Avoiding the Misspent Life

As we are moving in ten days, things here are a little upside-down. It’s not a tight ship in the best of times, but now I am forgetting even regular events such as sports practices. And my anniversary. People are starting to say things like, “This just isn’t like you.”

Which could be a good thing. Though I’ve never relished nor revered housekeeping, my house is normally tidy; now it is a mess. I loathe a mess – visual clutter that reads like static during your favorite song (before there was satellite.) That said, my desk is usually piled high with several stacks of projects in the works. Indistinguishable to the unfamiliar eye there is an order only to its owner. Also, our kitchen island has always been catch-all to everyone who can reach it.

Have you ever worked retail? (I swear I’m bringing this all together, just hang in there.) I have worked a lot of retail. When you work retail you have a lot of dead time that you can’t really fill like you fill dead time in an office setting. You can’t wander off to get coffee or pop down to accounting to see if the asap check you requested is ready. You are stuck. If you’re lucky, you’re stuck at the same counter, on the same floor, in the same department with someone amusing. And if you are, you will find that you know a shocking amount about this person within about three hours.

That is how I now feel about Mary Randolph Carter after reading her book, A Perfectly Kept House is the Sign of a Misspent Life. To begin, her book opens with images of Alexander Calder’s home and studio, which I recognized immediately, and then moves to her first case history of Oberto Gili. I have had images from Gili’s house in Italy in my files for years and then there is a brief essay on Gili’s theory of “The Positive Side of Having a Messy Desk.”

And that is just page 44 and from that moment I knew that Carter and I would be off and running if we were stuck in handbags from 3 p.m. until 6 p.m. All good things messy are in there – dogs and kids and cooking. Her book is a compilation of images of incredibly personal homes (and no, not all are) and the thoughts of the both the owners and the author about what makes them that way.

I am thinking a lot, lately, about what makes a home and what to keep and carry with. This book is a conversation about all of those things and we are quite lucky to eavesdrop on Carter and her friends. I wish I’d written it myself, and not just because of the product, but for the process.
It is significant, too, I think, that Rizzoli published it. Carter, who has been involved with advertising and publishing for Ralph Lauren for over twenty years and has authored several books, was not exactly a big risk. Still, this is not a flashy book chocked full of of-the-moment interiors. It’s a thoughtful book. A book to read. A book to recommend.
All images from A Perfectly Kept House is the Sign of a Misspent Life, the title of which was inspired by a doormat from a discount store, which endeared it to me immediately. The images are of, from top, Gili’s home office in New York, Carter’s sister, Liza Carter Norton’s kitchen, Carter’s son and daughter-in-law’s unmade bed, Natalie Gibson and Jon Wealleans front door and Carter’s current studio in a recently renovated barn. And its white walls. Mary Randolph Carter is both author and photographer of all the images in the book. Which does make me think she would have been promoted to management straight away while I floundered in mid-priced shoes trying to make my quotas.
rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

A Fond Farewell

This may not seem significant to you, but this is the end of an era. This gas station, Prairie Village 66 and before that Prairie Village Standard, is a neighborhood icon. Was. Mr. Blandings’s family has known the owners from way back and we go out of our way to get our gas here because, well, that is what we do. Did. We took our cars to Roney’s for gas and air and tires, but we also took them there when something was wrong, something that we knew they couldn’t fix, knowing that they would send us somewhere good and fair. Because, well, that is what they did.

One of my best friend’s husband has a flat and while they run their own company, well, they are a little befuddled about what to do now that Roney’s isn’t there. The lever that pops open my mother-in-law’s gas tank has been stuck for months, little trouble as the guys at Roney’s knew how to open it without a hitch. You may see her driving around town with that little door flung open. Helpless.
I know it will be one of those things I will continue to refer to, one of those things the boys will tease me about, “Mom, Roney’s hasn’t been there for thirty years,” as my friend teases his mother who still refers to Stix Baer Fuller.
But they will remember it, too, because they envy not just Mr. Roney but his son as well. To my boys, at least, very few things could be cooler than owning a gas station. How could you beat fixing things with your hands, having a legitimate reason to be dirty, while your friends stop in to get their oil changed, leaning on the counter for longer than they should while the fumes of gas and oil and hot cement drift in through the open door? The fact that the coffee resembled discarded WD-40 mattered not.
The thing that I love about this town is the same thing I loathe; it feels like Mayberry. But a little less so today.
rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

Hunt and Gather

If Mary McDonald’s Murano ashtrays as bead storage struck your fancy you can find an instant collection here in town at Retro Inferno.

I left them all for you as I do not need one more thing to pack.

Or two or four.

Though I was mighty tempted.

Image, top, from Mary McDonald: Interiors, courtesy of Rizzoli New York. Photography by Melanie Acevedo. For more, great, coverage on McDonald’s new book, check Style Court here.
rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

An Open Letter to J. Crew

J., darling, you know we go way back and I wouldn’t ask you for a thing unless I really needed it. I appreciate your offering stylish pieces from other folks – it is absolutely so smart and generous. I do, truly, like the Timex currently on your pages.

It’s just, well, I’ve had this one in my files for so long. Those squares and dashes, gosh, they can’t be beat. That slightly luminous face? Can’t get it out of my mind. I have searched shops both thrift and vintage and antique malls, too, to no avail. This gent is quite elusive. I’d be forever grateful if you could put us in touch. Even catalogue only. Looking forward to seeing you this fall.
Mrs. Blandings

Image, top, via J. Crew; image, next, Traditional Home, October 2005.
rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

Sold.

We have hammered out all the details; the house is sold. Sold-ish, I suppose, but we close on the 25th and then it will be a done deal. Yes, the 25th of October. It was the date that worked best for the buyer and, in case you hadn’t heard, it is a buyer’s market. But it was also like pulling the band-aid off fast. Better to get it over with.
A couple of readers have asked why we are moving and it was the convergence of a few different factors. The economy, certainly, decades of white flight and Mr. Blandings’s homing instincts. Missouri’s public schools are in a horrible state, and our children have attended private school. As we are selecting a high school for our oldest, it suddenly seemed significant that there is an outstanding public high school just across the state line in Kansas. Requiring us to move approximately five blocks. The school also happens to be Mr. Blandings’s alma mater. The younger boys will stay where they are and, assuming it is a good fit, the oldest will walk the halls his father walked, which is often how things work around here.
We’d planned to put the house on the market a little later in the fall, but these lovely people sort of landed at our doorstep. We have been looking, though we do not have a house. We are, momentarily, homeless. (“Not really ‘homeless,’ says the oldest, ‘yet.’) Surprisingly, the middle boy, the one who feels everything first and fiercest, thinks it is so “exciting.” I am following his lead.
As it turns out, it wasn’t the house that was the dream, it was the family, and they are coming with me. Along with the curtains.
Spotty posts and pictures to follow.
rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail