Easter Dresses

I could see them through the front window, perfectly pressed and fluffed, little dresses of the sort that you used to see every spring. They are party dresses, meant for Easter Sunday or for birthdays. Photo albums are full of fading snapshots showing sisters and cousins in dresses like these, paired with lacy socks and patent leather shoes. Now, to many people, they must seem too old-fashioned.  I admired the timeless, elegant proportions of each dress, the hand stitched roses and french knots, the rows of smocking, the piped seams. Some occasions still merit a special dress.

Pre-Colored Easter Eggs

There they were, way too early and way too bright; hard boiled eggs in lurid colors, ready to take home. Their existence just strikes me as wrong.  Dyeing eggs is a seasonal activity to be shared with siblings, under the auspices of Grandma or Aunt Lou. They would save the tin cans, line them up and pour in the boiling water. Next came the carefully measured vinegar. Surely I am not the only baby boomer for whom a whiff of vinegar always conjures up a fleeting vision of Easter eggs. The recalcitrant little tablets of Paas egg dye always took an unbearably long time to dissolve, in spite of my prodding with the wire egg-dipper. Then came the magic of carefully submerging the eggs and checking their progress. Half of them were destined to disappear in the yard or be forgotten in the refrigerator. Easter eggs are really about the process of making them, not the final product. The ritual of dyeing them is what really counts.

Wall With A Past

I love a good wall. The best ones, like the most interesting people, have acquired more character as they have aged. There is a sense of mystery with hints of past lives and past goings-on in the marks on this wall; colors added, things removed, textures acquired in the process. It is like  a map that I don't know how to follow. Someone could cut out a section of the wall, write a pompous artist statement and hang it in a gallery. But no---part of the experience is the surprise of coming across such a wall as this. 

Waiting For the Train

The dachshund was fine with some silent people-watching. But his friend was having none of it. I heard the steady, deep-throated barks from the other end of the station and wandered over to see who was the culprit. While the humans on the other ends of the leashes continued their conversation, the dog voiced his annoyance over having to stand there and wait for the 3:42 to Firenze. Like most onlookers, I watched from a safe distance. Once in a while he would stop, needing a break. The lady passing by was caught unawares. "ARF!ARF!ARF!ARF!" She jumped, which made several onlookers chuckle. The dog was not amused

Winter Sunsat

The cold, gray, dreary days were beginning to get to me. Gray skies, gray sidewalks, leafless trees with bark in the same taupe, brown and charcoal tones found in a collection of Armani suits. Then the clouds began to move and regroup with purpose. A shaft of sun found its way through an opening and gilded the sides of the houses. We stopped at  the neighborhood park to witness the miracle of a glorious sunset, oohing and aahing at the spectacle of vermillion and violet and gold, shifting and changing in the sky. A massive  dose of color, better than any vitamins. I'm ready for the rest of winter.