Bless Macy's Heart- The Death of Marshall Field's Candy Counter

 

Photo: Digital Research Library of Illinois History Journal

Without going into the whole Macy's killed Marshall Field's in Chicago complaint that you'll hear many tell. I have been in a Macy's store maybe once yearly since the takeover occurred. They've killed the assortment. Cut too many sales associates. And Santa wasn't run over by a reindeer; Macy's is responsible for that accident. Said reindeer took one look at the decorations, State Street windows, and the Walnut Room's menu and service and brought the gang- even Rudolph- to take it down.

Among the many family traditions I've enjoyed at Marshall Field's, one was to go on a Christmas gift shop at a suburban mall with a Macy's with my sister and Mom. We'd knock out Mom's list and then enjoy a boozy lunch at Maggiano's. Sadly, my Mom passed five years ago. And then came the pandemic. But as soon as the stores reopened, my sister and I decided to keep up the tradition.  Before we went, I heard that Macy's had closed all of the candy counters in the former Marshall Field's locations. 

Full disclosure, when I first graduated from college, I worked at Marshall Field's. Like tales of yore, I started as a part-time associate in the accessories department at a suburban location. Not having a clue as to what I wanted to do after college, my instinct was right in that I would love working in a department store. Who knew that I had a god-given talent for merchandising. I didn't mind the customers, but I preferred to show fellow associates 'how to do it.' Not so long later, an Human Resources representative from the State Street store, the flagship, called and asked, 'would you like to come down to State Street?' Would I! I started at the beginning of December- that magical time of the year. Philip Miller, a retail rock star, was President. The perfume release was YSL Paris. And I had control of even more merchandise to sort and display. Soon, I had a department to call my own. And then another. And then another. I saw Prince Charles, Cher, Robert Redford, Donny Osmond. One of my associates sold bedding to Audrey Hepburn. Not sugar plum fairies, but beautiful things to purchase for the store danced in my head. Next, I set my sights on moving up to the buying department. 

Until- a Vice President called me into his office to say, I know that you want to go there next, but I want you to stay here. If you go do that, you'll lose your job. If you stay here, I'll give you a much bigger department and a 20% raise. The VP did me a favor- I think. News of our sale to the Dayton Hudson Corp. came out within weeks of that meeting. The buying offices would move to Minneapolis. I wouldn't have moved there. I am a Chicagoan to the core. And for me, this was the beginning of the end of Marshall Field's. 

But back to my story- one of the treats that I discovered when I worked at the State Street store was malted milk balls. Oh! Whenever I needed a pick me up, I would go to the candy department to buy a dollars' worth. If there weren't any, I'd tell a candy maker on the employee elevator- hey! you need to make some more malted milk balls! As an internal management training candidate, I was able to visit the candy kitchen on the 13th floor of the State Street store. I watched the candy makers flood a marble table with melted Frango mints to cool and cut to sell. All of the candy was made on that floor until 1999. The candy business was then moved to a Pennsylvania candy maker. That's another tale entirely. 

I left Marshall Field's in 1995. It was time to move on to something else. And I was happy to return to buy a couple of malted milk balls and remember the good times that I had at the State Street store. I didn't expect to find a candy counter at the suburban Macy's where my sister and I shopped in December 2023, but it was there. And the sales associate told me that it was the only candy counter that would remain open after January 2024. I enjoyed every malted milk ball that I bought. 

Today, six months later, I happened to be back there on an errand and thought- malted milk balls! When I went to the lower level candy counter, a sign was posted that it was closed for the day. I walked over to a sales associate who was selling pretzels and slushies to ask, what's up? She kindly called a manager and asked me to wait. I waited for 10 minutes and a woman from the Executive Office came out and said that she would try to help me. I picked up a conversation and she said that the associates scheduled to work the counter that day had called in sick. And then she went on to say that it was harder and harder to hire associates. If I hadn't had retail experience, I would think that every thing that she complained about would be uninteresting. But I knew what it was that she talked about. And I understand that sales associates have to be on the floor to sell merchandise. I said to her- why would Macy's keep this counter open if they can't staff it. The candy can't scoop itself.  She wasn't very please with that remark. I decided to be nice. And she treated me to 20% off for the inconvenience.

The plan is to staff a counter that requires an employee to scoop and bag candy with one person. Yeah, they should've just closed that counter too. What kind of good will or customer service is that? I actually bought more candy that I had planned to buy. I only wanted a couple. Outside, I ate a few and tossed the rest. I guess that's that.

Through Charley's Door by Emily Kimbrough

This summer, I travelled to Oxford UK to participate in an adult study program of Irish and Scottish literature post WWI. The program was fairly structured over the two-week period. We attended class every morning and most afternoons, excursions were planned. On the bus one afternoon, a woman in the group asked to sit by me. She said to me- I heard that you worked at Marshall Field's? Why yes, I did. And we fell into an excited conversation about our experiences of what was the empress of empresses of retail. She and I became bus buddies for the rest of the trip. And now home, we are friends (two Marshall Field's gals pictured below). 

On one of the trips, she asked if I had ever read the novel, "Through Charley's Door," written by a woman who had worked in the store upon graduating college. I hadn't ever even heard of the book. I was given a copy of "Give the Lady What She Wants" upon graduating from Marshall Field's Internal Management Program ... in paperback form. I own a hardcover copy of it that an elder cousin gifted to me. She had worked at Marshall Field's as a young woman during the 1950's. By the time that I returned home from the trip, I had forgotten about the book mention. And then the mailman delivered a copy of "Through Charley's Door." My friend sent me a copy of the book. 

The book brought back many memories of Marshall Field's and the beauty of it, particularly of the flagship store on State Street where I worked as a manager for eight years. I began my retail career at a suburban branch of Field's as a part-time sales associate. I had just left college and did not have a clue as to which direction that I should take. I had spent more time at college involved in campus activities as a student organizer than I did at class. I had gone to college with the idea that I would go into some sort of journalism. I had self-published one edition of a newsletter for my Girl Scout troop. I wrote a rock music column for the junior high school newspaper. And I became editor of the high school newspaper. But the journalism classes were boring. And I really had more of an aptitude for Science and Math if you can imagine. My favorite science was Chemistry, for its experimentation. I loved my lab book for that class.

Marshall Field's holds special memories for me. As a child, my grandfather would take us to the State Street store on Christmas Eve for a look at the display windows that attracted visitors from across the Midwest. We would spend some time in the toy department for a look around, which seemed to be a whole floor. We would pay a visit to Santa, naturally. And then we would lunch at the Walnut Room, which was very fancy indeed. It was there that we always looked most forward to a slice of Frango Mint ice cream pie. My grandfather moved out of state, so that tradition faded, but my grandmother, who visited us every Saturday from the city, would take us as a special treat to the little restaurant inside of the suburban Field's store near our house for a slice of the heavenly Frango Mint pie. 

It wasn't just the allure of pie that made Field's so magnificent. It was a palace of beautiful things that I had never seen before. The air was perfumed. And the bustle of the people shopping was very exciting. My memories are particularly keen for the visits during winter months. To step in to the warmth of the store after the bite of the cold made the trip worthwhile. We would stomp our boots on the weather mats and enter a sparkly, enchanted palace. I couldn't tell you what specifically was so wonderful, except the feeling of it was. It is fair to say that it has been so hard to let go of  the memory of Marshall Field's after Macy's bought it for so many people because the connection was emotional. Losing it to Macy's was like losing a friend. I have not found anyone like her (Bloomingdale's at 59th Street in NYC has a hint of it now).

Reading "Through Charley's Door" was a tonic. Though set in the 20's, it reminded me so much of the time that I spent in the store in the '80's. I began working at the State Street store four or five years after it had been acquired by BAT (British American Tobacco). My start date was at the first of December. I can recall that month so well. The store was dusty and in need of some loving care, but it was beautiful just as she was. The wood floors creaked and bounced under my heels. Peeks behind false walls showed evidence of what it may have looked in Kimbrough's time at the store. The air was perfumed, the bustle was active, and there was no end to the receipt of interesting merchandise  that came up from the dock.

Charley's door is the porter/doorman who mans the 28 W. Washington Street door, which led quickly to what would become the 28 Shop that showcased all of the latest, most exquisite ladies' fashions. Kimbrough travels through the store for her job as the content creator for the "Little Things Noticed on a Walk through the Store" column. As she carried out her duties across the store, I recognized many of the departments as they hadn't changed that much to my first couple of months working in the store. She would have to talk to the buyers of that department to discuss what she saw as things worth noticing because if they appeared in print, they would sell fast. When I started at State Street, our buyers were still on the floor. If something was selling quickly, all that I had to do was pop my head in a door and tell the buyer that we needed more. 

When Emily visits the book department are probably my favorite stories. The buyer was a demanding and bombastic Irish woman, who nearly every one in the store was intimidated by. But through her talent and skill, she built up a business that focused on the writer and poet. She was the first to form relationships with the creatives and developed an audience for some who may not have ever sold more than a few copies. She would invite the authors in to the store to meet the public and sign copies of their books. This was in the 1920's! And she was a woman who created this opportunity. Emily describes the tea parties that this buyer would have with the authors and invited guests to stay after the store closed to drink tea and eat sandwiches and treats that she would order in house. Wouldn't that have been a magnificent experience. Even when I was working there, the best events were ones that happened after the store closed. My favorite office holiday party that I have attended was that first year at State Street. Holiday parties were always scheduled after the New Year when the business of the store got back to normal. The manager's party was held in the Walnut Room, which was the first retail store in-house restaurant. I believe that the walnut paneling is still original. A small jazz band played and the food & drink were great, but it was being in the store after closing hours that was so wonderful. I believe that the building holds all of the past in it. With the light turned off except where managers had to travel to and from off, all of that past came out and chatted. And did they have a lot to say.

Back to my copy of "Give the Lady What She Wants!" it is signed by Hurston M. McBain. I didn't realize it at the time that the book came into my possession, but Emily reminded me that he began his career as a bill adjuster and moved to become John G. Shedd's, President and Chairman, office boy. Emily encounters him in the book. And later, Mr. McBain, would become the youngest President and Chairman ever when he was 40 in 1943. He remained in that position until 1958. For me, I started as part-time sales associate and definitely got even more of the bug. I loved being in the store. After reading Kimbrough's book, I realized that I am part of the Field's dream. Let me explain. According the Kimbrough book, Field's was a first in hiring woman to its salesforce. It was considered an appropriate form of employment. Kimbrough also suggests that they were a first in carving out careers for woman returning from colleges as early as the '20's, for those who may or may not desire to take the traditional move after college- marriage. And finally, the book verifies that from the time that the story is set to my tenure, it was possible to rise in the ranks.  Like Kimbrough, Field's gave me a chance to figure it out after I left college. And it also recognized my skill and talent and gave me the opportunity to move from sales force to management. 

What a gem of a book!

Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin

Once off of the Interstate, the Wisconsin River Valley showed itself in all of its beauty. Rolling hills, broad valleys, small lakes, and impressive farms rolled past as I drove toward Taliesin, Welsh for shining brow, Frank Lloyd Wright's home there and the area to which he was born (picture left of a view of the environs from the house).

Wright’s home, studio, and garden sanctuary was a laboratory for architecture and design. In its three iterations, Taliesin embodies Wright’s ideas of organic architecture, expanded and refined from his earlier Prairie School works. From the courtyards and gardens to the Living Room, Loggia, and Birdwalk, Taliesin offers a commanding view of the valley, settled by Wright’s Welsh ancestors. Using natural local limestone and Wisconsin River sand, Taliesin stands as “shining brow” on Wright’s favorite boyhood hill.  (taliesinpreservation.org/history).

Not a Frank Lloyd Wright fan specifically, I decided to drive up to Wisconsin with it as a destination and for the opportunity to get away to the country and, hopefully, run into a few antique/vintage stores along the way. I booked a 2-hour tour of the house and school, opened by Wright's spinster aunts who instituted a school in the original building found on the land, which was to become Taliesin and later Wright's own school of architecture and eventual home.

The tour began in the school. Apparently, students came to board at it from as far away as Chicago, which is, nowadays, a three hour drive. When the sisters closed the school after 30 years, Wright tore down the original building and built up the existing buildings. I was immediately taken by the beautiful stone used, a local quarry supplied the smooth, porous stone used inside and out. I couldn't help but run my hand along it as we climbed the steps into the main building. There, the ghosts of students past were in attendance, and it wasn't hard to imagine the children attending the Hillside Home School or the men that would travel to work with Wright. The wood floors had a life of their own and the creak and groans reverberated. The floors reminded me of the ones that I walked across early in my career at Marshall Field's State Street store before the big renovation that moved out most of the old charm of the storied department store in the early '90's. The floors in the Ukrainian Village vintage apartment that I lived in for 24 years were much the same. At Taliesin, I walked in circles across them, kicking up the dust in celebration of old, creaky wooden floors.

One of the artifacts highlighted by the guide are pictured here. Wright was of the mind that in order to create, one has to play. Our tour guide said that he would give students, like children, the challenge of taking ordinary objects or unlike ones to play with in order to build something new. Interestingly, Jeff Tweedy, of the band Wilco, wrote in his book essentially the same. In writing about songwriting, Tweedy said that most adults have lost their sense of play. And if adults played more, they would create more of whatever they have the need or desire to do. When I was in college, I took a popular general studies class offered- The Fundamentals of Design.  The professor was a known designer, Harold Grosowski, Weird Harold, who designed the shape of Dove soap of all things, and was a peculiar, entertaining teacher. In his class, most assignments centered on  taking ordinary, varied objects to create something new. For one assignment I was given two elements, nails and paper, and was challenged to make a Christmas ornament. I really connected to the class. I didn't have the desire to create objects in the end, but the thinking process appealed to me as it allowed me to entertain different ideas and consider how together they could be the genesis of another idea altogether. 

As we walked outside to the beautiful grounds, I captured the picture of the outdoor chairs scattered under the shade of trees and had a strong sense of my own college campus, which sprawled across an equally green landscape. My campus had been a hippy haven in its day, which I could imagine as I wandered across the naturalscaped lawns and through dusty buildings. The Taliesin School of Architecture began in the 1930's well before the time that I attended college, but the sense of it was overwhelming for me. I transcended to a space and time where the possibility of imagining how different things, natural things, could come together to create something new was possible. The ghosts of the place have free reign in that Wisconsin river valley, and they've stories to tell.

I won't go through each detail of the house. As I have established, I'm not necessarily a fan of Wright's plans. The house itself was one always in progress with the first two having burnt down and the third, never quite completed. I appreciate Wright's idea that a building should become a part of the landscape, not the tower over it. The wide windows allowed for breathtaking views, but the compressed hallways were claustrophobic. I fully understand how his third wife insisted on buying comfortable chairs at Marshall Fields in Chicago as anything that Wright made was hard and unforgiving. But I'm glad that I took the jaunt up to see it for myself, for I determined that it is not thing itself that is the beauty of it; rather, the ideas and inspiration that were the founding of it.

Antiquing: Toby Character Mugs

 

Toby Character Mugs

It's summer! What better time to spend wandering around local Antique stores to stir up the dust and take advantage of summer sales. In each of my three forays last week, I have benefitted from a summer sale. I imagine that sellers are happy to move slow moving inventory so that they can restock their rented stalls in preparation of the Autumn season, which, I imagine, is the busy season for these shops. I may be wrong, but in my experience, the shops, no matter how small, decorate for the holidays and host celebratory events.

This shop, Three Sisters in Blue Island IL, is one that I had never visited. When I first walked in, I thought to to myself, there's nothing here for me. But that feeling never deters me from the browse. I usually have something in mind that I'm looking for like a shelf for some curiosities that I purchased at another shop. I went to the basement first, my least favorite level of a shop typically, but I found something. And a shop worker happily took it off my hands to put up at the check out desk. On the main floor, I found that the shop was buzzing. It had a great vibe, the employees were friendly, and I found that they had to keep taking things from me so that I could continue shopping hands free.

At the end of the visit, I found the Toby Character Mugs. I didn't know that is what they are called, even though I have seen them before, until I checked out and the woman at the register told me that she had a collection of them in excess of 500. Goodness! What does she do with all of them? I have many collections, but I never stay with one too long as too much of a good thing can indeed be too much. And these little mugs aren't something that I would ever have looked at before. I've encountered them plenty in my travels, particularly in Great Britain. They just haven't been my thing. But then I thought ... a recent trend that I have resisted are the women's head planters. They are everywhere ... from Home Depot to Anthropology. And I've had my hand on one or two, but no!  I don't need one.

And then I saw these little guys. The shop keeper who owns 500 of them told me that they originated in the 18th Century. In a cursory search, I found that they were named for a man,Toby Fillpot, for he drank 2,000 pints of ale. Goodness. I imagine that some of these hold tremendous value, but the ones I picked up, on sale for 20% off, ran from $5-10. And it occurred to me that they would make perfect succulent planters. I've been working on my plant game. It's not been easy as my home tends to the dark, so I have to find plants that can tolerate low-light. In the kitchen, at the window, I have had success in planting succulents. The arrangement of this and that on the window sill probably needed some attention as I looked at these jugs and so bought them.

I wasn't wrong. The Toby Mugs make for perfect 'head' planters that are different than norm. And I'm happy with the purchase and the repurpose of these little treasures.

Toby Mugs with succulent plants.

Antiquing: Someone Else's Treasures Make for Great Finds

For as long as I can remember, I have been an avid antiquer. My first experiences of going into a store to peruse a collection of someone else's things may have been when we would drive to Sioux City, Iowa to visit my grandmother and also to my Aunt's in Nebraska, who lived on a farm. These ladies loved to visit the local Goodwill Stores to pick up affordable household items and books. I found in my first forays into those stores that I could afford to buy a few of the treasures with my very limited budget of a couple of bucks. 

Another event in my life that very well may have contributed to this hobby was the death of my paternal grandmother, Anne. Where I grew up in a suburb of Chicago, my grandmother lived, alone, in the heart of it. We didn't visit here there often, but when we did, the setting was very exotic to my younger self. The apartment was only a studio, but the furnishings were some that I hadn't ever seen before. She had gold metal shelves that were lined with mostly hardcover books that I imagined that I would like to read. Her bed, which was in the main room, was made to look like a sofa. And in a corner of that same room, an easel stood and canvases leaned against the wall that she herself had painted. Grandma Anne died when I was 17 years old. I'm not so sure that her life had become what it was meant to have in her estimation. Her death, I think, was of disappointment more than the cancer that spread through her body. My father was her only child, so her possessions were all dutifully packed up by my mother and brought to our house. Each box held a new treasure to behold. Most of the clothing, my mother put in her closet and used for a new job that she had started as we went off to college. But one wouldn't have been appropriate for the workplace, a pale blue satin dressing gown. When I would put it on, it would transport me back to a time when I suppose that she herself wore it in a glamorous setting. At 17, I didn't have any glamours occasions to wear it, so I would wear it to the local teen disco night. I loved to dance and the disco gave me the floor to live out my love of beats and movement. The gown knew how to move as well. We made a great pair. To this day, I still have a lot of the jewelry that she had left behind. Most of it was costume, but good costume that was made in an earlier time. I visited an antique store in California a few years ago and saw that the shop keeper has used vintage, costume jewelry to decorate a tree shaped styrofoam cone. I borrowed that idea and at Christmas bring out several trees bedazzled with Grandma Anne's jewelry to decorate for the holiday. 

In college, I was great friends with someone who also loved to spend the day browsing through other people's cast offs. When he left the Midwest to return to his home in the East, I would visit. There, the antique shops were full of items different from what I was used to discovering. He collected all sorts of sea fearing items like boat flags, buoys, and light house remnants. We spent hours and days going from one warehouse to the next along the water. Then he made some serious money in software design and bought a beautiful house. For the first time, we would crawl through serious antique stores looking at French antique chairs and tables. These items were all well beyond my budget, even now, but it was wonderful imagining who owned them a century before.

Now what to call what it is that I like do. I've always called it antiquing. I expect to find stores or markets full of 'things' that are old. Anymore, the term 'vintage' is used and that they are, however, I'm not inclined to say 'vintaging.' Another term bandied about is 'thrift.' But when I think of a thrift store, I'm more inclined to think of clothing not household items. And as much I love to buy a trinket, I'm not one for buying clothing second hand. For one, I find the sizing to be small. And another, as I worked in retail for ten years at an high end department store, I like my clothing fresh off of the rack ... the clearance rack of course, but brand new none the same. But that is for another sort of post. I'm going to stick with antiquing. And in a new vain of posts, I'll talk to what I've found out on that road. As I look around my house, I have many collections of items and some furniture that I've found in my search. And now that I've been doing this for a few decades, I'm beginning to find a story of what is to be found and what has gone away.

Robert Louis Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses

While putting away Christmas things, I moved a stack of books that I had hidden from view. It was a stack as many who 'decorate' use as a focal point of interest on the shelves of side tables or displayed on coffee tables. I'm not sure if anyone who visits the house ever opens up one of the books on display, but this time, I took the time to sort and look through the books that are used mostly as dust collectors. Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses," I remember very clearly from my childhood. I am not certain how it came to the house. I do remember reading it when I was young. 

As a child, I loved the illustration on the cover. Even now, it captures the spirit of what I remember childhood to be for me. My mother would sew jumpers, a simple dress without sleeves that fell from shoulder to knee, often with two pockets on the front for me to wear to school. Underneath the jumper, I wore a white cotton, peter pan collared blouse. I typical wore scuffed, brown leather shoes that were bought new at the beginning of the school year to last the year and white socks. My favorite jumper was cranberry colored, wide wale corduroy. My mom would braid my long hair into plaits that were turned up in circles close to my ears. In the illustration, the girl leads the others in what appears to be an adventure. As young as third grade, maybe even earlier, I too would lead the younger kids in the neighborhood. Or coerce my younger sisters into playing at some planned activity, often centering on a song and a dance or, for one Christmas, a recitation of the "The Night Before Christmas."

My favorite poem in the book was "The Swing." Like many elementary schools, ours had a park nearby. Occasionally, we were allowed to run over to it during out recess. I loved the swings more than anything else in the park. Once I got going, I felt like I could fly so high and see the whole world. In my estimation, it was "the pleasantest thing/Ever a child can do?" Without being aware of it, the poems also taught me how to communicate using a different form than speaking or writing a sentence. Without understanding poetics, I sensed that if I wrote a poem about a subject, I could fully describe the feeling or emotion of the thing I was trying to describe in order to get closest to the heart of what it meant to me.  Technically, the poems taught me how to write a poem. All of the poems are written in stanza form and in a rhyme scheme. Sure, nursery rhymes and children's books are written using rhythm and rhyme and I would have had that earlier exposure, but for the most part, those devices were delivered in a sentence or two, not in an organized stanza format. 

In third grade, the teacher created in class clubs for us to join. I chose the poetry club, possibly because I wanted to write like Robert Louis Stevenson in "A Child's Garden of Verses." I don't know this for sure, but in examining this long ago book that I cherished, I can't help but think that it was the catalyst for my own poetry writing. As I look back on it, the teacher didn't teach poetry to class. Nor did she go over basic principals of what a poem looks like. Once in the club, I took it very seriously. I created my own book of poems using the techniques that I had picked up from Stevenson. How else would I have known to write in stanzas and develop a rhyme and meter scheme. 

For the Park School Third Grade Poetry club, the teacher introduced the idea of a prize for the student who wrote the most poems. I got to work. I was always a competitive student. I raced to get through the Math problems first. I never received a prize for getting through problems fast, but I was always satisfied that I had. I knew that I had a chance to write more poetry than the others in my class. I was motivated.

My First Book of Poetry circa 3rd Grade

 As you can see, my first book of poetry has seen better days. It is old! And I've kept it all of the years as a testament to my earliest work as a poet. Clearly, someone got a hold of it and wrote with crayon across it. I notice that I did not use a pen; rather, I wrote the title and my name, barely visible on the bottom, in pencil. Did third graders use pens? I did include illustrations, as you can see, with each poem. When I composed the poem and wrote the final draft, I did include those. The letter grades and corrections I may have done when I would play school. Good for me that I thought that the originals could do with an edit. The handwriting is so perfectly 'I just learned the Parker method of cursive writing.' The 'Ts' are stellar. 

"Remember the Wourld [sic]' was the epic poem that I wrote. I think about this poem sometimes and wonder if climate change was on mind. What about my eight year old self would think that I would have to remember blue skies, green grass, and all of nature that I had experienced up to that time. I would have been in Brownies as the time. I probably had made a sit upon and a dunking bag. Both would have been used for outdoor adventures. I had an awareness of nature.  Was something going to change it? Or was I aware of how I was changing. Would it be important for me to remember who I was at eight. 

I wrote about ten poems for my first poetry collection. I was very proud of them and was happy to turn them in for the contest. In addition to remembering the world, I also wrote about each of the seasons, rain, Valentine's Day. It is an auto biography in verse of how I saw the world. For the most part, the tone was optimistic, however, a small cloud sat across a few of my thoughts. I think that could be said for who I am now too. I didn't win the competition. Another girl in the club copied out poems of someone else's pen and was able to turn in many more than me. I didn't get it. Mine were original. I was happy to go back to the ease of getting the math problems done faster than any one else in the class. It was an immediate gratification. The long haul sense of accomplishment comes now as I look through the yellowed pages of my life then. It was definitely not a copy. It is a testimony of the original.

           

Looking Forward

 

Me watching the sunset in Puerto Rico. Spring Break 2021

I have not consistently written for the pages of my own blog; I am well aware of this. I was inspired to begin one so many years ago by an acquaintance who has very consistently written every day on his own. Each year, he changes the theme of his writing focus, but he pounds out a post every day. It's dizzying. I didn't know him 'in person' for more than a month while we were both a part of a teacher exchange program in Japan, but we kept up a correspondence for many years and wrote to each other almost every day. At one point, I decided that I needed to see him 'in person' and sent him a plane ticket to visit. He declined. And so did our correspondence. I don't know how much longer that I could have kept it up every day without ever having a face to face conversation. Well, maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to cancel him because one of the things that I have learned during the pandemic is that it can work to not be in person or face to face. But with that being said, I may have gone bonkers emailing him everyday. Too much can be too much.

When I started writing this blog, I was deep into the enthrall of my magazine collections. I loved nothing better than to have a stack of them waiting for me on the table next to my reading chair to get to on a Saturday morning. I'd rip out the pages of articles or fashion and either write about them or tape them up around my desk in a sort of dreamy vision board of colors, beautiful clothes, faces and destinations. But a couple things happened that changed that particular habit that I cherished. 

First, I moved from the apartment that I had lived in for nearly 25 years in the heart of the city out to my mom's house. I moved in with her as her health had begun to deteriorate, and it seemed that as soon as I moved in, her health declined rapidly. Within six months, she died. And for those six months, I worked full time teaching during the day and  overnight caring for her. I didn't have much time for pursuing hobbies and definitely not for reading magazines. I have stayed on in her home and will continue to do so. Friends ask whether I miss living in my dusty, vintage apartment in the city now that I am living, in my view, the farm. There are not big things that I miss, but one habit that I miss is sitting on a Saturday morning in my chair, drinking a cup of coffee, looking out the window into the trees that lined the block, and leisurely thumbing through Vogue or Elle or Tatler. I suppose that I could pick up the habit again, but my lifestyle has changed. I don't look out of a window at trees as I am responsible for the trees and plants and flowers in a rather large yard. I do live on a farm after all. That takes up a lot of time. Plus, I'm not sure that I've even settled into particular habits just yet. Soon after my mother's death, we all walked into the pandemic. I began working from home, still do at this writing, and life at home has been unusual. I imagine as we move deeper into 2021, we'll all resume a more 'normal' life and habits will begin to build again.

But will I return to the magreads? I've already stopped subscriptions to some of them. I feel that I've grown out of them in some respects. They don't hold my attention as they once did.  This might be attributable to the rise in social media. Between email, Instagram, Twitter and the like, I see most of the content that would be published in the following month's pages. And magazines like Rolling Stone, one of my favorites, has become more of a political journal that rock and roll magazine. I don't need politics across all mediums. So much content can be found on the Internet now. I can understand how this point and the pandemic has punched magazines in the gut.

So here I sit. As I often say to my students, writers must continue to write regularly. It's good practice. I had come upon an excellent focus for my daily writing. But as that has become less of a priority for me, I have to consider other topics. We will  see how it goes. As I am more or less talking this out with myself, I suppose that I can make or change the rules as necessary. But I am looking forward to what will come next. 

Sidenote: Happy to be vaccinated, I was able to travel to visit my sister, who lives in Puerto Rico, during Spring Break. She took the snap of me above as we watched the sun set on the lovely Caribbean Sea. I think that it perfectly captures my mood and the sense that I'm reflective and looking forward to see what the view will be for what happens next.

Barbra Streisand's Funny Girl

My uncle's painting of Barbra Streisand

 My grandmother took my siblings and I to see the film "Funny Girl" when we were young children. The film was first shown in 1968, so it must have been a reshowing of it a couple of years later because I doubt that grandma took 8, 6, 4, and a 2 year old to the movies to see an adult. Or maybe she did?  It was a treat to go to the movies. But the effect of listening to that voice, Barbra Streisand, in a dark movie theater is what really was transcendent for me. 

After an early Easter dinner with my sister this week, we decided to watch "Funny Girl." It classifies as a holiday movie to us- good for Christmas or Easter. It doesn't matter how many times that I've seen it and that I know that I know all the songs by heart, it never gets old. In this viewing, I was particularly struck with how Fanny,  the character Streisand plays, pushes back when Mr. Keeney, the first theater manager, fires her when she can't keep up with the chorus girl routines she's hired to perform. She does not take no for an answer and pushes until she hears the yes that she desperately wants it to be. I had to wonder if seeing this as a girl when the movie made such an incredible impact on me that I didn't become who I am because of it. My sister gave me a look during the scene that said to me, oh! she's not the only one who doesn't take no for an answer. I've 'but, but, but-ed' to plenty of men. And if I believe in it, I don't let it go until I hear, 'go ahead.'

Then there's Nick Arnstein. Oh! I know that man. And I have been known to 'do too much' when I believe that I'm in love. I think that I'm doing the right thing- in Fanny's case, she tries to find her down and out husband a job by going behind his back to set it up thinking that she's helping when the last thing that he wants is her interference. I may not have ever done that, but I have been in a relationship where the man just has had enough of me doing too much. Fanny does it because she can't let go of  the one man who has seen her beauty. For me, it's the curse of the pleaser. I tear up every time that Fanny steps onto the stage after Nick walks away to sing the finale of the show: 'My Man.' She starts slowly, but soon builds to the crescendo of what her feelings for him are through the song. But that voice is hers, not his. As a girl I saw that, must have. 

The portrait above depicts the last scene of the movie when she sings 'My Man.' My uncle painted it in college, and it hung in my grandfather's house from the time that I was the girl who was so taken by Barbra that it was my favorite thing to visit. I forever thought about it. When I got older, I asked my Dad whether he thought grandpa would give it up so that I could have it. Oh, I was that bold. And every year, I became more and more bold. At a great-aunt's funeral, I asked my uncle, 'so, did you paint more than one of the Barbra paintings?' I knew that he hadn't, but I wanted to open up the conversation. In the end, he told me that it was his father's and not his to give. Hmph! My dad promised me that he would talk to his father about the painting, but I'm sure that it got lost in one of the many Manhattans being consumed. My grandfather lived to his mid 90's and when he passed, my father wasn't alive. And apparently it wasn't left to me in a will because I didn't get it.

You may think that I'm tacky for being so fixated on a material object. Oh yes, I've read many stories of how treasured items just happen to come to those wait. But in this case, I don't think that any one that had the ability to gift it to me realized how much I loved it. Growing up with my Dad's father and his half brothers (4 of them), they were the typical patriarchal, Irish men. Men did and often apart from women. And women? Well, they were someone else, not with them. I may be a little harsh, but it isn't far from the truth. 

Grandfather's house sat empty for more than a couple of years out of a sense of nostalgia. When it finally came time to sell and empty the house, I became nearly frantic. What would happen to Barbra? And then a light bulb lit. At a family Fourth of July party, I decided to enquire about the painting not from one of my uncles, but one of their wives. That would be an ear that would listen to me. One uncle was in charge as he lived near to the house. All it took was one question to his wife: Does anyone want the Barbara painting? And can I have it by any chance? Uncle's wife looked at me, smiled, and said, 'sure. You're welcome to it!' I made a special trip to pick it up. Taking it wasn't entirely without resistance. Another uncle said, 'hey, what are you doing with that?' I grabbed it and walked to the door shouting over my shoulder, 'she said I could take it.' Or something like that.

Tacky. Oh, don't I know it. But she's mine now. And she's beloved. I had her framed. And when I got it back from the framers, I threw a party. I placed a dozen yellow roses, like the ones that Nick Arstein always sent to Fanny on her opening nights, on either side. We drank champagne and listened to Barbra. If I could save only one item from a burning house, aside from my cat, it would be the portrait. It gives me an indescribable joy. It is Streisand, but it's Fanny too. No one could stop her. And I try not to let anyone stop me either.

And the Oscar goes to ...

I don't know. I didn't watch the Oscars last night.

I cancelled my cable television subscription last year because it was an unnecessary bill. I rarely watch televised programs except for during the NFL football season or for special events such as the Grammy's or Oscars. All of the my viewing time is spent on streaming services like the rest of the world, I imagine.

For the football season, I signed up for YouTube TV for $50 a month to ensure that I would enjoy uninterrupted viewing of what turned out to be a losing season for my team. When they didn't make the playoffs, I cancelled YouTube TV. Back to streaming only.

At Christmas, my brother-in-law bought an antennae for me so that I could capture network television. I had tried to buy one on my own, but I couldn't get many stations with the two different ones that I had purchased. I had even tried to find someone on a home project site to install a digital antennae on my roof as a friend had recommended. No one picked up the project. Back to square one. And when the brother-in-law offered to help and plugged his solution in, it seemed to work. Cool. But the reception was non-existent when I wanted to watch the Grammy's. Scrambling, I enrolled in the CBS all-access trial through Amazon Prime and watched it there. And cancelled it the next day.

The Oscars were trickier. I was able to stream the pre-game on Twitter, but in order to get ABC, I would've had to change my Hulu subscription from free, thank you Spotify, to paid. I had had it ...I gave up.

And I wonder if I really didn't just give up on the Oscars all together. I can remember when it was so important to watch. I would invite friends over and make it a night. We'd start by watching Barbara Walters, 'The World's Most Fascinating People.' That was must see ... who would be the most interesting or fascinating person this year? I imagine, Billie Eilish or Lizzo. Maybe Harry and Megan ... I'm not sure that even Barbara Walters could snag that interview. And of course Brad Pitt would be the most fascinating this year. He's shaken the bond that held him away from his adoring fans and found a place in film again.

And I suppose that with the evolution of Twitter, and more specifically Instagram, access to fashion has become pedestrian. We have access to all of the dresses all of the time. There really aren't any surprises. This year, I would have liked to have heard that the Oscars were asking the stars to re-wear like they did for BAFTA. That would have made the game more interesting ... what would they pull out of the closet. I suppose that if I would give an award to the best dressed this year, it would have to go to Jane Fonda, who has declared that she isn't buying any more clothes and re-word a dress from a few years back.

And the nominations ... with so many platforms available for viewing content, I'm not sure if the Oscars are even relevant anymore. There's too much to choose from ... why did "The Irishman" get nominated? To be honest, I haven't watched it. I feel that it would be ... fairly predictable. I liked Scorese's "Hugo" because it was different from his usual. I was surprised that Iiked "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood" as much as I did. I'm not really a fan of Leonardo DeCaprio ... but he was solid. And the movie was different for Tarantino, yet in his own way, his. I could critique all of the nominees and discuss all of those that weren't nominated, but that would take pages ... and research given the number of movies that I watched last year. I suppose that the Oscar's are sort of in a slump, which may account for the lack of diversity in their choices.

Something's gotta change. The old guard and Tom Hanks sitting in the front row with his lovely wife, Rita Wilson, need to make room for different- movies, actors, access to the show through streaming services that are user friendly and a dress code that expects the nominees to walk the red carpet with a story about their outfit that isn't just 'oh, it's been made by so and so.' Be the story teller. And give Kevin Hart the chance for a do-over. The no host and presenters trying to cram 10 jokes into 45 seconds is chaotic.

YSL's Call Me By Your Name

Harper's Bazaar March 2019

Nearly out of my system, my love comes back to me. Here, on the pages of a magazine is  an YSL handbag, this statue brings me to mind of the beautiful statuary that was the life's work of Elio's father in the novel and film "Call Me By Your Name." I wonder if this one, in particular, was pulled from the bottom of a lovely, summery Mediterranean sea. I hope that it was. And that it spent a restful retreat from the perils of the world; however, from the looks of it, this guy doesn't look like he's had a restful submersion. His lost limbs and expression is quite telling of how that feels.

My nephew, who was visiting recently, said that he finally saw the film on the plane traveling in for a visit. He had to watch it for the many times that I have shouted out the name 'Timothy Chalamet' how Oprah in her Oprahness shouted out his name when they passed having both appeared on the same late night talk show. I wonder what my nephew, who is 18, thought of the film. I didn't have a chance to ask him in the frenzy of arrival and talking about all of things that need to be talked about. I hope that he did if for only the reason that it portrayed a beautiful place in the world and a lifestyle that recommends leisure and copious amounts of Italian wine.

Dolce & Gabbana: An Ode to "Call Me By My Name"

About two weeks ago, I allowed myself the pleasure of watching the film "Call Me By Your Name" again. It is one of those movies where the rhythm of it meets mine and is a comfort. I have lost track of the number of times that I have watched it. I have read the novel twice; and yes, I listened to Armie Hammer read it twice. It has struck a chord.

But why? I have wondered. I made a list in my head of the ways that it captivates me - one, Timothee Chalamet. I hadn't seen anything  before, he did before, and I was immediately taken by him. Not in any immoral sense of that attraction, but he showed a vulnerability in his acting, and I can't take my eyes off of it, not him, but it - the vulnerability. Another aspect of the story that I love is in the setting. I've been in small Italian towns with a central church and square in the heat of summer where the sun doesn't set until late in the evening. I've sat at linen covered tables and drank wine from a carafe and ate a meal slowly, one course at a time. I haven't ever ridden a bicycle in that country, but I have ventured out of the town into the environs with its dusky, dry fields that are populated with muted colors and heaven scents.  Every time I watch the movie or have heard Armie Hammer read it, I am immediately transported to the places where I've been before. Where I live now, I would love to have an old tree to position a long farmer's table under it to lay a white, linen tablecloth to show the color of the wine as it spills from the glasses of my friends making merry. I can hear the sun move across the horizon and hold on to the wings of fireflies and the call of night trains moving through my own town on distant tracks. 

I'm going down a rabbit hole ... let me calibrate. I like the movie because of Timothee Chalamet, Italy, wine, al fresco dining, vulnerability. How does Dolce and Gabbana capture it in their spring editorials? In the film, Elio's father studies statuary. He and Oliver look at slides of marble statues, mainly men, and exclaim at the beauty of them. The trip to the sea to watch lost works being pulled from the depths has our lovers coming back to each other. The sight of beauty, even in its ancient, marbleized state expresses the very vulnerability of the art and the boys that is most compelling. Beauty had life as it molded, but then froze to stay in a perfect state of love, if that can be said of a piece of art. The dress thrown on to this beauty brings new life to the ancient. And feelings, or love, capturing beauty is an ancient art. Bellisimo.

Harry Styles at the Met Gala

US Weekly

I just ran through the photographs that Vogue deposited in my inbox of the first look at the fashion from this year's Met Gala, which is tonight. The theme: Camp. The standout, which brought me back to this platform really fast, is Harry Styles. Wowsa. He wears Gucci. I scoured the Internet for a good pix that would do him justice, but I think that I am looking too soon after the red carpet. I'm not so sure that we could classify Mr. Styles as 'Camp.' He's magnificent - romantic - dark - light - just on the edge of masculine strength and feminine wile. The look caught me immediately as much for what I would expect him to wear, but daring in that it is fresh. Oh, Lady Gaga is her old self- gorgeous certainly, but not new. Jared Leto did his usual 'I'm going to do a gown and be dramatic.' I would go through the list; rather, I will just enjoy Mr. Styles. He gets my vote. For sure.

Tiffany Haddish

Vogue September 2010

Tiffany Haddish is wonder woman.

Haddish had me at 'I'm gonna wear this Alexander McQueen dress all of the time ...' when she stood on the SNL stage giving her host's monologue. If ever I had an Alexander McQueen dress to wear, I would wear it to the grocery store too. But the message behind Haddish's proclamation was not lost ... you've got to be real to be funny. And this girl is for real.

Karl Lagerfeld's Desk

I am fascinated by Karl Lagerfeld. His desk is a place that I would love to explore. In thechaos, some sort of organization has been established ... a method in the madness in the truest sense. And the cat, Choupette, is, naturally, a beautiful specimen, and her tail, I'm sure that she is a lady, has been fluffed for the photograph.

In the piece accompanying the photograph by Annie Leibovitz for Vogue, Hamish Bowles writes,"Savagely unsentimental, relentlessly un-nostalgic, he remains, in his ninth decade, fueled by his insatiable curiosity and passion for the present and the future. "I have a strong survival instinct," he says." I guess so. At 85, Lagerfeld continues the kind of pace that one expects of someone far younger, not because of age, but interest. I have to wonder what made him that he is so focused on design that it seems that it is the only thing that his mind processes.

I am sitting at my desk now. It has moved from its former home of 24 years, and in its former life, I collected, not stacks of inspiration, but magazine clippings and photographs that I would admire as I stalled in putting my fingers to the keyboard. Now, I have a window to look at/through, not a wall. I have not begun to tape the images to the window frame or create a new space for them on an adjacent wall. I'm not sure that I will. I look out now on a windy day and the tall evergreens that I argued so heartily to remove as they didn't 'match' the others in the line along the road and find them to be beguiling. They are tall and wide and seem to be made of beautiful light, intricate lace. Each moves so delicately in the breeze that gusts through it. Black birds flutter in and through them in a system of organization that had I not spent many minutes procrastinating, I may have missed. In Autumn, I wonder at what the scene will look like as the seasons move through the year. Fortunately, the evergreens will stay constant. They will be the stalwart, the base, of what could be come a window of transcendence, but also one that is a comfort in its sameness.

I wonder what Karl thinks about when he looks up from his papers, admires the puff that is Choupette's tail, and considers what is right there in front of him.

Ralph Lauren at 50 Years: Remembering Marshall Field's Country Shop

Vogue September 2018

Gately's the People's store in Roseland

After college, like many, I was directionless. Although my experience had taught me many things, I was not taught what to look for in a job, much less how to find a job. So I moved back to my parent's house and got a part-time job at a store that had always held a fascination for me: Marshall Field's. Before realizing it, I had headed to a place that I had always loved, a department store, so the first step was in the right direction as I worked for that company for ten years.

As a child, I can remember going with my mom to Gately's, the People's Store, in the Roseland Community on the southside of Chicago. The memories are but ghosts with transparent edges as I was but a very small girl. But I have a sense of the bustle of the place and the specialness of a visit there for I know that my mother didn't have the time nor the finance to spend a lot of it in a department store. Last year, some 50 years after I would have gone, I drove to the sight of the store on Michigan Avenue, but not much was left to see. The neighborhood, once a gem, has become the same shadowy memory that is mine of the area.

Ben Franklin in Riverdale on 144th Street

My family moved further south to Riverdale when I was five. The next department store that I came to love was the Ben Franklin on 144th Street. When I was young, we had an all-access pass to the community. We were free to go anywhere our legs or bikes could take us. Typically that meant that we would roll up to the park or go to the White Hen Pantry to buy a slushy if funds were available, which was a rare occurrence. But when I had a few more cents than normal, I couldn't wait to go into the Ben Franklin. I can remember that store so clearly with its array of trinkets and treasures. For whatever reason, and this is true today, one of my favorite aisles to shop was the office supply one. I loved to look at the pens, paper, clips- all of the little things that were so neatly ordered on the shelves. I used to dream of getting locked in to Ben Franklin and having to spend the night. I would plan out which aisle I would go to first and which aisle I would spend the most time in. I didn't think that I would ever sleep for the time it would take to investigate every aisle.

Not long after I began working at Marshall Field's, I was given more and more responsibility. I was a college graduate after all. Or maybe it was because I was just a natural at merchandising. My manager could just tell me where the boxes were and she knew that I would do my thing. I loved the challenge of organizing merchandise. The first department that I worked in was Accessories. In the summer, I would arrange hundreds of pairs of sunglasses on the towers and get every pair out. I can remember one display case that I was particularly proud of that contained expensive evening bags where I placed dress shoes to make the display show off the coordination of the two products. The bags sold out.

After a year of working in Accessories, I was offered the job of assistant manager for the dress department and The County Shop. My manager was an old stalwart who wasn't too happy to get me. While I was working at that store, I was trying to figure out my own style. Coming off college as a new waver, my hair and clothes were not, I can see know, quite appropriate for a suburban branch of an upscale retailer. But I had skills and someone was noticing it. Bernie, the manager, didn't want me around the dresses. The dress department in this particular branch had the highest dress sales in the company. I suppose not having any competition contributed to this. I was exiled to the Country Shop.

Beverly Miller

The County Shop was the life work of buyer Beverly Miller. For the Country Shop, she built a business whose base was Ralph Lauren. Then she layered it with her private label brand that was truly private label at its best. It was a luxury brand, not the nonsense that fills Macy's today with the likes of Alfani and Charter Club. It was an interesting post for me as I did not claim the polo/country club aesthetic for myself. Coming out of my punk phase, I had entered a French phase. I had my mother sew me a black skirt, I put on a black sweater, and I would layer resale purchased strands of pearls and gold chains. Chanel was my muse. Maybe that's why Bernie never liked me.

Or was it because I was good at my job. Miller put together a look book for The Country Shop every season. No expense was spared and the merchandise was lovingly shown on models in luxurious country surroundings, very like Ralph Lauren has become. I loved to work with the cashmere and woolens, layering them on the mannequins and working with the display department to make the shop look like one of the photographs in the look book. Bernie told me one day that the lady herself, Beverly Miller, was coming out for a visit, probably because sales were up. Instead of a "I got you" moment, Miller was impressed with how I was able to display her vision. We got on wonderfully.  And though the clothing was not for me, I appreciated it and treated it lovingly. Needless to say, I wasn't there long before I was called up the show: the downtown store.

And Ralph Lauren has been at it for 50 years. I still love to look at his look books or pages in fashion magazines. Ralph was in the game at the time that I worked at The Country Shop, but he wasn't where he is now. I wonder if Miller and he ever met? They seem so similar in their view of what the world should like. I have a couple of pieces of Ralph, but they aren't favorites. His cut is a mean one and very up and down when I need a little bit more forgiveness. But I love looking at the pictures. He's good for that. Miller? She always sold a good cut with luxury fabric. I remember a navy linen suit that I bought from one of her collections. It was one of my favorites, more so for having worked with her and seeing first hand her talent.

Celebrity Crush

Real Simple October 2018

Having started celebrity fascinations at the tender age of, I am guessing, 13, all that is presented in this article to defend this particular affliction makes sense to me.

1. "It's a breather from the real world:" ain't that the truth. I currently work in a county building and when I am not teaching, I am expected to sit in a dark, dirty, possibly vermin infested back room to collaborate with my colleagues, whom I am not particularly interested in collaborated with as my experience and educational philosophies differ from theirs enormously ... actually, my ideas about anything, for the most part, sets me apart from them. Plus, some aren't particularly forthcoming, so, as I breathe in the stale air and hope that I don't catch anything from any of the surfaces, I read People.com. I am not much of an Internet surfer, but for this site, I would be a little embarrassed if any checked how many times a day I take a look to see if anything new has come up in the day. Maybe the Princess, any number of them, has visited a school or hospital. What were they wearing? How did the people react? It is diverting. And in the end, I know way too much about what is going on with William and Kate, but that's okay. It's a brain break ... and I need a lot of those at my current place of employment.

2. "It can encourage you to help others:" this is certainly true for me. Bono, alone, encouraged me to do something in the world. I think that I possess that gene already, but were it not for him, I wouldn't have done Habitat for Humanity builds in Chile and Botswana. When I dragged my butt through 26.2 miles of a marathon, I did it to raise money for the AIDS Foundation of Chicago. In many small ways, I have often considered, what would Bono do? I'm teased endlessly for my love of him as it is misunderstood. For me, he is the rock star, yes- but he is also a point of light for me to believe in and he makes me want to be a part of building things up, not tearing them down. I am fully aware that he is human and imperfect as some like to remind me of occasionally, but I am too. And that's okay.

3. "It emboldens you to live your dream:" a few years ago, I saw the David Bowie exhibit at Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art. Not knowing quite what to expect, I was blown away by it. I could've spent hours more in what was, to me, a visit into Bowie's creative mind. Aside from the fashion display and all of its Alexander McQueen wonderfulness, I was most impressed in the area that was devoted to Bowie's Berlin years. One of the exhibition pieces was a machine that Bowie would use to spark lyric ideas. Randomness can spark creativity. And that set me off to thinking. Recently, I've been immersed in Steve Perry's story- the Journey front man who walked away from it all and didn't sing for 20 years. To hear him talk about it is fascinating. I loved Steve Perry more than life itself during high school. I broke up with him in college for New Wave, but he's back, and I can see what I saw in him then and am glad that he's arrived to the now with a story that I understand about talent and creativity. I don't know if these stories help my dream as much as I see the struggle that they face in their creative lives, identify with it and feel encouraged to continue, in my own small way, my own creative pursuits.

4. "It can make you feel connected:" in the summer following sixth grade, I spent every day with the older girl a couple doors down. She had a good stereo and led me away from David Cassidy and introduced me to the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Who, among others. The Beatles, in particular, grabbed a hold of me deep. The first album that I bought with my own money was 'Abbey Road.'  We spend hours listening to her vinyl collection, and I clearly remember feeling my whole being opening up to receive all of the ideas and sounds that came in listening to the music. Going into seventh grade without my new friend who was in high school, I faced two lonely years of not fitting in and general awkwardness ... like most I imagine.  But I had the music. And I lived a full life whenever I listened to it or, even, thought about it. I started my subscription to Rolling Stone at that time. I don't even know if I was aware or savvy enough to fully comprehend everything that I read, but I felt that I was a part of the community, a part of something.

5. "It can help you pick up great style tips:" continuing on with my 13 year old self. I was such a dork, but the love that I had for the bands that I was listening to was so real. I didn't have a lot of clothes at that time and some of my pants, my mother had sewn me. I had one pair of light blue, elephant pant styled cotton pants that she had sewn for me that I took an embroidery needle to and embroidered the names of my favorite bands on the legs of the pants. I didn't quite pick up that style, but I was inspired and began to develop my own sense of it. I did have feathered hair like some of  my favorites, David Cassidy especially, but I'm not so sure that is how it went down. When Madonna came on the scene, I certainly went to the men's department and bought boxer shorts to wear as clothing. Thankfully, I don't have pictures of that! I can't even imagine. Since so much of fascination involves musicians, not actors, I don't know if I picked up style tips from them or their sound crated an impression which led me to create a style.  But I get this.