Posts Tagged ‘vintage button’

I’m getting ready of a train adventure, and have lectured the cats sternly about appropriate travel behavior; keep your claws to yourself, no begging for treats from our fellow travelers, say “please” and “thank you”…and I’m tempted to add “Don’t speak unless you are spoken to.” They listen solemnly, nodding their furry little heads in mute agreement. I fasten the cat-eye shaped, navy blue vintage buttons on the collars of their puppy-tooth travel caplets, settle my feline compagnons into their wicker travel basket, and grab my hamper of travel food. I have made crackery potato bugnes, a tasty croustillante aux cerise et pistache, and a thermos of hot, gingery Moroccan spiced chickpea and lentil soup.
“Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps at night;
Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing
Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding;
(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)
Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d,
Launch’d o’er the prairies wide—across the lakes,
To the free skies, unpent, and glad, and strong.”

(By W. Whitman)


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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’m hurrying to meet you, running in hopes of avoiding too much of the coming rain. There is something about the approaching silvery drizzle that reminds me of rushing home after school, with my canvass book-bag filled with tattered notebooks, class textbooks, lunch remains, and my recorder thumping against my back. If I arrived home drenched from an icy autumn downpour, my mother would serve me steamy hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows dissolving on top, and buttery, crunchy cinnamon toast. I make it to the café just as the storm hits, and duck in gratefully, unbuttoning my tan leather jacket with two-toned quadrilateral vintage buttons. I order luscious sweet potato gnocchi with brown butter thyme sauce from the black-haired waitress with the embroidery scissors tattooed upon her wrist, and she brings it to me in a turquoise blue rough pottery bowl. She whistles as she walks away.
“When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows, day after day
Here’s what my sweetheart said.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.”

(By J. Livingston, Jay and R. Evans)

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Will I ever stop worriedly mulling things over? Could I spend my nights holed up in my steamy kitchen, baking galettes while listening to Marlene Dietrich? That is my new goal; an oblivious and content mind full of cookery and music. This is the first night of my resolution; the apartment reeks of baking pastry and I am eating a warm slice of blackberry and apple galette with burnt sugar ice-cream. I am not, peaceful though, but rather sulkily peevish. I tilt the bowl to slurp the last of the melted ice-cream, and wander off to my bed. I’m wearing dark paisley Liberty of London pajamas with navy piping and engraved vintage navy buttons. Once covered with sheets and quilts, I grab Lulu and Francy for feline company.
“I can’t give you anything but love, baby.
That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby.
Dream a while, scheme a while.
We’re sure to find,
Happiness, and I guess
All those things you’ve always pined for.”

(By J. McHugh and D. Fields)

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I’m up baking at 3am. There isn’t a full moon. I’m not unhappy, dissatisfied, or cranky. I’m not even slightly moody, however I am absolutely awake. I’m making a batch of banana coconut bread pudding, with a handful of candied ginger for bite. Sashaying to “Ladies Who Lunch”, I whisk the eggs and sugar together until they are thick and creamy, and then add melted butter, cinnamon, Madagascar vanilla, and whole milk. I toss in a teaspoon of ground nutmeg, because I adore nutmeg. I’m barefoot and wearing worn denim overalls, with a tattered wool and cotton blend Campbell plaid shirt fastened with vintage engraved navy buttons. The kitchen smells deliciously of spices, black tea, and Ethiopian food from dinner earlier, and the cats are sleeping on the bed, waiting for me to join them.
“Here’s to the ladies who lunch–
Everybody laugh.
Lounging in their caftans
And planning a brunch
On their own behalf.
Off to the gym,
Then to a fitting,
Claiming they’re fat.
And looking grim,
‘Cause they’ve been sitting
Choosing a hat.
Does anyone still wear a hat?
I’ll drink to that.”

(By S. Sondheim)

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I stagger off of the airplane, a little woozy from too little sleep and too much sugar. It has been a long ride home. I wander over to baggage claims, and have the good sense to be chagrined at the volume of steamers, hatboxes, and valises that await me. A dashing porter in a marine blue suit with gold epaulets assists me, piling my bags and boxes up carefully, and whistling for a cab to ferry me home. I look out of the window grateful to be on land once again; at this very minute, San Francisco feels like home, with the silvery damp fog rolling in over Twin Peaks, the Sisters soliciting donations in front of Café Flore, and bicyclists of all ages whizzing by me with their handlebar streamers flowing in the wind. I fasten the deep navy vintage buttons on my midnight blue velveteen wide-lapelled jacket, wrap my white silk scarf around my neck tightly to keep out the evening chill, and wonder how my cat at home will take to Francy. A song comes on the radio, and I doze.
“It is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.” – Oscar Wilde

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I am leaving the island tomorrow, and am packing. It is 2 am and I have thrown the red shutters of the Splendid Palace Hotel open, letting in the soft night air and silvery moonlight. No one else is awake except for scrambling compound cats tussling in the courtyard below. Francy dozes through it all, her tufted ears barely pricking up at the rowdy cat’s yowls. I’m matching socks, rolling them up pair by pair, and scowling at the orphans. Wearily, I collapse in the gold velvet over-stuffed club chair; how did I accumulate so many hose and waistcoats, and how ever will I manage to stuff them into my steamer trunk again? Ruefully, I look at my Liberty of London bird-adorned pajamas with denim blue vintage buttons, realizing that this is my 7th pair of lawn jammies. I take a desolate bite of my mushroom tart with smoked Gruyère as I survey the fashionable disarray. Are those raucous ally cats actually singing now?
“You don’t remind me of the iris in spring,
Or of dawn on the mountain when the bluebirds start to sing.
You don’t remind me of the breeze on the bay,
Or a star in the fountain where the silver fishes play.
Through the moonglow in September,
You reveal no resemblance of the first snow in November,
You’re not even a semblance.
No, you don’t remind me of the world around me,
For behind me for so much such,
My love for you blinds me,
That my darling you only remind me of you,
Of you, of you.”

(By the indomitable Cole P-o-r-t-e-r)

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