Sparkling Stones

by Kate

I lost the diamond from my engagement ring. There was a loose prong and, I think, a long stranded sweater involved. Returning from a dinner party I brushed my ring finger and gasped to discover only the sharp spikes of the setting, the stone long gone. It was an interesting moment of soul searching, there in the car in the early darkness of late winter. I knew that the diamond was gone, and that another would not be forthcoming. I couldn’t imagine wanting one. We have so many dreams for our young family- a bicycle carriage, a bigger home, an old piano to put in it. I’ve never dreamed of diamonds.

I didn’t miss the diamond that night. What I missed was the wild exhilaration of the young pizza delivery driver who worked at a little Italian hole in the wall in Pittsburgh and courted a girl far away in the mountains of North Carolina.

By chance, we were passing by the pizza shop in question when I discovered the gaping hole in my engagement ring, the ring that he had purchased on that spot after putting out the word that he was looking for a diamond. A legless obese man who passed most of his time in the shop scratched his head a bit and mentioned that he had a divorced daughter who had a no need for her beautiful ring, but did need some cash. Soon, the deal was done. On a high ridge overlooking the Ohio river, that young delivery driver asked for my hand. When I accepted, he put the ring on it.

The moments of our courtship and engagement were enchanted, and I am grateful for every second, but what I realized that night was that losing the ring didn’t mean losing any of those memories. I still have them all, along with the thin gold band that my husband put on my finger four years ago today, when I became his wife.

The engagement ring was beautiful. The diamond was shaped like a teardrop, which sadly suited the storms of tears that I am prone to on a regular basis. The setting was high and the ring was pointed and oh, it was sharp. So was I. I was a headstrong, highstrung newlywed with a sharp tongue and a chip on my shoulder. I hope and believe that in the past four years, I have become softer, smoother, gentler, and stronger- just like my plain gold wedding band. Wearing it alone reminds me of what I want to be as a wife.

Deep life lessons aside, just this week I made a fantastic discovery. Shopping with my sister Clare in Pittsburgh’s Strip District, we came upon a case of faux engagement rings for the fantastic price of five dollars a piece. Suddenly it hit me. Losing my engagement stone gave me free rein to wear any size and style of engagement ring I wanted. I walked out of that shop looking like a MUCH more affluent woman.

I love simplicity, and I love costume jewelry. I love pretending I am a high society lady at the entirely UNpretentious public pool up the street.

Most of all I love my husband, who is still wild, and still exhilarating. Thanks for the ring- but much more than that, thanks for the marriage.

Dressing Up

by Kate

Once upon a time I had a billowing red ball gown.

And as I am a harpist, and Valentine’s Day is drawing near, just the other day I began to wonder where that billowing gown had gone.

The mystery was solved this morning, when my sister Mary sent me an email containing pictures from my niece Claire’s visit to the farm last weekend. Due to heavy snow, a planned ice skating outing turned into an afternoon of dress up with the everpresent collection of assorted evening gowns and bedraggled finery.

Nature, or nurture? I’m not sure. I certainly wasn’t that poised when I was in second grade. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t that poised till I was about 27.

On that note, I have to wonder if Claire is actually studying my photos for tips…. or if I should start to study hers.

In any case, I’m clearly not going to get that gown back for Valentine’s Day.

Tale of the Magical Blue Cardigan

By: The Evil Sister’s Kind And Benevolent Sister…

Once upon a time there lived a girl named Mary Brigid. She had a deep desire to be an instrument of peace in the world, so after many years of desiring to do foreign mission work, she set out to Russia.

Upon leaving for a land far away, Mary took with her some useful possessions. Mary knew that in order to stay happy and warm in Russia she would have to have magical clothing. Mary’s evil full-blooded stepsister, Kate had left Mary a wonderful blue cardigan. Perhaps the selfish and evil Kate had not exactly left the cardigan behind on purpose…

But a known fact of this tale is that the sweater made Mary happy. Very, very happy.

Not only did the sweater make her happy it even made her feel less tragic when she had to wear a certain apron of which she greatly despised when working with the aged at a slum hospice.

The sweater was so magical that whenever she wore it, she felt more generous. Perhaps the said magical cardigan did not knit these pictured mittens (a kind Wisconsin resident did), but Mary was very happy to wear it the day she gave donated items to an orphanage that took in deaf and ill children.

After a long winter in Russia, it was time for Mary to leave. When packing Mary took careful inventory of all that she had brought with her to the cold kingdom of Vladivostok. While there, Mary had accumulated many icons. She also was gifted with beautiful jewelry from a Priest friend who hailed from Bombay.

Mary realized that she didn’t need most of her clothes anymore. She wanted to leave them behind with her friends at the hospice. When folding the magical blue cardigan Mary sighed and placed it in a pile of clothes to be donated to the hospice. She shuddered when doing so. Mary was well aware that going to Russia was a dangerous decision that she had made. However, picturing the wrath of her evil sister, Kate when she discovered that her sweater was left behind as a gift for dying at the hospice was a much more ghastly thought to consider. Laying all caution aside, Mary choose to donate it to her friends at the hospice.

Sadly not every story has a happy ending. Though Mary did return safely from her travels, she is still held accountable for that cardigan ALL the time by her big evil step/real sister, Kate the Mighty, queen of Drama.

Alas… its’s such a shame when people have such cold hearts that they don’t want dying people to stay warm.

 

(But if you must read Kate’s account of the magical cardigan, see here: The Perfect Cardigan)

The Perfect Cardigan

By Kate

Once, briefly, I possessed the perfect cardigan. Two deep pockets, soft thin fabric perfect for layering, in a deep and soothing blue. The cardigan fell perfectly about the body and made every outfit I had work. The cardigan cost $7.99 at Forever 21, but was definitely the most valuable part of my wardrobe. I was engaged to be married, it was spring, the world was new, and my cardigan was perfect. The world was beautiful.

Sadly, my time with the perfect cardigan was brief.

I don’t know if you have sisters, or if any of them steal your clothes, but I doubt that any sisters out there hold a candle to my sister Mary when it comes to blatant sartorial thievery.

Oh, Mary. She looks sweet and speaks softly. She wears flowers in her hair and cares for small children and bakes pies and cookies for the whole world- but when it comes to her sister’s clothing, that girl is entirely cold blooded. When I am visiting, Mary will upend and sort through all my clothing, deriding and ridiculing the pieces she does not approve of, and making mental notes on the ones she is interested in. Shortly before I leave she will creep in and liberate those pieces, stealing them so smoothly that I am 500 miles away before I notice. She has no shame, and a total belief that any item of clothing that belongs to her sisters should belong to her if she wants it, AND she is infuriated if you borrow any of her clothing without telling her. But the perfect cardigan brought Mary’s unfortunate clothing habits to a new level.

First, she stole it. Then she took it with her on a missionary trip to Vladivostok, Russia. THEN SHE DONATED IT TO ORPHANS. Might I add at this point that though the cardigan was perfect for me (and apparently for Mary as well) it was cheap and thin and not warm at all. NOT the perfect item of clothing for a Russian orphan in the winter, at ALL. The final touch, adding insult to injury, is that every time this topic comes up Mary sniffs and says sweetly that she can’t imagine why I am SO selfish and materialistic and unwilling to help the poor.

I have been searching for a new perfect cardigan ever since. It has been a long, futile hunt and I now possess a ripped blue cardigan sweater, a short sleeved long green cardigan, a fuzzy black hideous but extremely useful cardigan, and a red australian wool cardigan that I meant to take home to Wisconsin this winter so Mary could steal it because it is pretty and well made but has no pockets. However, all my searching has been in vain. Nothing could replace that blue cardigan.

Until, last weekend, I went looking for an air mattress at Target and took a slight detour to the clothing section of the store.

It turns out my new perfect cardigan isn’t blue after all. It’s somewhere between citrine and chartreuse.

And since I’m not planning to see Mary for several months, maybe I can keep it for awhile.

Train Travel

By Kate

I begun and ended my recent journey on trains.

Last week my family landed in the kind and frozen city of Minneapolis. Five strangers immediately offered friendly unsolicited advice and directed us to the light rail station, where my tall husband bent his knees a bit and purchased tickets.

We watched a train speed in and out of the station at lightning speed, and moved quickly to catch the next arrival.

That light rail sure is quick.

That train led to the next portion of our journey, which involved an exploration of the Mall of America, followed by a gorgeous winter wedding. After the wedding I headed home with the kids for a week of wood fires, wild siblings, sauerkraut making, and barn building on the snowy ridge. It was great to be home and I have many words and images to share with you from that time.

But now I am home again, in the city, and I am thinking about the train trip home. I made that trip wearing my late Grandmother’s absolutely fabulous coat, which features a huge fox fur collar.

Now, my grandmother not only made the best beer brats in the world (see this post for the recipe) she was also an incredibly stylish woman. I had never seen this coat before she died, but I fell in love with it the moment I set eyes on it.

This coat was made for train travel. In fact, I felt as though I was time traveling as well. There were only two tiny problems. The first was the fact that the fur blocked my peripheral vision, making it easy for me to knock my very small child over with my baggage now and then.

Thankfully my little traveling companion is pretty tough. The second problem is that there is something about that fox fur coat that just screams city to me. I can think of 1000 reasons to wear that here in Pittsburgh. In Middle Ridge? Sigh. Not so much. I’m afraid that coat might be a sign that l’m meant to be a city girl, at least for a while. So I’m glad the last train carried me smoothly home.

I love traveling and I love trains. I love both of my homes- the farm on this snowy ridge top and the brick house halfway up a steep ridge in the city of bridges.

Defining Style

by Kate

Oh, the rocky road to personal style. These days, I live in a real live city.

Pittsburgh may not be quite like Paris (though it does look like it sometimes!) but it does boast a real fashion scene full of very sophisticated and stylish people. I am not one of them, but I do appreciate the fact that I can walk down the street in bright mustard yellow or pleather leggings and a sweeping cape and (sort of) generally blend into traffic. I am pretty sure this would not be the case in the streets of the small towns near the dairy country from whence I came, although it IS possible to drive a tractor to the grocery store, or tie an Amish buggy up at the hitching post without drawing a second glance.

Granted, even in Pittsburgh the hat I wore to the recent baptism of my son may have gotten a second glance or two.

Still, there is a part of me that measures the success or failure of my personal style not by the outfits I wear in the city. Somehow a part of me will always believe the essence of my personal style is measured by what I wear on Christmas Eve in the choir loft of the old German Catholic parish church across the country road from my parent’s farmhouse. The theoretical opinion of that congregation of familiar farm families kneeling in the candlelit stillness means more to me than any urban fashionista ever could.

This year I won’t be there.

In Wisconsin, my family is beginning to gather, with the college kids returning and the wood stove burning. I’ll see them soon, at a big wedding coming up after the holidays, but I’ll miss them on Christmas Eve, and I’ll miss my own great fashion moment of the year. I’ll be waiting for pictures of my sisters, arriving at church in style.

You can find our Christmas stories here:

Christmas in the Clamor and the Chaos

We’ll All be Home for Christmas

Christmas and Coming Home

The Spirit of Christmas

and more urban style adventures here:

Frumpiness and Pleather

Pittsburgh is my Paris (A Bibliophile’s Dream)

Taking the Leap

by Kate

Three years ago, I married a mariachi.

That is, I married a half Mexican schoolteacher in a custom made Mariachi suit, on a windy Wisconsin ridgetop, in the church across the road from Sweet Ridge Farm.

I wore my Grandmother’s vintage satin wedding dress and my mother’s veil.

My mother had worn this wedding dress as well. I had been dreaming of wearing this dress since I was a little girl, and was thrilled to carry on a tradition in the third generation.I am guessing that my grandmother wore very high heels when she was married in this dress.

The day was full of blooming peonies in the beautiful bouquets designed and created by my sister Mary…

and the air was full of rose petals.

The celebration on my brother’s organic dairy farm was exuberant, as was famous moment in which the hoop skirted bridesmaids in ballgowns climbed the silo.

Granted, the hoop skirts did have to be left behind for this stunt to work.

A moment which, to be honest, horrified my brand new big city raised husband, who was gesturing with all his might for me to climb back down, preferably in a ladylike manner. I did come down….. eventually.

It was a gorgeous day for grand sweeping gestures and great romance and castles (or silos) in the sky.

Three years later, our feet are on the ground, and our life is taking root here in a city far from the rolling ridgetops where I was raised. I am less a blushing bride and shaped more like a vast ship at sail at sea….

but our married life is deeper, and (mostly!) smoother, and overall much easier than it was in the whirlwind of wedding and moving and getting to know each other and settling in to new roles and a new joint life. Happy Third Anniversary to my husband! Thanks for putting on that mariachi suit, and letting me leap down off the silo and into this new life.

There are lots more posts about our weddings here:

Our Red Dirt Royal Wedding

Red Dirt Wedding Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

How I Became a Slattery- A Love Story

Before We Dance

Petticoat Junction

Henna!

by Kate

And suddenly it is Midsummer. My garden is running riot, my fingers are permanently stained with dirt and the nails painted brightly to hide it. My feet are bare, and my third trimester belly is burgeoning. We have been riding bicycles and attending outdoor concerts and playing in public fountains and this week, during a sweltering heat wave, we have been delighting in the glories of the public pool every single day. As a country girl, I am still amazed at the luxury of living five minutes from a city pool. It is a source of great joy- but man, does that chlorine let my many hidden silver strands of hair sparkle in the sun. Thankfully, I have henna to solve that problem.

Women have been using the henna plant for thousands of years to tint and condition hair. Cleopatra used it, as did Napoleon’s Empress Josephine. I haven’t been using it for quite that long, but I have been coating my hair with it regularly since I was 16, and sometimes that seems like a hundred years. I’ve used over a  dozen different varieties sold in natural food stores, beauty supply outlets, and online. For a long time, my favorite was the German brand Logona, which is very high quality. However, these days I am able to pick up inexpensive and high quality Syrian and Indian henna from a tiny Middle Eastern storefront in the Strip District. Yesterday, I drove out to visit my farmer friend Rebecca and we pooled our collective stores of henna and prepared to beautify our long (suffering) locks.

Rebecca has naturally light brown hair, streaked with gold in the sun. When straight red henna is applied to this shade of hair, the result is an incandescent flaming red. She wore her hair red for years, but let it mellow into a lighter strawberry blonde of late. Here is Rebecca’s hair yesterday before we began our henna spree, several months after her last application of a lightly tinted henna treatment… and after many hours slaving away in the hot sun at Sparta Farm.

We gathered our materials, and began. In order to henna your hair, you must have on hand:

-henna powder
-large non metallic bowl (wooden, glass, plastic)
-non metallic spatula or spoon
-pair of gloves
-plastic grocery bag
-mirror
-lotion, vaseline, or face cream
-paper napkins or rags for cleanup

A heightened sense of courage and lack of fear of mud and messes is extremely helpful. On this note, it is advisable to recruit a friend for help with this project. In an ideal world, henna should always be applied outside, weather permitting. It took years for Rebecca to make this brilliant discovery. A mirror set up against a fence or picnic table on the grass is perfect, and that way any clumps or drips of henna that fall from your shoulders during the application are immediately absorbed into the soil, and a garden hose makes for incredibly easy rinsing. Cleaning a bathroom after henna application is not for the faint of heart, but if you need to do so, remember to wipe up all extraneous henna immediately after the application with a slightly damp rag or towel to prevent stains. Wear an old t shirt, not a white one unless you don’t mind turning some of it orange. And…. we’re off!

Pour the henna powder into a large wooden, glass, or plastic bowl.

The henna powder must be mixed with boiling water to form a paste which can be applied to the hair. I like to save coffee grounds for a few day, mix in leftover coffee and extra water, and then boil this mixture. You can strain out the coffee grounds or include them in the henna mix.

There is a definite element of double double toil and trouble inherent in the henna process.

As the water boils, it’s time to take some lotion or vaseline and apply it along your hairline, making sure to cover the ears and back of the neck, in order to prevent henna from drying and caking on it later. I love Pond’s makeup removing cream, personally. I associate Pond’s with theatre and dancing and the removal of false eyelashes and glitter and stage makeup, and it makes me feel glamorous… which is great, since henna-ing my way is so not glamorous, at all.

All right, we are all greased up and ready to pour some boiling coffee water into the henna powder. Mix it with your non metallic spoon or spatula, add the water a little at a time, and aim for the creation of perfect mud. Not too thick, not clumpy, not too runny, but just right, like Goldilock’s porridge. If the mixture is too dry it will clump up and fall off, and if it is too wet it will run down your neck for hours, which will make you wince and shudder.

Grab the henna, your gloves and plastic grocery bag and head outside if you can, to a sunny spot with a mirror set up to guide you. Pull on your gloves and dip into the muck, applying it liberally to every strand of hair on your head. This is a very tactile process. There is no way to apply it perfectly evenly, but henna coloring is very nuanced and when done well the uneven application can lead to a hundred dollar highlight sort of look with a great depth and variation in the tinting.

After you’ve thoroughly coated your hair with the gook, it’s time to wad it up in a muddy bun on the very top of your head and plaster a bit more henna onto it along with an old stretched out hair-tie to hold it in place. The henna needs heat to process, and it needs to stay wet- so take that plastic grocery bag you have on hand and place it on your head, pretending you are an old lady and it is a stylish scarf. Tie it tightly behind your head, et voila!

Doesn’t Rebecca look startlingly like a grandmother from 60 years ago?

As I mentioned, the process of putting henna in your hair is not a glamorous process- but it can be a lot of fun, particularly if you have a partner in crime. After applying the henna paste and the plastic bag, you should leave it on your hair for at least a couple hours- it won’t hurt your hair, so if you’re patient and willing to put a scarf over the plastic bag and add lipstick and big earrings, you can even go out in public. In olden days with Rebecca, we would open a bottle of wine and watch a movie. This time, we chased children around the back yard with the garden hose. After an hour or two or five has elapsed, it is time to break out the garden hose again, or get ready for a very grainy shower. Spend a good solid five or ten minutes alternately rinsing and squeezing your hair, getting out as much of the henna as you can. You don’t need to use shampoo today, but when most of it is out, take a generous palmful of conditioner and work through your hair from scalp to roots. Finger comb, and then use a comb or brush to work the rest of the henna particles out of your scalp and hair. Rinse once more, and you are finished.

And now, now is the time for glimmer and glamor. Here is Rebecca, looking stylish and spectacular.

I love henna, and Rebecca, and the summertime.

An Unconventional Alphabet

by Kate

No one has ever described my family as conventional. While my parents didn’t believe in television, regular hair brushing, or (to be honest) a great deal of rigorous discipline, my father did teach me that it is totally appropriate to bring a toddler along as an assistant when, say, taking photos of a dancer at a fancy art opening. So last Friday evening I pulled out my trusty pleather leggings, put my toddler on my hip and my camera around my neck….

and headed downtown.

Granted, there was a bit of a tense moment with the security guard when Olympia headed with wide eyes toward some fascinating and fragile paper dancers.

In fact, that moment convinced me that next time I headed to a fancy art gallery, I would do so alone. There are limits to the toddler as photographic assistant. But overall, Olympia was extremely well behaved. She was very interested in the exhibits…

and this view from this corner of the gallery.

It is a great view of the Pittsburgh Downtown.

She hung out with us in the pre-performance backstage glamour familiar to every bellydancer, ie the ladies room….

And watched Janim’s gorgeous performance with wide eyes and complete stillness, crouched on the floor by my feet.

I am totally unfamiliar with shooting dancers, let alone taking photos in dim spaces awash with multimedia art presentations flickering on multiple screens, and I was unable to capture the startling beauty of the veil performance, but I did get this great shot which I think captures some of the great joy my good friend Jen radiates when she dances.

After the performance, we gathered up silk veils and toddler and slipped through the crowds of sophisticates and out the door.  Outside the SPACE gallery, we took time for an impromptu alphabet lesson.

I don’t let Olympia watch television at home, and so far she has missed out on the glories of Sesame Street…

…but we are definitely working on the whole alphabet thing, in our own way.

Fine Feathers at Carnegie Hall

by Kate

I spent yesterday in a red feather headdress and sparkling gold high heels, dancing samba with an orchestra and a full chorus onstage at Carnegie Hall.

Granted, we’re talking the Carnegie Music Hall in Pittsburgh, not the larger and vastly more prestigious Carnegie Hall in New York City.

Of course, if you have ever seen the movie Flashdance you may recognize this as the home of the fictional Pittsburgh Ballet School the heroine is longing to attend… and be even more impressed that I had a chance to perform within this marble temple of the arts.

Although the Carnegie Music Hall itself is tiny inside, it is also a spectacularly opulent space.

I loved this staircase.

And these murals.

The opportunity to dance at the music hall came about due to the  Brazilian dancer and choreographer, Luciana Brussi, who is not only an amazing samba group director, but also a model for how to look amazing while in the middle of the sixth month of pregnancy.

Luciana was approached by the Pittsburgh Youth Symphony, who happened to be performing an entire concert of Latin and South American music, culminating with a samba piece entitled Brazil.

We spent the afternoon watching the Symphony rehearse, and waiting for our turn to take the stage. It was delightful. Sitting in a deep red theatre seat wearing dancing shoes, with a bag of sequined and feathered costuming next to me, is definitely one of my favorite places in the world to be.

On the other hand, I have to admit that being backstage with an entire Youth Symphony is something you MIGHT want to avoid at all costs. The experience brings a new meaning to the term pandemonium.

In our dressing room, the Pittsburgh Samba Group was experiencing pandemonium of a different sort- involving lots of feathers, glitter, and sequins.

Perhaps most dramatically, the zipper on my dress finally broke under the strain of my five month pregnant frame, and I had to be sewn into my dress.

Luckily, Luciana had a needle and stitched me up in no time, so I was ready for our Carnegie Hall debut.

The Youth Symphony was great. I can’t recommend their concerts highly enough. If you live in Pittsburgh, make time to attend one these concerts- especially if you’ve got kids. The concerts are free, there are tons of kids running around, and the atmosphere is simultaneously sophisticated and relaxed enough for toddlers. Also, you never know- you may happen to see an entire samba troupe, with red feather headdresses, front stage and center. I sure hope so.

For more pictures of my Carnegie Hall adventure, click here.