And to think I saw it on my mulberry tree

Aren't they gorgeous?

In a slightly ramshackle, rough around the edges, are sure sure it's okay to eat this way?

Mulberries are too often maligned.  "They're messy," so many over the years have said.  "Birds eat them and, well, you know..." trail off others.  "They're not really that pretty."

Harumph.

In my former house, once my home, we shared mulberry trees along the property line.  TREES.  Not bushes.  Over 40 feet tall.  Probably over 50.  I know I don't exaggerate, because at the time we lived in an old three story house whose two main floors, above grade, had 10' ceilings, and the attic flew even higher in the center.  I estimate conservatively because people would visit, people who had even seen mulberry *trees,* and they would comment on the beautiful large trees and how special they were and what kind were they, anyway?  And it was often hard to convince them that they were mulberries.  Unless, of course, it was a certain time of year.

With a tree like that, one person's "messy" is another person's "thank goodness, because we would never reach those berries any other way."

In the current house, which is my home, the tree is not majestic.  Nor is it a shrub.  It is a something that probably was a shrubby tree a few years before we moved in, but now is a non-central trunk tree.  Young, but tree.  Some judicious pruning might make it more architecturally attractive, but it does not set roots from my property, so I cannot make that decision.  Besides, in its tenacious shrubby somebody forgot about it even through the construction of the house on the land that was once a farm behind us means that maybe it carries the mojo of survival.

I thank it for that.  For the shade it brings to that corner, for doing its part to break up a vista that would be, well...a nearly blank wall.  For feeding the birds.  Yes, the birds.  Birds love mulberries, it is true.  In fact, they are recommended as a companion crop for someone trying to raise fruit trees.  I think it works.

Check it.

Mulberries and cherries living together.
Hands reaching hands.

I tell you, we get plenty of cherries.

So, yeah, birds eat them.  Thank goodness.






Yes.  They are messy underfoot.  Yes, there is an odd fermenting smell for a couple of weeks while they macerate on your path or in your lawn.  Yes, that juice is INTENSE in color and will stain just about anything it touches.

(Those beautiful bearded iris, the purple grape smelling ones?  They stain, too.)

Life is an exchange.  I like this deal.

I've seen trees torn down because people didn't like the "mess"--cottonwood, mulberry, serviceberry, maple, what have you.  It doesn't really matter; a lot of trees are "messy" at some point in the year.  The ones that are bred not to be generally end up decidedly unhardy, and certainly not productive.

Okay, fine.  I'll rephrase the question.  Aren't these mulberries a gorgeous hot mess?


By the way, mulberries are the one natural food for a silkworm.

Let you think I am reaching too hard to make a silk purse out of a...well, a mulberry mess.



Random things mulberry:


I found a recipe for mulberry-rhubarb shortcake that I'd like to try.  Extended cool and rain (except when it has been extraordinarily muggy and hot) means I've still got harvestable rhubarb when the mulberries are ready.  Hunh.   


Project Mulberry is a book, for children, by Linda Sue Park.  Target audience is younger than her book My Name is Keoko.  In it, a mulberry tree ends up being the means to draw a diverse group of characters together.  Science fair, silkworms, stereotypes both external and internalized.  And the use of the term "snot brain," which disturbs some.  (See Amazon reader reviews.)  ((Thought I'd go for Theodor Geisel, didn't you?  Nah.  But you should.  ;) ))


Mulberry perfume?  Couldn't think of one off the top of my head.  Found a 2011 release of Lily by Koto Perfumes, but the "mulberry" in it is "mulberry leaf."  Going to go back out and investigate...and I'm back.  Leaf torn, crushed.  It's...well, leafy green, actually much like a lettuce.  But, unique?  Like, say, tomato leaf?  Not particularly.  Hmm.  


And then there is this.  Set your tea cup down.  Pon Farr.
Get your groove on with Uhura and Spock, and settle into base notes of sandalwood, peach and mulberry.  I should have known.  That's what I get for urging open-mindedness with trees.  Karma, returned in perfume form.

all images author's own, obtained without stainage...i think

Remembering

"The peonies should be out by Memorial Day."

"Whites, starting Memorial Day, ending Labor Day."

Parade.

Barbecue.  Which I want to spell "barbeque."  Or Bar-b-que.

Three day weekend.

~~~

I grew up through a particular commodification of culture, I think.  I'm pretty sure I remember at least an equal emphasis on parades and honorings, though outdoor cooking and the unofficial start to summer were part of the equation.

But it was almost as if you had to be solemn first.  It made sense, like a blessing before a meal.  Let us take a moment to remember those who, whether by volunteering or by conscription, whether known to you or merely an idea, gave their life in service to their country.

And I would see all of us gathered at the parade, and off to the cemetery, all of those grown ups who would later probably vociferously argue about what justifies war and whether there should be a volunteer army and military industrial complexes and greater good and all sorts of ideas that started off as syllabic swirls and eventually became part of the swarm my own mouth formed...

...I would see all of us gathered in one location.  Out of respect.  Remembering perhaps with different sortings, but remembering.  Quietly.

~~~

Currently, a blow out isn't even a rout at a sporting event.  It's a mattress sale.  

~~~

I'd like to say I'm not passing judgement.  But I probably am. 

I try to remember instead of whinge.

~~~

Nobody warned me about the salute.  And I was just young enough to have it not occur to me, and just enough at the front edge of my adulthood to have it slay me.

When you make it through the funeral of a dearly loved one, when you are pacing your reserves like you do in the pool and are trying to swim as far underwater as possible before coming up for air, when you are doing the best you can to balance giving supportive looks and sneaking shared glances of agony without completely losing it, this calculation is very delicate.  The calculation becomes even more important when you feel like if you do lose it, you don't know how you will come back.

So you sit in your seat, and stare fiercely ahead when you realize the talking is half a sentence from being over.  It's nearly over.  You figure you can make it to the end after all, you will follow the cues, you know will never look upon that person living or dead again, but you will somehow either precede or follow them out of this room with the rest of these people sitting so stiffly in unusually formal clothes.  You get distracted for a moment at realizing just how many of them you have never seen in these kind of clothes.  You realize that these people who are usually familiar but currently in unusual clothes are still sitting, there is no cue to move.  Then there is a rustle in the rear, and an honor guard (you remember that term from parades in years past) enters, and you think, "oh, they will lead him/us out.  How nice."

But they don't move right away.  You need a cue.  You desperately need a cue.  You sit forward again, the air starting to swish in your ears, but figuring you'll just roll with whatever movement comes next, you can make it, you can make it, so  long as you don't make any eye contact now, you can make it.

And then there is an explosion, and you leap out of your chair.  Your cousin looks at you, giving you the same evaluating look as when you started to come out of the roller coaster seat heading down the big hill that year long ago and you both knew that you were on the precipice of Trouble.  At that moment of eye contact, the rifles, for now you realize they are rifles, fire again, and they pierce your veneer, and you start sobbing.  It is too much, this fright and this ceremony and this ending and knowing that people are already trying to remember.  The third and final shot is just loudness in a swirl.

And then Taps begins, and you realize you *thought* you lost it before, and you go back years before, when you saw your first eagle and found a tin cup hanging by a stream as if by magic and turned and saw a certain smile and it all goes into some odd expansion compression as you realize that your past was well into his future at the point that earned this Taps and it makes sense that the bugler is out of tune.

You remember that you can never fully know another's life.  But you deem it important to remember what you do know.

And in the case of Memorial/Decoration Day, you vow to remember what you don't know.

A NYT article exploring the backstory to Memorial Day in the United States.  David W. Blight, "Forgetting Why We Remember."

Thanks to Buglers Across America, because digital taps just doesn't play.

The Smell of Fury: Mr. McGregor's Revenge

Among other places I've been lately is my own backyard.  Where I do attempt to garden.  Things intervene at times -- Mother Nature, life.  I generally roll with it.  One of my tenets for gardening is I only want to fuss if I feel like it.  Otherwise, the joint should be able to largely run on its own.  (I give it roots to grow, it needs to use its leaves to fly, so to speak.)

All is very Zen.  Weeds come, they get pulled.  Probably.  Edges are maintained, but not religiously.  Experiments in cohabitation (will it be okay if I grow this iris in the asparagus bed?) are made.  Harvests are assumed to be about 1/3 of potential, given the fact I like to maintain things wildlife-friendly.  Why 1/3?  Calculate 1/3 loss to wildlife, 1/3 potential loss to whatever, leaves 1/3 for us humans.  This sets the bar at a level that leads to minimal disappointment and maximum happy surprises.

Unless this happens.

Decapitation by rabbit.

In which case, The Peaceable Kingdom gets all rumbly.  The young me who cringed whenever Mr. McGregor menaced Peter Rabbit needs to go in a closet and hide, because the old and wizened me starts looking around for a hoe.

And I don't mean to start weeding.

Until I started growing vegetables, I never felt this kind of id-like response when dealing with things dirt.  I've seen hostas munched down to nibs, and merely shrugged, knowing they'd be back the next year.  But when it came to produce...tasty, fresh, labored, contemplated, organic, so fully imagined I drooled fruit of my labors, fruit whose cost came partially out of the family grocery budget...well...

...like a pea, I snapped.

The first year, I took to letting the dog out and encouraging him to go chase the leaping lepus.  I had to rethink that strategy when he was, erm, VERY enthusiastic about discovering a bunny den.  With babes.  (Turn away.  It gets worse.  I won't discuss, but yes, I had to practice "ethical" euthanasia.)  So I turned to prevention, which of course would have been best to practice from the very beginning.  I've tried hair, pet and human, red pepper spray, row covers.  Hair works erratically, and then only until it rains.  Red pepper spray works, unless it entices, and in either case, only until it rains.  Row covers work, until it gets hot, and then they need to come off.

And I don't like the way they look.  I like looking at greenery in my garden, not gauze.

So, it's a hodgepodge of prevention and acceptance around here.  With the occasional bout of mind-noise anger.

I inadvertently brought this topic up with some 'fume friends.  And, because I had sympathetic ears -- none of which quivered or were floppy -- who inspired me toward a particular slant.  A scented slant.  A proposal for Christopher Brosius.  To wit:

The Smell of Fury:  Mr. McGregor's Revenge

The title came to me in a flash.  But it took a little time--and some painful honesty--to compose a proposal/inquiry.

TO:  Christopher Brosius
FROM:  A Passionate Gardener, an Avid Scent Wearer
RE:  Brief for a New Project


CB, you're one to tackle this one.  It doesn't tell a story so much as take you down of (garden) path of personal development, vegetable patch style.


The story:  Discovery, Delirium, Reconcilement
The backstory:  Innocence lost, Peter Rabbit
The smells:  AT FIRST dirt, fresh air, other vegetation--for this writer, a rub of sage, a hint of garlic chive, the sharp medicine of creeping charlie, the ozonic yet odd decay of an allium flower, the hint of a leather glove, rubber and feet (hello, best garden clog ever).  A HARSH SMACK of tomato leaf which leads to a SHARP TRANSITION as the smell of metal glints invitingly in your nose.  Other writers might propose a hint of gunpowder at this point, but I'm thinking fur and the brush of pine and sweat and the smell of a blister forming as a runner tries to gain on a rabbit while wearing rubber clogs.  A SWIRL again of transition as you briefly but disturbingly ...oh, dear, it is so harsh to say...but you are bold, and you will go where I can't...it is only imagined, but my visual will become your fur plus blood, I think.  So QUICKLY a waft of the fresh breeze only hinted at in the allium now writ complete and non-compromised, green and ozonic all at once, leading to flowers and the crisp smells of green beans and peas and the oddly sharp (gee, is there a connection to the blood here?) smell of a properly ripened but not mushy tomato.  Perhaps a lovely balsamic vinagrette?


Fava beans, your call.  I say it is over the top.  But I have a friend who wants the whole denouement to be rabbit stew.  


Can we talk?




I dunno.  It's a start.  And certainly a catharsis.


I'm more demonic in my head than I ever am when it comes to real life.  In real life, I bought more tomato plants than I had space for.  Already, I'm mourning that I did not think to put Pink Lady, that modern faded something, in the ground first, for then I would be swapping it out for the robust vintage Mortgage Lifter.  But I tend to think positive (oh, hush), so was hoping I would just be offering up the extra plants to a neighbor.


So I brush the dog -- who has fur, I know, and does not offer any sebum-ish moments as I groom him.  I let him roam.  I make homemade non-toxic but hopefully highly repellant sprays.  


But mostly, I putter where I am inclined, let the rest go, and hope for the best.


Maybe one day, I'll be sneaking huffs of a new scent I'm testing, shorthanded as McGregor's Fury amongst perfume folk.  Wait, no--better yet--I'll be a pre-release tester.  You know.


{Beat)


So that this cosmetic can be identified as not having harmed rabbits in testing.

photo of decapitated tomato plant, (sadly) author's own

"stop animal testing" image found on various websites, including Amy's Gripping Commentary

Things I Remember I Know When I am On The Road

*I used to get carsick when I was a kid. There is no escape from your own --or anyone's-- perfume in a car cabin.

*I generally like amber as a category. I tend to think I ignore it during hours 2 and 3. But I just pretend to ignore it, or ignore it enough. (see above)

*when traveling alone, there's no one to blame but yourself. (see above, plus stands alone)

*you can smell cow manure at any speed

*when I was a kid, a house with its own pond and diving raft seemed to be all that and a bag of chips. Today, I saw two ponds with "narrows" and footbridges over. Footbridge = bag of chips. Pond still desired.

*last time I was on along road trip, Amouage sandalwood attar nearly killed me, then was my happiness. Luckily, I remembered this without recreating the incident.

*you can smell freshly cut grass at most any speed

*tandem trailer trucks make me nervous. Triples scare the bejeezus out of me.

*the Falling Timbers rest stop is still frozen in time. With the addition of the smell of Cinnabon.

*I used to be able to smell a lit cigarette is a passing/passed car. I don't know if I still can, but I do know these days there is always a spot near an entry door where the few, the unrepentant, the smoking crew congregate. And it smells like it used to when you opened the door to my dad's office,

*I may never afford a car that does not have cabin noise.

*tomorrow, I will not challenge the scent gods. The next 450 miles will get a cool iris, thank you very much.

Do overs, awakenings, and fresh whallomps

It's happened a few times in the past week.  Been plonked down into a fresh look at things, musical style.

The other evening, walking out of a restaurant, hearing The Beatles "The End," right as the "...and in the end..." began.  This morning, hearing Bach "Air" Orchestral Suite #3.

I cried.  Both times.

At this point, what you might like to know about me is whether or not I am a weeper.  Of people who know me, the answer would vary.  Some know me as a rather emotional sort (what was someone said...a "raw nerve"?)  Others think of me as the ultimate Stay Calm and Carry On sort (what did someone else say..."all head, no heart"?)  The truth encompasses both.  But this is not about my personal truth.

Because this isn't about whether or not I'm an emotional nutcase, or the descendent of that guy who fainted when he heard the first chord of "Rite of Spring."  (Is that the story?  Somebody remind me what I'm thinking of.)  What this is about is the astounding power of the human mind to find itself looking at something familiar, familiar to the point of having background noise, a cliche, dismissed, even...and discovering that for some reason, it still has the power to whammy.

When it comes to music, I find this power can be experienced three ways:

1) It's as if I never heard it before, and am back to something raw and primary;
2) It's as if I never heard it this way before, that somehow the life I've lived since first being introduced has circled me around to some sort of fresh yet now full of depth of understanding "a-ha";
3) I am sitting inside a collection of musicians playing a piece and the literal physical experience of the music (oh, those thrumming vibrations, ohhh, those harmonics, oh, the way we're playing together and the way this line is coming together) turns into an emotional/psychological reverberation that is raw, primary, and ahhhh aha all at once.

There are other arts, other life experiences that can be familiar and yet gob-smackingly profound.  To Kill a Mockingbird.  The opening to Wings of Desire, or the scene in Murnau's Sunrise where the husband realizes he really does love his wife.  One human quietly reaching for another's hand, no eye contact required.  The smell of lilacs in the spring. Feeling the breeze across the lake on your bare skin. Calvin & Hobbes.  Toast.

**
This phenomenon I am trying to grasp is not to be confused with the concept of a do-over, which anybody who has spent time in playground games or sandlot sports well knows.  Something goes awry, and the gathered throng has a sort of collective ruling that, yes, somehow Universal Force was unjust or somebody acted against an unwritten but understood rule or the neighbor's dog grabbing the ball and running back home justifies something that is neither an erasure nor an elision of time,  but a second attempt, with the first being struck from the record.  A la "the jury will disregard those remarks."

**
Nor is this to be confused with an awakening, where you feel like for the first time you are fully able to apply your senses and understand something, realizing you never really got it before.  Granted, there is a kinship between an awakening and the second of my conditions, wherein you have a fresh and fuller or different view/experience.  But in an awakening, you realize you never got it before.  In a fresh whallomp, you realize you are getting it again--perhaps with a new angle--but still with that knowledge that you have been in that spot before.  And that you have been given the gift of the whallomp without taking away the gift of your past.

Fresh whallomps require the simultaneous knowledge of prior and current, even as the current seems entirely new.

In perfume parlance, my recent happy dance with Mitsouko was an awakening.  My relationship with Chamade or Bois Blond or No. 19 involves fresh whallomps.

**
I love being whallomped.  Okay, so maybe not always right as it is occurring, seeing I prefer being reserved when in the company of strangers, and having tears descend out of the blue in what might seem to be an inexplicable and alarmingly precipitous way makes me at least as uncomfortable as any casual observer might be.  But I love that humans have this gift, this gift to both have a past and a powerful present that all at once suggests the ability to relish beauty and the opportunity for renewal, to adjust and/or amend our understandings.

Which I've obviously been tracing as a principle in my perfume journey.  But is best recognized as a theme in my general journey.  I hope that you have it in yours.

I'm still trying to come up with a good word for what I am trying to describe here. Rounded up and being held in the corral for consideration are gems and commoners such as gobsmacked, surprised, astonished, ambushed, thunderstruck, overwhelmed, awed.  Thunderstruck and gobsmacked keep rising to the top, but how to get in the sense of wonder and awe?  It's a "fresh whallomp" for posting purposes, but if you have ideas, please share.  Along with steering me toward the dude who fainted at the beauty of a single chord.

Scarves and scent

Have I ever not been aware of references to the smell of perfume on a scarf?

Have I ever not been stricken dead in my tracks, frozen as if in a bad dream, at the thought of purposely applying a scent to a scarf for purposes of imbuing it in a scent?  I mean...I love scarves.  I love them because of how they feel.  And look.  And would applying perfume change that, compromising the fabric, shortening its life, ruining dyes?  What if the perfume I wanted to wear on a day I want to wear scarf X is not the perfume I want to wear the next time I wear scarf X?

The answers used to be "not that I can remember" and "yes, always."  Until a few weeks ago.

'Twas a decant that slayed the beast.

Turns out that vintage Houbigant has a tricky trigger.  Such a wide swath of spray, that it dribbled.  Had this been a replaceable perfume, I might have felt a certain constriction of my chest, a certain sadness, but would have said "sayonara."  But this was precious vintage.  It was only going away, never coming back.

I saw the scarf.  I reached.  I wiped.

Know what?  Apercu makes a mighty nice scarf scent, in a classic perfume way.  Not too heavy, enough flowers to say "perfume," enough lift to keep the flowers from smothering, enough other elements to keep it from being boring.  And, to tell you the truth, I'd rather my scarf smell like that than like sebum.

Go figure.

The damage was done, fiber & dye-wise.  If any were to be done.  I found myself going off in search of a few other scarves...after all, there were more perfumes to be decanted.  There might be other accidents.  One should always be prepared, after all.

Turns out I had two more accidents.  Which probably require those quote marks in the air -- I'm raising and curling my two fingers on each hand, drawing them down and saying "accidents."

I consoled my not-so-shaken but not-so-certain cautious self with the reminder that I could always hand wash.  Sure, even the silk.  Sort of.

**
This sent me on a pleasant rumination about how one could go about assigned scent to scarves.  Of course, there is Tradition.  Which means signature scent:  "Her scarf was all she left...it still smelled like...her."  In my brain, "smelling like her" has more to do with smelling like sebum and onions and such than perfume, but hey, I came to perfume later in life.  It works for some.  Especially if they have a trademark perfume.  In my world, the line would be something more like "Her scarf was all she left behind...it still smelled like she did on a sunny day in early spring when she felt like a chypre but still snuck in a spritz of hay."

Obviously, I needed a different system, scarf-wise.

The first step was easy, I thought.  Sort scarves by season.  Oops, not so fast; certain scarves carry over.  Only the thick chunky woolens and the very sheer gauzy veils end up ghettoized by the weather.  The rest can move up and down in the batting order.   Okay, change tack.  Texture.  That's it.  That's good.  Texture and thickness.

But then I started thinking about that, and my blue and green nubby scarf seems like it could handle a fresher scent than the maroon with flecks of gold.  Shoot.

At this point, I had completely bought into the idea.  So I was bound and determined to scent a couple of scarves on purpose.  But I was lost in the woods with no compass.  How to get out of here?

Kabonk.  Match one scent to a scarf, or find one scarf to match a scent.  Which meant pick two or three scents I wouldn't mind being imbued in a fabric I had about my neck.  And then see if I had a scarf that "looked like" that fragrance.

Now the game was fun.  And seemed manageable.  Though, truth be told, it was a heckuva a lot easier to just toss responsibility in the air and do things "accident" style.

*

Which is Aperçu?

Besides the Aperçu, my conscious decision scents were Amouage Epic, and Magie Noire.  I already have an "outer scarf" that wafts L'Accord -- pretty wonderful, and works well with the cozy depths of the scarf, but must admit that was incidental, which makes it accidental.  I picked Epic because it is one of my occasion scents, something I wear when I want to smell fabulous and yes want the smell to not take backstage.  Figured it would be interesting to see how it behaved on a scarf, since the Aperçu did smooth out and focus at the same time on fabric.  The Magie Noire, well...that was because it is a favorite of the other lodger on the Ledge.  Add in the fact that I like it, and it easily becomes a something I wouldn't mind too much if that was the recognizable "me" on a scarf I left behind.  That part of me, at least.

Did I choose well?  I chose in winter.  I'll probably try a couple of other things with lighter scarves.  Will I fall into the habit?  I doubt it.  I'm still a little nervous about damaging the scarves.  And, truth be told, about commitment.  Remember, with perfumes, I'm Big Love.  And I like to have my options at the start of any given day.

Speaking of options...did I tell you about the scented hankies?  No?  Ah.  They are small.  They are plentiful.  They can be found for a song second hand.  And, if you were really particular, you could sew the initials of the perfume you assign to a given hankie and have handy to toss in a bag...

...but we were talking scarves.  And scents for them.  So many possibilities.  So impossible to choose just one.


first photo, scarves akimbo, author's own
photo of Grace Kelly in scarf from The Gloss
photo of Alan Cumming from Broadway World

Snow falls, precipitates flurry

Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.  Oscar Wilde

White is not a mere absence of color; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black.  God paints in many colors; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white.  Gilbert K. Chesterton

ELOQUENCE, n. The art of orally persuading fools that white is the color that it appears to be.  It includes the gift of making any color appear white.  Ambrose Bierce

Color, especially white, is rumbling rather persistently through my mind the last few days.  It has come up in in so many contexts over the years...color theory...philosophy...film versus video...fabric...language...fragrance...I think about that paths white has used to enter my conscious...

...how I like white, because it allows you to easily contemplate contour and shadow...

...the color of the good guy's ten gallon hat...GALLON water has no color...WATER makes the snow...WATER AND TEN frozen water falling now is ten times the volume it would be if it were rain...RAIN on my parade, would be embarassing if I were wearing white...WHITE is not the color of my true love's hair, but is the color I should wear if we get married.  Well, that if, plus one more "if"...

...not to mention all the white that is falling across the U.S. these past few days.  49 of 'em with snow on the ground.  Right now, thoughts are accumulating in my head as if I were in the path of lake effect snow.

Is white the absence of color, or the presence of all colors?  Depends if you are adding or subtracting.  A confluence of different approaches to one result ("white") that at the moment is making me think how both "luxury" and "art" are applied to perfume.

It's all questions today, folks.

Though I think my additive white perfume would be Douce Amere, while the subtractive would be L'Eau d'Hiver.

Does color steer our thinking?  Or does it augment it?

More ellipses....

Images:
snowscape, icicle lights, china mold, all author's own
"Snow Clouds off Lake Michigan" NASA Earth Observatory

~Lovely blog on things grammatical, including ellipses (providing clear evidence I can identify wise advice without using them in the least)
~Olfacta mentions color in the form of carpet dye (though I believe the careful reader will note an allusion); note also photo helping illustrate the snow situation, even there in the Deep South
~A while back I pondered perfume from the angle of color vs black & white; interesting to note that January seems to elicit these musings

Arrivals and Departures

I took Son the Elder to the airport yesterday.

When faced with the fork in the road, yesterday's journey took the car under the "departures" sign.

This picture (not mine) shows that point as you approach the airport circle.  When you know you will have to select "arrival" or "departure," and are ideally already positioning yourself appropriately, but if not, know that now is the time.

See, there in the distance. Arriving, or departing?


Smacked me pretty hard, looking up.  There was no choice.  Just a direction.

These days, you can't go to the gate with passengers. One must simply perform a most unceremonious curbside drop and run, under the piercing stare of traffic attendants who are intent upon making sure that there is not ONE BREACH of homeland security on their watch.  So you are forced to put on your most winning smile, whilst strapped in to your automobile, and say a hurried goodbye to the departing one(s).

There is no friendly last call from the conductor.  No "All abooaaard! All aboard who's getting aboard!" A door shuts, you move back onto the circle.  And try to remember to shoot yourself out of it at the entrance/exit.


***
"Lady, move it."

So I left the airport, and as I headed through the out door that is the airport highway spur, an incoming plane dared descend directly toward me.  Arriving.  I leave, one of many.  It arrives, one of many.  Life has these habits of putting my singular self into perspective.  I start banking on the interchange to get onto the tollway, and BANG! a billboard with Marc Jacobs entertaining himself appears immediately in front of me.  Fortunately, the angle of the turn is fairly acute, and I don't have do think about Marc's exploding metal for long.  I head home.

The music on the radio is at that level Son the Younger calls "Mom is Not Listening."  I'm not.  I'm paying more attention to the hum of the tires, the drone of the bass, the awareness that part of my brain is doing its thinking-thinking-observing-thinking thing, but there is another part, very silent.

I realize my scarf is getting wet.  It's cold around here.  Scarves are required, even in cars, especially when you've got all settings to functional levels but nothing to overwhelm.  I wipe my jawline and drive on.  I'm not sad.  Not in the thinking-thinking part of my brain.

**
The visit was great.  Lots of laughter.  Plenty of old routines, mind you--family scripts are hard to rewrite--but the old routines aren't all bad.  Just funny to note that people have slipped into their roles.  And yet, are now shaking them up.  One of the monkeys fell out of bed.  We're all rolling over.

*
So this all brings me back to vintage perfume.  I've talked about it before.  I refuse to turn my head away.  I am a knowledge omnivore.  I'm also a bit of a mashochist, apparently...gadZOOKS! some of those things make me yank my head away from my skin as if I were a cobra doing a reverse strike.  Stinky.  Stanky.  Insta-headache.  But when they're good...and especially good in a way I would never have met otherwise...totally worth it.

I don't cry over "I'll never have any more!"  (Okay, not much.)  But, really; if you're not madly huffing all that you can get your hands on, if you're taking your time moving down the path into the forest, because you fell down the rabbit hole and that was all so fastfastfast and you've already gone through the phase of grabbing as much as you can as you fall because it's all so beautiful or interesting or might be and it's going by so quickly and you don't know if you've heard of it before and might it be like that green one you just tried and oh my somebody said this one was fabulous hurry up and try it here's one that is promising hurry hurry hurryhurry, if you've already gone through that, well, then, the blur is over.

And you are in one of those moments when you realize you'll never grab it all.  Mistakes will be made.   But, by gum, if you breathe...if you allow yourself to breathe, and take something in, and let others pass you on the left...well...you'll enjoy *that* moment.  And you'll have it.  Always.  Later, you'll be able to turn the radio on to a nearly discernible volume, and let the hum of the tires add to the music, and remember what it smelled like.

Maybe you'll even have the memory of it on your scarf.

photo not author's own (I was driving, silly); find it at Virtual Tourist
an article on the effect of smelling women's tears: ScienceMag

The Scion, The Stitch, and the Wardrobe: The New Diors

The problem with clever titles is they are only clever if they work.

Christian Dior had no offspring.  So while he and those who have led the House of Dior since his death have certainly kept runway models and certain members of the well-clothed public in stitches since 1946 (with the New Look collection coming one year later, in 1947), I can't really justify a "scion" in the title.

We are, however, going to step into the/a wardrobe.  I'll be talking a little bit about stitches.  And I'm keeping the working title, basting it onto the topic, if you will.

So, come on in.  Let's look at the new Dior fragrance collection.  And wardrobes.

***
On the other hand, go away.  Go away if you are looking for a well-vetted review.  I haven't played with these enough to make final judgement.*  I'd usually drive these puppies around the block a number more times before writing about them.  Of course, I'd also probably decide I couldn't say anything intelligent about them when it comes to notes or quality, so I'd ditch the first draft, then scratch the second, and just write about stuff.

*of course, I never really come to final judgement; hence label "changed my mind"

So I'm taking a new approach.  Come on in for a review that is all about the first blush of a relationship.

But go away if you like lemmings.  I'm not going to be jumping on the gushing bandwagon.  I heart Octavian, and so many others who were all excited, but not me.

They're not bad by any stretch, mind you.  I'm just not finding them all that.  But I get ahead of myself.

Still here?  Okay, through the doors, and into the wardrobe.

**
Here's how I ran it:  Seven scents total.  Two at a time, except for the cologne finale.  Made myself stay through their development, close to a computer, so I could huff at regular intervals and take good notes.  (I always--well, almost always--take notes.  But not with derriere so emphatically in the chair.  I think I'm probably the reason why Goldman-Sachs went ahead with that cash infusion to Facebook.  But I digress...)  As I was saying, I took notes for all their development.

For what that was worth.

If some of you need to check on the dog or refresh your cup or generally find something better to do, here's what I'm about to say, thumbnail:  I'm going to muse specifically about the Collection, and about the concept of wardrobes in general, perfume and otherwise.  I'm going to say that there is nothing bad about the collection, but nothing that really rocked my boat.  And I'm going to say why, one by one.

Carry on or come along.

*
Wardrobes are an interesting concept in perfumery.  I think Chanel got it right, both in concept in execution.  They were at the front of the pack in coming out with a unified flight of smells for your corpus.  You know how you're supposed to have a mutli-purpose dress/suit, a crisp white shirt, a stylish but comfortable sweater, etc. etc.?  It's that, for your nose.  Each bottle a different something, generally different fragrance "families."  Whether you consider an accessory or your under armor, you can select from a green something, a floral something, a leather something...round the horn and ending with cologne.  More or less.  Like that.

Now, mind you, a long standing house like Chanel or Dior or Cartier and others of that lot have been creating perfumes for a while now.  Dior specifically has had an array of choices since the days of houndstooth packaging.  Somehow, in the aughtnots, somebody (marketing? do I hear you?) came up with the idea of packaging a collection.  Perfect.  It's like GRrranimals, I mean multiples, I mean a personal shopper setting you up all in one fell swoop with fragrance.  No brainer.  You know you've got something from all the categories on the food pyramid, I mean family fragrance tree.

In some ways, not a bad idea.  Eases anxiety for those who have trouble making selections, and bumps those who may have previously just been satisfied with a white shirt toward a sleeveless shell and a sweater, too.  I mean, who may have just had a daytime and a nighttime scent to make additional purchases.

Erm.

The Dior collection offers you leather with a dose of that which the earlier entrants missed, the capstone note of the oughtnots, oud.  Somewhat reliably called "Leather Oud."  There's something green, "Granville."  Something, well, vetiver, though maybe they'd argue other, which is called, ahem, "Vetiver."  A floral number, "Milly-la-Foret."  You gotcher woods in "Mitzah," and another number from the floral family, "New Look 1947."  And a cologne, "Cologne Royale."  You may be noticing a pattern among the names.  Here, let me highlight:  Up front, direct, honest names that tell you just what they are.  Unless they are a floral.*

*(Since "Granville" has a phoenetic relationship to green, I'm going to argue that it is semi-honest.)

After trying them out, I think I know why.  Good idea.  I'd obscure 'em, too.

The fact of the matter is, I don't tend to like florals, and Dior has done nothing to change my mind.  I'm willing to lay blame at each or our doorsteps.  To a certain extent.

Overall, I noticed these themes in the collection:

• Not a single offering was loud
• Not a single offering had more than two steps of development
• Nearly every one seemed to be using good quality stuff (said a la Cheech and Chong)  ((hard to confirm on the florals, as was dealing with some visceral reactions there, especially with New Look 1947))
• I did not have problems with lasting power some have noted, but I am a documented NOT scent eater
• I may have to adjust my favorite three colognes list

In order to not set a record for world's longest post, I'm heading to the ropes.  Ringing the bell.  End of Round One.  I'll do specific first look reviews as Round Two.  Wait a minute...that gives me a "scion"!  Child of Installment the First!!  Hooray!!!  I'll post the individual reactions in the next post.  Meanwhile, if you are a fan of florals, we currently have a hung jury on New Look 1947:  For your inspection, here's Patty's review (likes it), and then Muse's review (not so pleased).  In the interest of full disclosure, here's Octavian on New Look 1947.  Blast him.  I have never had cause to question whether or not I would react so differently than he has to a perfume.  Until now.

I've a good friend in nosing around who loves New Look 1947.  I do not.  More tomorrow.

(Toyota) Scion
stitch from Julia's Sewing Blog
wardrobe a la Manhattan Closets

Aught Not, or, Out with the Auld, or, what I Ought to Know about the Aughts

The Introduction


It was mid-December, and a friend mused that the decade was coming to a close, and we (collectively, globally) had never firmly decided upon a name for it.

The Zeroes? Zeds? Aughts? C-21?

If you have been reading me for a while, you ought to stop right here.
You aught to.
'Cause here's where I'm going...

I propose we let bygones be bygones.  And forever refer retrospectively to the decade as the Aught Nots.

Apt, no?

****
The Set Up


There's no way I'll make it through a decade.  Besides, I only passed through the perfume door in...2007?  fell down the rabbit hole in 2008?...so I can't comment on the whole decade through that prism.  And since passing the world through the prism of perfume was one of the shaping forces when I started this blog, I'll not even use a magic machine or Tardis or rosecoloredbeergoggles.  I'll just stick with 2010, thank you very much.

(What's that I hear?  "No, thank YOU"?)

***
The Ought Not Part
aka, Irksome

In 2010, I watched a host of bloggers complain of a variety of maladies: malaise, overload, lack of inspiration, too many releases, not enough inspiration.

At first I was sympathetic, because I understood how that happens.  Then I was a little ticked, because I understood that that happens.  Then I laid low, because stuff happens.

Suffice to say that in the end, I find the complaint about too many blogging voices to be a host of rubbish.  For heaven's sake, first in doesn't mean best in--and complaining from a first-in's advantage (for whatever worth such an "advantage" has to you) is a bit of poor sportsmanship.  Second, there are ALWAYS a lot of voices out there.  That's why there are critics and academics and teachers and bulldog reporters who spend time gathering and sifting to come up with observations and through lines and maps to guide newcomers through the landscape.  The beauty of being on your own is that you can decide who/what you will/will not pay attention to.  THAT is why you do not earn the big dollars writing your blog.  Which would be my third peeve.  Really?  Having a hum of regular traffic of people stopping by to register they've paid attention to what your saying and engage you in a little dialogue is no longer satisfying?  I get that.  You are entitled to your feelings; they are even rational and understandable.  But why in the world complain to those very people?  Oy to the caramba.

Granted, I'm not a public complainer.  Except for the occasional decade wrap-up, I suppose.  But sheesh; take issue with facts, or ideas presented.  Do not jump onto the superhighway and then complain about the volume of traffic, or the fact that some of the cars are in better shape than others.  Just decide if you are going to try to be a traffic reporter, or traffic aware, or focused on getting to your destination.

**
The Ought To Part
aka, Winsome

As a traveller who tried to play in traffic, I found a lot of rewards for my efforts.  Sure, there were voices I had to say goodbye to; heck, I said "good-bye" to Ina at Aromascope the day I started playing.  The Left Coast Nose I didn't discover until she said goodbye, even though she had been somewhere in traffic the whole time.  Some came in guns blazing and dropped out of sight (Hortus Conclusus), but I'm happy they were here; meanwhile, quiet and steady and always a pleasure to drop in on were the Muse in Wooden Shoes and All I am A Redhead and Olfactarama. Then, there was one of my happiest of discoveries, who I happened upon in progress but watched as they steadily increased voice and presence until they were present on more than one front (Bonkers About Perfume, now also writing as Vanessa for Cafleurebon).  Why soft spots for all of these?  Because all (except for Ina, who had already left the building) did a fantastic job of keeping the conversation going in the comments, which is often where the best revelations occurred.

Which is why I Smell Therefore I Am goes here, because they're a double-barreled force of honest thought and response, and--as is my wont--are both within and without perfume.  I am fascinated by perfume, you may have noticed, but it does not consume me.  I feed at least as much off of context as I do by specifics.

On the other hand, some blogs are so good at specifics, you enjoy reading and learning.  Elena at Perfume Shrine, Denyse at Grain de Musc, Octavian at 1000 Fragrances--I have learned much about perfume and the industry by reading them.

But here's the thing...I read a LOT of blogs.  I am a reader; as a kid, I read the back of the shampoo bottle and the cereal box as well as the entire stack of books the librarian reluctantly let me take home ("remember to bring them back in three weeks," she'd say, and raise an eyebrow when I had them back the following weekend)--I read a lot in general.  Thing is, after two years of doing so, I hit overload this fall, and I pulled back.  At first I simply didn't try to comment wherever I landed (bloggers do like to know they're not the only tree in the forest), and then I realized I was craving the break.  So I took a break.

Life is like that.  It goes in cycles.  I believe that, in the end, people get that, right?  And you are either committed to working through it, to plugging away at what you do until the Muse dances upon your keyboard again, or you take a break and go feed yourself otherwise, and (maybe) come back.

Speaking of which, look who's back:  Victoria (Bois de Jasmin) and Marina (Perfume Smelling Things). As with all good things, I'll take them for as long as they are offered.

BTW, in a year where some of the best statements came from the least mentioned blogs--I recall a very funny "wtf?" kind of column from Bloody Frida, who then announced she was hightailing it out of Dodge until things settled down in the sandbox, which she did, straight up...then came back--in a year of quiet gems, I have to point out the one that knocked my socks off.  The other thousand, One Thousand Scents, who has been writing since 2006 (take THAT, "oh, woe, these 'new' voices" folk), led a personal retrospective through 1980's fragrances that concluded with one of the most powerful pieces I've read in bloggery this year, period.

And now I feel terrible, because I've called people out, and only mentioned a third of my personal blogroll, and not mentioned all who I've visited regularly for a while now, like A Rose Beyond the Thames, Glass Petal Smoke, First Nerve, and Perfume Posse.  They mean such different things to me; a happy ongoing visitation, an guided immersion into the senses, a skeptical scientific look at the senses, and the blog that first invited me in to perfumedom.  So maybe I'll finally create that annotated blogroll in 2011.

Write me a comment.  Bug me to do it.

*
So?....
aka If You Are Still Reading, Once More into the Breach

I never pretended to try everything, perfume-wise.  Not even when there weren't too many launches in the year to do so...which, btw, has been the cry since I fell down the rabbit hole in 2007.  As far as I am concerned, why would you want to?  It's not my business; I don't get paid to be aware of the full range of the scent market.  I would much rather revel in a beautiful or difficult scent for a while, learn how it plays with me on different days and in different weather, and honestly, just enjoy it yet again once I have found it brings me pleasure.

You'll have noticed, if you've been here for more or less the duration, that certain perfumes get repeated mention.  Because they weave in and out of my life, and with the occasional exception (what the heck WAS that that Papyrus de Ciane did???), I know better than to talk about my first rounds with something. Because subsequent rounds often change.  On the other hand, maybe paying more attention to how things first enter my conscious is worth doing, so I can follow the trail.  I've thought that before.  BUT...my main point is that I am sorry if I have disappointed because I don't discuss new launches much.  I am also sorry that those who have initially presented themselves as presenters of the latest are starting to feel penned in by that self-description.  A little bit sorry.  But not much.  Because you can either shift gears, or not.  Life offers these options.  It's good that way.

I may try to sort this one more time.  Maybe even here.  But for now, know that I enjoyed my time with a ridiculously large amount of the blogs I explored, that I found reward and happiness in both depth and in banter, and that I just may figure out how to make this thing work as I enter the fourth calendar year of Notes From the Ledge.

Still here?  A big smile and a thanks for riding along from me.  I'll shake your hand and send you off for now with the other great thing that was said about this transition from one year to next, by another friend:

"This year goes to '11.'"

image the first publicity for the Greenaway film A Zed and Two Noughts, which in addition to having words in the title which play nicely with my aughts (and a zed for my naught), has a delightfully convoluted plot which those who have made it through my longer postings might appreciate


image the second, a graphic representation of the aughts by The Reformed Broker


image the third, the Shepherd Fairy rip-off, erm, homage style poster of Nigel Tufnel, ripped off, erm, gratefully lifted from The Dummocrats

Tsutsumi et Cigarette

No, not a fragrance.

A reflection of two areas I have come across which offer the amazingly limbic pleasures of taking apart packaging.  A third would be, of course, perfume.

tsutsumi tea whisk

Tsutsumi is the Japanese art of gift wrapping with paper, historically more recent than furoshiki, which is wrapping with cloth.  Given the centuries of culture we're talking here, both are, to use a simple word, old.

The cellophane wrapping on a package of cigarettes?  Less than a hundred years.

I'm still trying to chase down the historical evolution of perfume packaging...not bottle design, but how the bottle is presented.  Especially the introduction of cello wrap.  Cellophane, invented in 1908.  Used for wrapping the perfume box?  Not sure.

Tactile and psychological pleasure from all?  Immeasurable.

As Tilda might say...like this:

*******
Pick up the package.  Sniff, just to see if there is product odor.  Generally, no.  Already noticing the smooth, sometimes slippery outer protective layer.  Depending on material and tightness of wrapping, perhaps an element of crinkle, both tactile and auditory.  If there is that element, an indulgence in a bit of rubbing, to feel/hear the crinkle again.  Think of skin slipping, just a little bit.  Wondering how much pressure it would take to break the seal.

If you are a careful present opener, you don't dare cross the line.  Because you are next headed to either end of the package, where the folded over ends of the outer layer meet, and are either glued or sticker sealed.  (Or both.)  A careful teasing apart of the flaps.  If all goes well, you are going to have an intact outer layer, like a complete cicada shell.

Or, if you are feeling wanton, a release of ripping and joyful noise.

Either way, you are now at the box.  And have another choice point.

*****
I must interrupt here.  Because if it is a pack of cigarettes, you have either the challenge of a foil seal or a flip top box and THEN a foil overlayer.  If it is perfume, you either have another glued box, or a flap-in flip open top, or a specially presentation box.  (Special presentations are often top-lift-off-the base types, but can have intricate fold outs, or a combination thereof, like that bottle of Niki de Saint Phalle in parfum.)

Either product, whatever way, means you are now to the heart of the matter.  And it is from here on out that you WILL be careful.  You WILL choose to preserve and protect the shell.  Because, in your heart, even if it is a simple box that you break down and put in a shoe box of other broken down boxes and don't see again because the bottle is going somewhere probably protected but definitely where storage space is at a premium and therefore the box is baggage, even if so, you have a hard time throwing away the box.  At least right away.  And maybe forever.

****
What do I know from cigarettes?  Other than that pack I shared with Ava and Maggie back in our youth, which we kept sealed in a plastic bag and hid in a niche in the alley?  And lasted for weeks, maybe months?  Because we smoked it one shared cigarette at a time, only on days when we could all get to the tree?

Well, I know that my father smoked.  Plenty.  And my reward for running to the corner store and buying him a pack (or two, but never more than two at a time) was being given permission to open it.  I loved the crinkle...the peel...the careful dissembly of the foil so that ONLY that portion of the top on one side of the label across the middle would be revealed, and you could do that cool "tap tap" and shake out one cigarette, just one, kind of like and advanced move when dealing cards.

***
In Tsutsumi, the unwrapping has a somewhat different dynamic, but is also intricate.  The folding has been deliberate, and so will be the unfolding.  There are layers within layers, and often packaging inside packaging.  The texture of the paper, the sometimes representative shapes, the origami elements...makes the unwrapping a very mindful moment.

If you aren't the type who tears off the wrapping and rips apart a box to get at the contents.

**
I have been slowly getting to the heart of my treasures from Paris.  I am being mindful of their origin, my memories of where they came from, the salespeople, the lighting in the store, the testing process (if there was one).  But I must confess, while the Paris packages are extra special, my undoing of them is not more mindful.

The mindfulness just yields a different, somewhat deeper scope of treasure.

*
I don't smoke.  Never have, except for that one shared pack in my two months of wanton youth.  Okay, and another pack equivalent of singles bummed off smokers during a certain year of semi-clubbing.  But cigarette smoke has always led to headaches and nausea and it was never really the tobacco that was ever appealing.

It was the process.

Could there be some connection between that and the fact that the only place I've ever enjoyed tobacco is in perfume?

Along with, perhaps, the shared joy of cello wrap led undressing?

~~~
Photograph of tea whisk from the Kansai Window : Essence of Japan website.


History of Golden Belt Manufacturing, responsible for packaging Bull Durham (the tobacco, not the movie), here.

Shop Window Earns Sad Emoticon

I did not say anything about that shop window that I pressed my nose against on Sunday.  The Guerlain?  Near the Opera?

Mind you, it was an outpost.  Not THE shop.  And I tend to forget that Guerlain also offers make-up.  Silly me.  So I'm going to forgive the fact that of the two, the left one flanking the lovely door was entirely devoted to face paint.

But to dedicate the other window entirely to the Aqua Allegoria line?  Say it ain't so, Josephine.

:(

A confession

I am traveling again.  Rather, I have traveled.  J'ai voyagé.  I am happy, the whole family is with me, we are adventuring.

So many things are right.  I am above the 45th parallel in the summer, I am staying in place for nearly two weeks so that I can soak up as much as I can of a new experience without falling prey to or imposing some sort of tourist whirlwind on the proceedings.  I am, for only the second time in my life, learning how my body responds to jet lag.  I am hyper aware of budget, just like when I traveled as a near-student; I am equally cognizant of when I toss it to the gutter as the locals sometimes do with their trash.  I am savoring every bite of fabulous food.  I am enjoying every sip of aperitif and every moment of light refracted through the atmosphere during the magic hours that suspend themselves over us at the start and especially end of each day.

A couple of things are desafinado.  I never learned this language.  I am doing my level best to gain traction as I go, because I would feel so much better if I had at least a rudimentary working ability to communicate.  Sometimes, 

lamento que yo no pudiera hablar el español.

  De temps en temps, je regrette que je ne puisse pas glisser en espagnol.


I wish I could slip into Spanish.  Just to show that I am not a self-centered American who doesn't care about bothering to learn any other languages.  (Or an American who was never given the opportunity, or whose "opportunity" was two lame years of a mock high school requirement.  Oh, wait...that was me...it was college where I learned.  Anyway...)


...things are conversationally desafinado.  And, the other thing that is slightly out of tune...I have not yet run to the shrine, the altar, the Mecca, the whateveryoucallit.  Three days, and no visit to an olfactory temple.

Yes.  I am in Paris, and I have only pressed my nose to the glass of a Guerlain outpost on the day when all shops are closed.

I don't think that it's the age of the internets and swappage and sharing that has led me to this, a potential sacrilege among the devout, a potential revocation of any perfumista card I might have laid claim to.  My lack of homage is not a result of abundant sniff opportunity.  It has more to do with the dual realities of my broader life--interest in many things, and the logistics of sharing this experience with other folks who have their own agendas (and from whom it is more difficult to separate).

I am here for the whole enchilada...erm, the whole tortiere.  There have been fresh baguettes and croissants, pastis on the sidewalk, meanderings down boulevards, expeditions up constructions of wrought iron, boats on the Seine.  There will be exhibits, and mansion museums, and parks, and more food and more walking.

And yes, I am sure, there will be perfume.  Parfum.  But there is time.  First I wish to inhabit.

***
Meanwhile, let it be known that TDC de Sens et Bois is lovely on a moderate summer day in its upright posture gently cutting way, and Parfums de Rosine Poussiere de Rose is somehow sweeter.  Perhaps the barest hint of that which might be skank?  No, not really.

Independence Anniversary Eve

Dateline:  3 July 2010
Location:  Old Mountains, North region, Land of Granola and Granite

After English country dancing, before square dancing.

After Cologne Imperiale, before Shalimar.

Jicky.

American contra dancing.

***

After crafters guilds, before the UAW

I find myself in a nearly impossibly perfect location, the Grange hall in Montpelier, Vermont.  Part church, part one-room school house, part Elks hall...100% American.  I’ve stepped out of Pa Ingalls difficult decision whether or not to join the Grange, an activist fellowship/fellowship activist tradition of a collective of American farmers from the 19th century.  

Joining me in the top set of the first line is a wonderful person I just met as the dear friend of mutual friends.  On the other side of the hall is my son the erstwhile driver, joining nothing but strangers in the third line.  The crowd ranges from teenage to octagenarian, amazingly well distributed down the age range and across genders.  Dress styles range from granola-punk to casual evening out, but there is general vibe of skirt-iness:  easy peasant-style elastic top skirts, in muted or vibrant colors, simple or many panels.  On girls, mostly, but there are guys in skirts, which is feeling like a cognitively dissonant throw-back to a certain era of my life.  (Plus the kilted punk dude with devil horn hair in Edinburgh.)  There are lines, but the lines are in squares of four, so depending how you look down the hall, you feel either like you’ve stepped into a Soul Train dance line, folk style, or as if an elaborate Busby Berkley set-up of pinwheels and such is about to begin.

Turns out both are right.

I have never done this before.  Never even HEARD of contra dancing.  Square dancing, yes; dutifully trained in a complete unit in elementary school.  Virginia Reel, yes; Scarlett O’Hara scandalized the matrons by joining in a reel while still in her mourning clothes.  But this?  When the gentleman first suggested a group go to a “contra dance,” my son’s eyes flew open wide.  “Nicaraguan rebels?”  (I tried to ignore the sparks of interest visible in those eyes.)  

No, no rebels.  Just a bunch of welcoming folks who were very patient and friendly with newbie strangers from a different part of the country.  

And belly dancer sourpuss.  But she was definitely the exception to the rule.

So there I am, the female half of the Number One couple at the Top of the Set.  By “top of the set,” one indicates ones relative position to the band.  Oh, yes; I forgot to mention...live music.  Real musicians, like gather to play Nova Scotia shanties or American folk or that music that was in the spine of the narrative in Widdershins, which for a meandering reason I picked up as a summer at the cabin read a few summers ago.  These particular musicians were quite fine.  And the caller next to them, a beautiful woman with salty salt & pepper curly long hair, was extremely fine.  

Anyway, Number One at the Top of the Set.  We’re closer to the band...and if we were playing cards, we would be dealing the round.  One would think that a prerequisite of being a member of a Number One couple would be that one would know what the heck one was doing, but apparently not so.  Luckily things work out.  The caller starts each dance by leading us through the pattern, and the pattern does not include any move that our “host” didn’t explain in the car on the ride over.  As we walk through the dance, he helps me pick up how to spin.  My male “neighbor” (from Couple Number Two in our square) gives me a tip on how to hold my right hand as he moves me through a “courtesy turn.”  

The dance begins in earnest.

This spin business?  Did you ever join hands with a friend on the playground and lean back and circle around, using your momentum and weight to create a multi-person dervish that got crazier and crazier until you fell down laughing and collapsed with dizziness?  Well...imagine two grown-ups facing each other, assuming the traditional waltz position, leaning back into the arm on your shoulder blade, and doing a little two-step around and around and around...generally for 10 or 12 beats.  Just enough to make you a little tipsy until you get used to it.  And even then, it’s...like being on the playground.  :)

Turns out the couples/squares are going to move themselves down the Soul Train line, so that by the end of the particular set you will have danced your way through every Number One male and made contact with every single neighbor...not to mention your regular revisiting with your own Number One partner.  There is foot stomping involved, sort of--I kept on thinking Scottish clogging meets Western two-step, but that’s not quite right.

I fell in without falling out, as it were.  And smiled the whole darn time.

After dependence, before striking out on one’s own

I sat out every other dance.  Because a) you are moving the whole time (take that, interval trainers), b) I don’t glow, I sweat, and that meeting hall was not air conditioned, and c) it was fun to watch and learn and enjoy the patterns and the mood.  I sat there for the second dance, with the same goofy grin on my face, just taking in the scene, and then I realized there was a tall blond looking sort of new-ish but quite comfortable in the third line.  He was handsome, and he was doing fine.  

I immediately looked away, because I didn’t want to send the vibe of mother eyes upon him.  Got caught up in looking at the mass of dancers closer to me.  Forgot about him, remembered.  Looked back.  And realized my powerful mother vibe wasn’t really all that anymore.  Because he wasn’t going to receive it anyway.  

At a pause between dances a couple of songs later, I was getting ready to join the crowd when I realized the tall blond was walking toward me.  He gave me the look and the words that said he was just seeing how I was doing.  And then he walked away to rejoin the action.

Old friends, new friends

I rejoined our “host” for our last dance of the evening, having joined other partners for the intervening rounds.  There was a new move incorporated in this one, and by the time I was at the end of the line, I pretty much had it down.  We loaded into the car, crunched gravel as we pulled out of the lot...but not so loudly that my son’s last partner couldn’t call out “Come back again!  Soon!!”

The new friend flies planes, is a math whiz, bypassed high school before going to college.  Loves contra dancing.

The new friend is my son’s new friend.  And mine.

Before me, the new friend.  After me, my child.

More traveling yet to do.