Memories, Like the Fragrances of My Life

And while we are on the subject of fragrances, I still reminiscence about my Daddy, Auntie, and Hoyt's Cologne.  Those two had a running joke every Christmas - one of them was going to give the other a bottle of it - a very cheap toiletry found on the bottom shelf of any drugstore.  I was much too young to understand, I just knew there was much laughter when the gift was opened. Aunty always said it smelled "God Awful". I never thought it was that bad, although I stuck my nose up about it like everyone else, since that seemed like the party line at the time.

I have since learned that Hoyt's Cologne dates back to 1868 and was worn by gamblers, thought to bring them luck. It had notes of citrus and floral which are the scents I prefer. Guess it was best I kept my preferences to myself when I was five. Lord knows my Aunt Kat would have feared I was destined for a life on the wrong side of town, my Granny would have pulled out the Presbyterian Catechism, while Auntie would have been proud of me.

Of course my Aunt Kat wore Emeraude up until the day she died. My Aunt J'Nelle preferred Channel No. 5. I never asked, but no doubt if I had, my Auntie would have told me she preferred "Some type of toilet water." I just remember her smelling like the Salem cigarette she always had hanging out of the side of her mouth.

Then there were the "perfumes" Daddy sold in his drugstore in the 70's - Jean Nate, Faberge's StrawHat. Tigress, and Woodhue, Windsong, Cache and Shalimar. And, the men had their own with Old Spice, Brut, English, and Stetson.  I can't seem to forget you.  For the life of me I doubt I could tell any one those colognes apart. However, a few men's fragrances bring back memories of some of the men of my far distant past. Especially Polo. Ah, Polo . . . and that British Racing Green Austin Healey.  And, Royal Spyce and those blue eyes . . . but we will not go there.

Ahem. Anyway as I was saying, Daddy and Auntie always exchanged Hoyt's Cologne at Christmas. That was my introduction to colognes, needless to say it up from there. 

Slipping into Fashion and Ditching the Pantyhose

My Mama, my dear Grandmama, my holier than thou Aunt J'nelle, and my sweet Aunt Kat all counseled me from a young age - "Never leave home with dirty underwear - what happens if you are rushed to the hospital, what would the doctors think?" Of course they went further to drill in me that a young lady never wears a dress without a slip. I doubt young women these days even know what a "slip" is. But, I digress.

I remember when the teachers at our private school in the late 1970's requested, albeit very politely, to the board of trustees that they be allowed to wear proper "pant suits" to work in lieu of the required regime of dresses. After much ado behind closed doors, the board relented. No doubt the fact that some of the members were married to teachers and wished for peace at home may have had a bit to do with the concession. Life went on and the morals at the institution did not digress into a full "women's liberation" movement as was predicted by some of the old stalwarts.

Although I still enjoy dressing well,  am very comfortable in dresses and skirts, and even "high" heels don't bother me, years ago I took a bold personal wardrobe step and quietly ditched all my pantyhose. In the winter I will wear tights, which I have always adored, however, the diabolical sadist who designed such a thing as pantyhose had it in for women. And women bought the itchy, uncomfortable, and ugly scheme with sheer (no pun intended) joy thinking they had been freed. 

My generation was born well after the hose and garter years. Well, long after that style was relegated to the bedroom and Victoria's Secret. So I have no skin in that game - so to speak. As long as I show up presentable - as in clean clothes (especially underwear) that coordinate (no red plaids with fushia polka dots and orange stripes) that fit correctly and are stylish but not too trendy who gives a damn if I shirk masochism and ditch the pantyhose?

I have a friend who often asks, "Do these people have a mirror at home?" Didn't someone want to stop them from making a fool of themselves or exposing us to their disgusting failure in fashion? One does not have to have money to dress in a way that does not make them look like buffoons. Or worse yet, thinking they are a Milan model in their size 24 body - it ain't pretty. Like my daddy used to say - you can't put two tons of fertilizer in a one ton truck.

A prime example of all this came to me several years ago when I was attending the Celtic Festival and Highland Games. Many people were dressed in costume for the affair. There were colorful kilts and tartan scarves and wraps. Many of the outfits were down right elegant. Then there was this "lady" who either did not have a mirror at home, friends who cared about the impression she made, or she thought she still was that size 2, 16 year old girl she fondly remembered from years ago. And someone wants to castigate me for shucking my pantyhose. Seriously?

This Scottish lass was dressed in a bright red flowing gown topped with a bodice, laced so tightly she resembled a fat pig, complete with rosy cheeks. Added to that, the tonnag she was wearing resembled a tartan table cloth.

Predisposed to be an Old Maid

 As a little girl I was confused and scared of growing up. I had an old maid aunt on each side of the family. The future did not bode well for me. To make things worse, both were eccentric, each uniquely so. The way I saw it, I was doomed.

My mother's sister lived in Boston while she was getting her (first) master's degree at Harvard. My Dad said she was never right after that. It seemed every summer when I went to stay with my grandparents, my aunt was at some different school, in a different place. Once it was Oxford (as in England) for some degree. I never got the full story on that. All I know was the words "high faluten" and "pretentious'" were used in the description. The next location I heard about was the University of Colorado. Seemed she needed to get her second master's (in "God's know what" - my mother's term for that degree). After a year or so being out west she moved on to the University of Michigan for her Doctorate. Somewhere in all this she was back at Duke (her undergraduate alma mater) getting some additional hours toward another degree in some unknown esoteric field. Finally she moved home with 2 masters degrees and a doctorate, where she declared that she was unemployed could not find a job.

My grandparents, who had funded her rather extensive education just wanted her out of the house. Now in their late 60's they very much enjoyed the empty nest. She had continued to come home for visits and holidays during her tour of the various universities, and that was OK, but it never dawned on them, that their investment was going to be the egg back in the nest.

On the other side, my father's sister was 13 years old when he was born and helped raise him. She never left home - as in never. She went to work for the phone company when she was 17 and stayed there for 40 years until she retired. Then she cared for my Granny until Granny died. Her life consisted of work, family, church, and bridge. She was prim and proper - think white gloves, a pink dress, and a Sunday hat. She was a lot of fun because she doted on my brother and me - we could do no wrong. But she could have lived in the 19th century (with the exception of the telephone) and never known the difference.

Between the two of them, I never knew either of them to have a date, escort, or even talk with a man. My mother always said her sister was "too educated" for anyone - who would have her? There were always whispers of a lost true love my father's sister had when she was young (I never knew the details and Lord knows it was not something you asked about.)

So here I was, looking at the prospects (and the genetic predisposition) of either being a roaming student unable to find work or a true spinster, stuck in the 19th century, never to leave home. As a child, at this point, I hoped I was adopted.