Little Lord Fauntleroy

I don't get my knickers in a knot when I receive a wedding invitation that is not engraved or is pink or purple - to each their own. And, I am past the point of worrying about one using initials in the address in lieu of full names. I realize folks these days are busy and don't have the time or are not willing to take the time to get their guests' full names.

However I do find it, especially in the South, unnerving when the forms of addresses are incorrect. One of  my pet peeves (to borrow a favorite phrase from my Mama) is the use, or rather misuse of the title "Master". Addressing a young boy as "Master" evokes portraits of the little one dressed as Little Lord Fauntleroy.

And usually, when someone refers to their son or grandson as such they have no doubt subjected the young lad to a portrait sitting costumed in the required get up of velvet breeches and a wide lacy Victorian collar. I dear say some may still be in therapy due to such get up and humiliation.

Amy Vanderbilt stated "that in the USA, unlike the UK, a boy can be addressed as master only until age eight, then is addressed only by his name with no title until he turns 18, when he takes the title of Mr. although it is not improper to use Mr. if he is slightly younger. "Mstr." is used as a prefix for boys on the UK Passport Service online application form." 

Robert Hickey, deputy director of the Protocol School of Washington, stated that "use of Master [as] an honorific when addressing boys is considered old fashioned outside of conservative circles."

Basically in the United States, the use of this term is considered honorific at best and old fashion at worst. In my estimation (ie my humble opinion) it is arrogant. Little boys should just be little boys. John McCall Pillaster VI, should just be that, John McCall Pillaster VI - isn't that enough. 

And, yes, little girls are still referred to as "Miss" until they are married or choose "Ms." or become a doctor of some type. Perhaps unfair that McCall's little sister is "Miss Margaret Pinckney Pillaster" from the day she is born (in formal address) but such is life. 

So as I said, I only get my knickers in a knot when mothers dress their darling sons in them with the wide Victorian collars and then insist they are "Masters". If they want their little boys to be a "Master"they  should have been British and there they could have enjoyed the title until age 8. 

But then as my dear Aunty used to say, people in Hell want ice water.

Barbie Gowns

My Mama may have tried to kill me with ric rac, but my Grandmother made the most incredible clothes for my Barbie dolls. I had an entire Barbie closet full of ball gowns, a wedding dress, and cocktail dresses, and Grandmama had all made  all these by hand.

Each of these pieces were incredibly detailed. The gowns would be made of satin with a coordinating chiffon or netting over the skirt. The cocktail dresses would be made of silk edged with sequins or some other fancy trim.  For every long gown for my Barbie, she made a coordinating one for my Skipper. One year, she presented me with a full length wool coat, with such details like pockets and a coordinating collar. 

When I look back on the small bodices and tiny waists she had to work with to produce these clothes, I am in awe. There was usually a small snap or tiny hook and eye in the back to hold up the skirt or fasten the back of the dress. The hems of the dresses were always perfectly even and turned under.

Even as a little girl I loved the Barbie clothes she made. When I went to play with my friends I had the loveliest Barbie clothes by far. If we were producing a Barbie wedding I was always fast to share my ball gowns and bridesmaid dresses. My friends were welcome to dress their dolls in the beautiful cocktail dresses my Grandmama had made for me.

But the grass is always greener. Out of all the gorgeous clothes I had, I did not have any "every day" clothes. My Barbie and Skipper could only dress for balls and dances and weddings and parties. I did not have any "real" Barbie clothes, the kind that came from the store with the Barbie label in them. I had to borrow those from my friends.

One afternoon I can remember a friend of mine having this Barbie suit made out of pink faux fur trimmed in white vinyl. It had a top, a skirt, and a coordinating hat. I had played with that outfit so much that she asked me if I wanted it. Seems she had been eyeing one of my ball gowns. When she suggested a trade I had to think about it. After much angst and guilt I made the trade.

Even though I can remember enjoying that pink outfit as long as I played with my Barbies, I still to this day feel pangs of guilt over that trade. How could I have given something my Grandmama spent so much time making for an outfit anyone could buy from the dime store? Now I am sure if my Grandmother knew about it she would chuckle. One gown would not have upset her. She would been happy that some other little girl was enjoying the gown she made. She probably would have been hurt though that I never asked to her to make my Barbie some everyday clothes.

Whatever the case, I look back on the two generations of talent. My mother who made my clothes and although I did not appreciate them at the time, she was an excellent seamstress and spent a great amount of time sewing each one. And my Grandmother who spent hours crafting those Barbie clothes. 

Unfortunately, while I once had an interest in sewing and learned the basics, like many things this is a lost art with me. However, the time and talent they put into it is not lost on me. All this came to mind when I found one of the lovely Barbie gowns my Grandmother made for me in the attic. And yesterday I came across a red plaid dress in a size 4 with two pockets and ric rac on it that my mother had saved in a box of other memorabilia we had unearthed while cleaning out her house. 

It is amazing how pieces of cloth hold so many memories. Well, pieces of cloth that have been carefully cut, folded, sized, stitched, edged, trimmed, and hemmed. 

Drunks, Fools, and Southern Women

My mother was southern, very southern. She majored in Religious Education at Wake Forest. She was extremely talented as a painter and a seamstress. And she could quote passages from Amy Vanderbilt's Complete Book of Etiquette and believed every word of it. 

She was one of the southern women of her generation who held down a full time job (as a Case Worker for the Department of Social Services for 30 years or so) as well as managing her own money, but believed that the husband was the man of the house and pretty much deferred to his decisions.

She was obsessed with sterling silver - the family silver, antique silver, as well as new silver. 

During most of my childhood she fought the addiction of alcohol, sometimes winning, often times not so much. Eventually she sobered up, but as a child it made life very interesting around the house. 

All bets were off when she was in the kitchen. She was a good cook, but it was not something she really cared about.  However, if need be, she could rise to the occasion.

Given her state, at any given time, while I was growing up, or the state of her kitchen for that matter, it is a testament to innate breeding of the southern woman in her, that she insisted we eat with sterling silver flatware. There were times there was no meal, but the table was always set with the silver. Often we gathered only to realize dinner was not going to be ready before bedtime so we opted for sandwiches. It would not be unusual to find a severely burnt piece of beef in the oven a day or two later. I found it easier to throw out the pan along with whatever was left over from the extensive roasting. 

One of the most amazing things about her, was her ability to perfectly fry chicken, moist and crispy, no matter what her state - stone cold sober or three sheets to the wind. It didn't matter, it was a true talent, an innate skill. 

We credited our not contracting any food born illness or bungee bungee disease from Samonella, E colli, or a Norovirus due to the sterling silver flatware. I truly believe God looks after drunks, fools, southern women, and various combinations of the former, because no one died and our home never burned down.