Past Blogs

The difference between style and fashion is easy. Fashion is someone else telling you what to wear. Style is you creating your own personal look. I will vote for style every time.

Growing up, I had the perfect role model to exemplify pure, uninhibited style. My Aunt Vi created a look for herself as a young woman and remained unabashedly true to her style until she died at age 89.

The major elements of Vi style were tailored suits in primary colors (Kelly green and red were her favorites), faux leopard accents, large hoop earrings, piles of real Navajo silver and turquoise bracelets and stiletto heels. Tabu perfume was the olfactory complement to her look.

Aunt Vi also had a real leopard skin coat in the days before conservation was a household word. When I inherited that coat, I was torn between my love for Aunt Vi and my love for animals. To solve this dilemma, I buried the leopard coat in our backyard.

My cousin Linda is one of the style stars in my life now. Her style is so fabulous that she has her own fan club. A group of young girls in her church can’t wait to see what Linda will be wearing when she does the weekly reading.

Linda’s clothes are boldly colored and patterned tops and skirts made of flowing chiffon. She complements these outfits with big, chunky, bead encrusted jewelry and amazing purses – one handbag is shaped like a teapot. Linda is a walking art show. I’m one of her groupies, too.

Among my many stylish friends, Donna has to be the absolute Queen of Style. Who else do I know that can pull off wearing a full length white, turkey feather coat?

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When I think of Holland, I do not visualize tulips and windmills. I think of cats and giants.

Dogs may visit French cafes, but cats live in many Dutch restaurants. The resident cat may be asleep on the chair you pull out or be rubbing against your legs as you dine. Cat lover that I am, this situation makes me feel right at home. If you are repulsed, remember that Holland is a land of canals, and cats perform valuable mouse duty.

The giants are everywhere as the Dutch are officially the tallest people in the world. It’s not as though they have a lot of growing room. The Netherlands is the size of two New Jerseys with a population of about 16 million. It is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. No one knows why the Dutch tower over the rest of the world, but good nutrition and health care are probable guesses.

Most young men in Holland have the stature of NBA basketball players, but it’s the women who are particularly striking. When Dutch women stride down the street, they resemble lithe giraffes. Their trim jeans on their trim legs seem to be never-ending.

The growth spurt must start early. Children with 7 year old faces have the legs of our 12 year olds. If only our American kids’ growth was going up instead of out!

Height is not reserved for the younger generations. People my age are also extremely tall. I did eat my peas when I was a kid, but, by Dutch standards, I seem to be missing about seven inches.

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People can be divided into two basic types – those who bend down to pick up a penny and those that do not bend down to pick up a penny. I belong to the former group. Never marry the latter.

I cannot conceive of turning down a gift, no matter how small. Not bending down is certainly an affront to the gods of good luck who have graciously put that penny in my path. And I know just what to do with good luck money.

When my Aunt Vi died, I executed her estate. In a dresser drawer I found a box labeled “found money”. I had to ponder its meaning a moment, but then the light went on in my brain.

Aunt Vi was a great walker. After retirement, she hiked five to ten miles a day. She lived to be 89. My Aunt had lots of years to pick up all those stray pennies, dimes, quarters and even dollar bills that fate placed in her paths. To her, unearned money was special and not to be tossed casually into her tattered, black coin purse.

I immediately started my own found money box. The coins pile up year after year, each one never failing to deliver a moment of joy when spotted and claimed. But, unlike Aunt Vi, I periodically count up and spend the stash… always on something special or frivolous. After all, it is a gift, not grocery money.

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We had a rash of murders at our house lately, and I definitely wanted them to stop.

For the past several weeks we would go downstairs to the cats’ room in the morning and find one of the following:

• A mouse tail without a body
• A mouse head without a body
• No mouse body, but a little trail of mouse blood

When asked about this disgusting situation, the Tooley Cats just smugly licked their whiskers.

My husband and I suspected that our local field mice either have the IQs of zucchinis or masochistic tendencies.

Action was clearly needed. We applied people logic and concluded that the mice must be coming in from the garage which is attached to the house. A long afternoon was spent in the garage sealing tiny cracks and looking for evidence of mice habitation. Oddly, there were no signs of mice. The mouse massacres continued unabated.

It was time to start thinking like felines. And that’s how we solved the case of the murdered mice. The mice weren’t running into the house. They were being carried into the house.

The Tooley Cats have a wonderful outdoor “porch”, a huge dog crate accessed via a cat door set into a basement window. Apparently, while we were sleeping, the cats were spending their nights trolling for hapless mice who wandered too close or into the dog crate. Naturally, any self-respecting cat would bring their treasures inside.

The cat door is closed every night now. Mornings are much pleasanter.

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I am fascinated by old, abandoned farmhouses. They dot the American countryside from east to west. If they are haunted, it is only with memories.