Kawaii Chiaki

In my constant search for all things kawaii during my time in Japan (still missing it so much!), I came upon this mook.

Since I read almost no Japanese, I know next to nothing about Chiaki, except that she's a Japanese pop singer who has a daughter.  Mostly I know is that her aesthetic is pretty adorable.  

I found this mook in a department store several years ago but didn't buy it at the time.  I happened upon it serendipitously last year on Amazon.jp and knew I should get it, especially since I found a cheap used copy (I don't just miss Japan, I miss Amazon Japan!).

I'll share a different Chiaki mook another time.  I hope her world is as sweet as it looks.

Grandmother's Sewing Tins

She now spends her days in an assisted living apartment.  She naps, reads the paper, takes calls from friends, and receives occasional visitors, most often her dear friend (also 91, still living alone) or my mother-in-law.  She's never been much for T.V., but she does like her news programs on the radio.

Years ago, like most other women of the Great Depression, she used to sew.  By the time I was born, she no longer sewed out of necessity; sewing became a hobby, taken up less frequently with each passing year.  But when I decided I wanted to learn, she was my first teacher.  When she came to stay with me while my parents were traveling, I completed my first 4-h project, an apron, under her tutelage.

I still sew today, but--like Grandmother--not out of necessity.  Last summer, my family went through many things in her home, which we continue to maintain.  I was encouraged, as her only grandchild, to take anything I wanted.  I sent a wide variety of items along in our crates to Germany, among them a couple of tins that had been filled with some of Grandmother's sewing supplies.  She had a serious supply of trims and bias tape!  I took anything that was beautiful or that I felt I'd use in my own sewing. 

The Girl and I spent a pleasant afternoon hunting for treasures (buttons and jewelry to be shown later).  Somehow into one tin went a few miscellaneous items, including a couple of wonderful vintage brooches and Grandmother's library card from Chicago back in the '50s.  

I love it all.

Rednesday, and Roman Holiday

Red + Wednesday=Rednesday at It's a Very Cherry World, and this is my first contribution.  I should be able to participate regularly, because though I rarely wear red, I do love it in my home.  

Something else I love is Audrey Hepburn movies.  My mom introduced them to me when I was in my teens, and now that I have my own teenage daughter, I'm sharing them with her (my son, too, though he often feigns a lack of interest, at first).

   

Last night we watched Roman Holiday.  It's cool to see Audrey in her first starring role, for which she won an Academy Award!  The Girl was impressed that the movie itself garnered ten Oscar noms; in addition to Audrey's Oscar, there were wins for Writing and for Costume Design (Edith Head--see this great post about her by Willow).

Since the movie was actually filmed in Rome instead of on a Hollywood set, it was fun showing The Girl places that her dad and I had visited fifteen years ago, including the Spanish Steps, the Coliseum, and the Forum.  The Girl and The Boy will likely get to toss their own coins in Fontana Trevi sometime in the next few years.

Do you have a favorite Audrey Hepburn movie?  It's hard for me to choose, but several that come to mind are Funny Face, Wait Until Dark, Charade, and Sabrina...

Hotel Forum

Here, my second post for Willow's Magpie Tales:

"Pardon, do you have a light?"

Margaret looked up from her half-finished café au lait and croissant at a young, curly-haired man leaning forward in his seat at an adjacent outdoor table.  His linen jacket and striped button-down, paired with fashionably ripped dark-wash jeans, looked expensive but rumpled, giving him the air of a slightly down-at-the-heels aristocrat or slumming rock star.

Before responding, Margaret briefly considered a curt reply.  What was it with these French guys, always expecting women to carry lighters?  Maybe it was "code," something French women knew that American women didn't.  Maybe all French women carried lighters whether or not they smoked, in the hopes of making a café connection like this with an eligible Parisian.  As always, it seemed to Margaret that she had a lot to learn about men, and about French men, in particular.  Frankly, it could all be a little overwhelming, these games people played.

But perhaps he actually had misplaced his lighter or matches.  Who was she to say?  A polite response,  coupled with a question, formed on her lips: "No, sorry, I don't have a light.  But how did you know that I speak English?"

"Ah, well, the book you have there on the table, it is in English, yes?  The Elegance of the Hedgehog--I know it was first a French novel."

Margaret felt her face starting to burn, and she just hoped the blush wasn't spreading downward into those unattractive splotches that freakishly appeared on her chest at the most inopportune of moments.  Already, this stranger was getting to her.  After all, he'd heard of this book: not bad, not bad at all.  She cast a darting glance down at the handmade bird pendant hanging from a silk cord around her neck.  No splotches yet, apparently.

The stranger saw the bird, too.  "Where did you get that necklace?  It is very interesting."

"It came from--oh!  Wait a second!"  Margaret reached across the table to the other bentwood chair, empty save the flowered oilcloth bag her sister had given her before the trip.  She rummaged briefly but intently in the bag until her right hand emerged with its intended plunder: a box of matches she'd picked up in Bratislava because she'd liked the graphics.

"Here you go--I forgot that I had these.  I don't smoke, but I do like matchboxes."

He smiled and took the offered matches, lightly brushing her hand as he did so.

"Hotel Forum, Bratislava.  What a coincidence, my uncle owns this hotel!"  He struck a match and finally lit his waiting Gauloise.

"Really?  I stayed there when I went to visit my brother.  He's working in Slovakia!"

He gave a hesitant laugh and looked a bit sheepish.  "Non, I am just joking.  I thought it would be fun to say, like something a person might say in a silly romance novel.  But I do not think you read novels like that.  Now about the necklace.  May I take a closer look?"

Margaret leaned forward and felt his hand slide under the pendant, as smoke curled upward and coffees sat forgotten.

Big Americans

So is this how Germans really see us--crispy outside, soft inside?  And excuse me, Dr. Oetker, but you and your fellow countrymen aren't exactly small, yourselves.

Carnival Time

We visited good friends--we'd spent five years together in Japan--in The Netherlands on Sunday.  It happened to be the day of the year when cities and towns host their own "Carnaval" parades, which tend to be--in true Carnival fashion--wildly-creative, silly, and fun.  Merkelbeek's celebration didn't disappoint; the village parade came right down the street in front of our friends' house, so that was an unexpected treat for us.

The beer was flowing, but everyone behaved, at least temporarily.  I would say a good time was had by all, wouldn't you?

The Silver Pitcher

I've joined in Willow's first Magpie Tales creative writing prompt today.  Willow will be hosting these muse-feeding opportunities weekly, and each one will be based on one of her own photos.  Feel free to play along next time!  Here's the first photo; my creative interpretation follows.

She sat staring, mesmerized by drifting motes of dust, as the late-afternoon sun filtered in through the lace-curtained window.  When would he return?  She could guess--a month, perhaps, possibly two--but she never really knew, and this time was no different. He assured her repeatedly that his heart was hers, but uncertainty plagued her mind, as it always did when he left.  

Was it enough that today he'd warily handed her a prized antique, a "large token" of his affection, as he liked to call his gifts?  Usually he brought her these tokens from his travels, but this morning, he'd knocked at the door early in his pea coat and tweed hat to tell her he'd be leaving right away, and he'd like for her to have his grandmother's pitcher.

He'd stayed only a few minutes, not even removing his coat and hat, but taking a moment to place the pitcher in "just the right spot"on a shelf opposite her old farm table.  Since he'd kissed her goodbye and walked out the door into the chilly drizzle, she'd tried to eat, work on her sewing, and go about her other regular activities.  But she kept returning throughout the day, insulated by the adjacent window from the vast changes in the weather, to sit at the table and gaze at the pitcher.  Its etched design and gentle curves pleased her immensely, and there was inherent sentiment that touched her on some level.  

But the weathered pitcher also brought to mind the tarnish in her world: a long-time wearing away of hope for a normal, civilized life built around a steady relationship.  Clearly the pitcher had aged well, though, and as she sat it occurred to her that perhaps her heart might do the same, that a few spots of tarnish might even provide the character and freedom from certain expectations that could make a life quite extraordinary.