I try to remember to wear gloves so I don’t get splinters from the plywood workbench, but this time I forgot. I stopped to look at the compacted soil under my fingernails, and thought how cross my mother would have been. When I was a child, our hands were thoroughly scrubbed before we were allowed to go near the piano. She was right, of course; I can’t bear it when dirty fingers have left a sticky trace on the keys, though I love nothing more than having certain someones pound around on my piano.
Thinking of all this made me remember some fabulous vintage strawberry patterned fabric from the 50s, was it? Who was that designer, a woman, who made great frocks for little girls, with all sorts of wonderful patterns, and tucking and ruching and every other perfect touch? (This is the sort of thing An Aesthete's Lament knows, I'm certain.) Those dresses imprinted themselves on my budding style consciousness and I have been yearning for them ever since. It must be spring that is bringing on these memories.
I was impressed--and delighted--by how many Easter postings there were about clothing, starting with Reggie Darling’s charming and eloquent plea for more sartorial attention to special occasions. Recently, an airline attendant actually thanked me, as I was boarding a flight, for wearing a dress. I must have been in the grips of nostalgia for an era when there actually were special occasions. Bring them back! With the dresses!
And from Ed, on that sweet, demure young plant: Fragaria chiloensis 'Green Pastures'. More for ornament than fruit. Once happy, it will spread forth and multiply.