The Rack

When we first acquired it, I thought we were crazy. A drying rack as big as a room. I mostly use an electric dryer, which, along with the washing machine, saves me hours of labor every month. 

But this hot summer, I have a new appreciation for the contraption, especially when placed outside, where it provides for optimal air-drying. 

There's an elemental pleasure in hanging wet shorts and shirts on the rods, a pleasure almost as great as attaching sheets to a clothesline when I was a kid, the fabric flapping in my face.

Often, clothes dry almost as quickly on the deck as they do in the dryer, and when I bring them in, they smell of air and sun and heat. 

Sock it to Me

The newspaper headline caught my eye: "Your Socks are Showing Your Age." The accompanying photo shows two people who both look young to me, one wearing ankle socks barely visible above their shoes and the other wearing crew socks. 

Apparently, Gen Z is embracing the sort of tall, dorky socks that everyone wanted to leave behind two decades ago, the kind you see on old guys mowing the lawn. Young folks now sport crew socks with sneakers and even with high heels. Take that, Millennials, they say as they flaunt their now-trendy tube socks. 

How old do you have to be before you start seeing fashion as a game? Not very. The youngest Millennials are turning 30. 

As a walker in the suburbs, it only figures that I would have an opinion on socks. They are, after all, the interface between foot and shoe. A well-fitting pair puts a bounce in my step; an ill-fitting pair drives me crazy. With socks, as with so much of life, the best approach is one of moderation: neither too high nor too low is the recipe for happiness.

(Photo from Wikipedia's page on socks and sandals, considered a "fashion faux pas" in some places.)

Tied in Knots

I've just spend a considerable chunk of time watching crochet tutorials on Youtube. These are usually hosted by cheery British ladies with plump fingers and colorful yarns. They pronounce crochet with the accent on the first syllable. I bet they would make a good cup of tea.

But they did not ease the frustration that was building as I once again had trouble starting my project. I'm a quick crocheter once I get past the first few rows. But those first few rows give me fits every time. This go-around I decided to understand what I was doing rather than just bumble along. 

I stopped and started half a dozen times. I worked on my slip knot. But I was determined to keep doing it until I mastered this. I have no idea whether this back-to-basics approach will benefit the finished product. All I know is that I was tied in knots for a while... but I'm untangled now. 

Laundry Day

"Perhaps the job most loathed by Victorian womanhood was doing the laundry," Ruth Goodman writes in How to be a Victorian, which I mentioned a few days ago. 

As I sort through my own darks and lights, I can't help but think about how differently my laundry day will proceed from that of the Victorian woman's. Hers would have started on Saturday, when the soaking began. 

More than 36 hours later she'd begin hauling and heating the water to eke out suds from the harsh soaps of the day, then stirring and agitating the clothes in a tub with a dolly stick (a plunger-like item) to remove the dirt. If she was lucky and had a wringer, she'd remove water from the clothes that way; otherwise, she'd wring them by hand. This would repeat through a couple of rinses, of course. In between she would have to carry large tubs of water in and out of what was most likely a cramped, dark kitchen. Only then could she hang the clothes up to dry. 

Laundry took up so much space and water-heating capabilities that the family would have a cold supper on laundry day, relying on leftovers from what was usually a larger meal on Sunday. 

Goodman says that her own historical laundry experiences lead her to see the automatic washing machine as "one of the great bulwarks of women's liberation, an invention that can sit alongside contraception and the vote in the direct impact it has had on changing women's lives."

Together Again

It's the last day of January, and I'm thinking ahead to tomorrow's post, the only guest post I have all year. My mother will "write" that one, as soon as I browse through her papers and find which of her writings to highlight.

In the meantime, I'm thinking about Mom, who would have turned 98 tomorrow. Yesterday I was repairing a tear in a blue-striped toddler dress that I wore as a baby. I found the pinafore for this dress earlier (see basement decluttering, below) and put it aside for sweet Aurora. When I delivered it to her on Saturday and her mother slipped it over her head and shoulders she immediately started to dance. It's that kind of garment. 

But a pinafore requires a dress, and once I dug through another box and found it, I could see why I'd not set it aside, too. The dress was badly torn, the skirt pulled away from the bodice, the sash unattached on one side. Nothing to do but find a needle and thread and begin. 

Once I got into the project, I could see the previous repairs, the mended side seams, the hem that Mom had let down, her stitches surprisingly small and tidy. For an hour or so last night I felt like we were working shoulder to shoulder, laughing and chatting as our needles flew, together again.

I'm Hooked!

I noticed it as soon as I finished the project, a baby blanket. I knew then that I would have to start crocheting something else before too long. 

It's funny how I can go for years without needlework but then it blossoms back into my life and I can't live without it. The crochet hook between my fingers, the yarn moving through them, keeping it taut (or trying to). Seeing a skein of wool become an afghan.

Crocheting siphons off energy that would otherwise become rumination or worry. Crocheting calms and soothes. I'm due for another project. Another blanket, two colors at least. One of them pink. 

The Red Load

Yesterday, while doing laundry, I realized that I had enough pink, purple, maroon, and crimson clothing to comprise a red load. 

As a kid, I learned to corral my reds into a separate washing machine load, and for many years — with three little people's laundry to do as well as my own — I often did. 

But it's been years since I washed that many clothes at one time, so I usually cheat. I tuck a red plaid shirt or cherry-colored tunic into a dark load, use cold water and hope for the best. 

I'm rejoicing now to see all these reds in one place because it means I've finally moved beyond my decidedly neutral (gray, navy, etc.) wardrobe into more colorful garb. My laundry style will just have to keep up with it.

Hold Onto Your Hood

The wind that made beach combing and cycling harder than they needed to be last week in Chincoteague seems to have followed us home. For the last couple of days there have been gusts up to 40 or 45 miles per hour. 

I decided to take a walk anyway, because I was driving past the W&OD and thought I'd give it a whirl. A whirlwind was more like it. 

The breeze blustered, it careened, it nearly knocked me off my feet. And while my hat was fairly secure, my hood was anything but, especially when I was walking into the wind. It blew it right off my head. At times it took both hands on the hood to keep it from flying back.

Luckily, a hood is usually attached to a coat whereas a hat is not. Which makes the phrase "hold onto your hood" ... somewhat nonsensical. 

("Who has seen the wind?" The ripples in this sand dune prove it was there.)

Swish Swash

The newest addition to my wardrobe is a pair of corduroy pants. I've been looking for some for years, and now that I have them, I'm remembering how warm they are ... and how they talk back to you.

Swish, swish, swash, they say, as I cruise down the hall to retrieve a book from my bedside table. Swash, swash, swish, they say, as I amble down the street. 

Unlike some of their confreres, these trousers work as well on long walks as they do in interminable writing sessions.  And unlike the tights and leggings I wear, these are presentable for running errands. 

There's gonna be a whole lotta swish-swashing going on. 

(This is large wale, mine is small.)

Ink Stains: Before and After

One hazard of being a writer is the frequent discovery of ink stains on my clothes. This happened the other day after a trip to the grocery store, where in the course of crossing items off my list (which has nothing to do with being a writer and everything to do with being a compulsive list-maker) I somehow smudged black ink on a white sweatshirt.

We'll leave aside for the moment why in the world I bought a white sweatshirt and move along to the stain remedy. 

Long ago, I acquired a chart which listed such items as ammonia, baking soda, lemon juice and glycerine in an arsenal of stain busters. Glycerine is key here, being one of the only substances I've found that can remove ball point ink from fabric. I worked with glycerine, and a mixture of glycerine, dish detergent and ammonia, off and on for an hour: applying, rubbing, rinsing, reapplying. But in time, and with effort, the ink stains went away. 

I'm wearing the white sweatshirt again. Is it my imagination or does it look even creamier and more pristine than it did before I defaced it? I think it does. 

(Imagine the stain potential here.)

Weather Denier?

It was 35 when I woke up this morning, a temperature that I associate far more with winter than with fall. It's too early, I want to shout from the rooftops, knowing of course, that the weather gods will ignore me. 

But maybe I should not go gently into that (not) good night. Maybe I should be a weather denier, one who strolls through gales in shirt sleeves and shorts. 

Unfortunately, I'm just the opposite. Right now I'm wearing two layers of wool and one of cotton, and my warmest stretchy pants. One of my sweaters has a hood. I'm feeling a bit bulky ... but almost warm. 

(Looking at last week's beach shots to warm myself up.)

The Purse

Britain’s monarch, Queen Elizabeth, has been in power for almost seven decades. And for most every moment of that time she seems to have carried a purse on her arm.

It's a funny thing to notice, but women notice other women’s purses. And I wonder about hers: Why should this woman, who can snap her fingers at any moment and have an attendant bring her whatever she desires, need a handbag on her arm wherever she goes—including in her own castle? What does she have in there? Her phone? Her hanky? The nuclear code?

Why does this matter? I’ve thought of it recently because I, too, have been carrying my purse around even while inside the house. I take it upstairs and down. Into the kitchen and into the office. Onto the deck and into the backyard.

There’s a reason for this, of course: it’s because my phone is in my purse. And it helps that I have a purse I can wear, cross-body style. None of that prim, crooked-elbow arrangement.

Still, I don’t like carrying a purse around the house, and I’d like to stop this habit in its tracks. But that will only happen, I’m afraid, when clothing designers start giving women what they’ve always given men: pockets.


(Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

Three Layers

Three layers on today, plus wool socks and, at least for the moment, a hoodie over my head. It's been months since I put on this many sweaters. Must be November!

Life without seasons holds no appeal, would be flat and boring. But as daylight shrinks and cold winds blow, I feel a shiver that comes not just from the cold upstairs room where I write these days. It comes, too, from the knowledge of what awaits us.

The leaves that glitter golden now will soon fall, turn brown, need raking. The winds will shudder in from the west, bowing the bamboo and penetrating even the hardy siding.

Even though I try to live in the moment, to take each challenge as it comes, it's hard not to anticipate this perpetual, seasonal one, the dying of the light.

May in Layers

I'm hoping this is the last day in May I wear three layers of clothing. I'm typing these words in my winter running tights, merino wool base layer, another wool sweater over that and a sweatshirt on top for good measure. 

I have fuzzy warm socks on my feet. And I think — yes, I'm sure, I can hear it humming — that the heat has just come on. And that means the temperature in the house has dipped down below 65. 

Yes, the planet is warming. And in a few days we may be sweltering. But that doesn't stop me from wishing I was in shorts and t-shirt right now. 

Warm and Light

In my quest to be winter-hardy, I've discovered the many virtues of merino wool. I have a couple of merino wool blend "base layers," which in the old days I would have called undershirts, and I'm wearing them now underneath everything: turtlenecks and cardigans and pullovers and sweatshirts. 

The fact that we keep our house temperature in the mid-60s means that I need at least three layers even when inside. When I go for a walk I throw a jacket over the ensemble, cover my ears and hands, and I'm good to go.

The key, I've realized, is warmth without weight. It sounds like an advertisement for pricey athleisure wear — in fact, I'm pretty sure it is — but it actually works. I feel warm with three layers on, providing one of them is my base layer.  And the "weightlessness" means I'm not stuffed like a sausage into my clothes. Warm and still able to bend my arms — what more could I want?

Seasonal Migration

It's time for the annual migration. I'm not talking about birds flying south for the winter but of the seasonal switch from shorts and t-shirts to tights and sweaters. 

One thing struck me yesterday as I laundered and folded and ran up and down the stairs carrying warm clothes up and cool clothes down. It was that many of these clothes would be better off going not up or down but out of the house entirely.

How many sweaters and shirts and scarves do I hang onto because I love the person who gave them to me? The answer is ... many! 

Yesterday I told myself once again that I need to stop hanging onto these duds. It's one thing to have papers and books and knick-knacks you cannot bear to part with ... but to have clothes that are this way, too, is far more inconvenient. What's required is a certain ruthlessness. I'm awaiting its arrival. 

That Other Life

In my closet are two pairs of black boots, one knee-high and the other ankle-height. Above them hang trousers, skirts, dresses and sweaters — seldom worn now.

On my dressing table four long pendant necklaces gather dust. A clutch of earrings do the same. A watch sits by them, still ticking but looking forlorn. And then there's the perfume bottle, which has scarcely been touched these past few weeks.

These are the accoutrements of my public persona, the things I don't bother with when I'm at home. Now it's yoga pants and sweatshirts, hair pulled back in clips.

It's comfortable, it's fun (for a while). But that other life had value, too. And now it seems ... far away.

Ugly Sweaters?

For our office party today we've been told to wear our Christmas sweaters, "the tackier the better."  I'm wearing mine, but I doubt it will win the prize — and I hope it doesn't.

My Christmas sweater was a gift, and it was given with love, so I don't want it to be skewered. But more to the point, I'm against ugly sweater contests in general because — strange as it sounds — I feel sorry for the sweaters.

I've been trying to figure out why that is. Could it be the way I sentimentalize clothing, a habit that has filled my closet with items that would be better off at Goodwill? Or could it be deeper than that?

Christmas sweaters, like Jello salad and green bean casserole, speak of an earlier, less ironic era. Could it be that in satirizing sweaters with appliqués and rick-rack we're announcing that we're beyond such froufrou — even though we're following the fashion of our era just as rigidly. (Will we someday have ripped jean contests — the more ripped the better?)

Seems to me that with all there is to celebrate at the holidays, choosing to belittle something (even something that's asking for it) is a poor use of our time.  I know, I know. Lighten up — it's just a sweater. But maybe ... it's more.

(This is not my sweater. It's from an invitation to an ugly sweater contest.)

Coatless

The first time each season always feels strange, like jumping off a high dive or setting off in a tube on a fast-moving river. There is a similar lack of control. The coat will not be there if the weather takes a nasty turn. There is no turning back.

Today I took a jacket from the house but left it in the car. It was that balmy this morning, with the promise of more warmth to come. The wrap would have been superfluous. It would have been wadded up in my tote bag before I even reached the office.

So off I went, with only a sweater between me and the elements. No jacket, no coat. It wasn't until I reached Metro that I realized I'd also left my umbrella. So now I'm coatless — and umbrella-less, too. It must be spring.

Shades of Gray

With apologies to those expecting a more salacious post ... this one's about my wardrobe. It's about the gray skirts and the gray pants, the gray dress and the gray sweater.  It's about the sweatshirts, all three of them, all gray.

And then there are there are the gray turtlenecks; I have a few of those, too, one dark, one light, one striped and one emblazoned with "U.K." Dad sent the latter one to Claire in hopes she would go to the University of Kentucky for college. She went to George Mason instead — and I kept the turtleneck.

I like the color gray; it's soft and neutral,  a worthy alternative to black. But I'm starting to feel ... a little grayed out.  Pinks and purples and fuchsias are looking good these days.

Maybe it's a midwinter thing, or a midlife thing. ... But I could use some color!