave
Then I had dreams of you here
You were rockin’ the place
Begging to save what’s left to save
I hear voices sing
Close to me, close to me”
(By Keren Ann)

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