I like the Marx brothers, and I like to dance
And sometimes I say slacks in-ste-ad of pants
And I like Ernie Kovaks, and Madeline Khan
And Django Reinhart and Sean Connery’s James Bond
And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo
(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man
I enjoy puzzles, and strolls 'round the block
And prefer the face on my old kitchen clock
And I like to garden and play cards in the shade
And ruffle the sheets though the bed’s just been made
And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo
(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Rummaging Around
Most people have second families. Sometimes at work, sometimes at church, and occasionally they come in the form of a teaming ocean of in-laws. My second family is comprised of about a hundred volunteers for the Visiting Nurses Association Rummage Sale in Far Hills, New Jersey. Many of them are octogenarians whom have known me for nearly twenty years. Once you start volunteering, it’s hard to stop. People get sucked-in, as they say. George in the camera department is ninety-four. He hasn’t missed a sale in twenty-six years.
My mom got sucked in first; then me, then my dad. Rummage, as we volunteers call it, -- because to us it names the destination, the activity, the sale, and the ensuing lifestyle—happens twice a year, always on the first Friday, Saturday and Sunday of May and October. It began as a fair on the polo grounds just outside of town over a hundred years ago, but there wasn’t a rummage table until a few years later. Now there are five circus tents, two long barns and a couple of smaller tents, which together house the 28 departments that comprise the sale.
People come from near and far to attend this twice-yearly event. Folks who used to attend or volunteer and who have since moved away plan their family reunions around the sale. I know a woman who lived and worked as scientist in the Amazon for years who planned her yearly trips back to the states around the sale. She even bought her wedding dress from me in the Vintage Department, which I ran for 13 years—even when I worked and lived in Manhattan; commuting out for 2 ½ hours each way every weekend for “set-up”, the month leading up to the sale.
Set up lasts the month prior and the sale accepts a steady stream of cars packed with donations, 6 days a week from 10am to 1pm. Over 400 volunteers work in the heat and dust, snow and rain, battling sunburn, mud and wasps; many of them every day to set up the sale. The constant movement and buzz of handcarts sorting and delivering the donated items to their respective departments gives the sale the appearance of a smurf village. My friend who works at refugee camps all over the world feels right at home at rummage. Except that we laugh a whole lot more.
Once delivered to the proper department, the item is micro-sorted, then sometimes nano-sorted. Electrical items are fixed, curtains and men’s pants are measured and clothing is hung up according to size and sometimes color. The fastidious-- read: borderline OCD--departments heads count playing cards and lego pieces, group golf clubs into sets, shelve books alphabetically according to subject and/or author and see that every puzzle piece is accounted for. It is a stunning monument to organization and systems. It is also a dysfunctional family.
For as much as we laugh over the ear of corn that was donated encased in lucite, or the souvenir dishtowel from a leper colony in Africa, there are tears. There is infighting and occasional back-stabbing, there are temper tantrums and betrayals. And every season, when our tent city sprouts up from the grassy fields out of nowhere like some bizarre Brigadoon, and we come together to hug and ask, “How was your summer?” or “Did you survive the winter?”, we notice the absences. We learn of sudden and tragic passings and the reluctant confinements to homes and beds. But mostly we learn of the grateful grantings of rest. It’s a curious thing to have ones friends die so often. It forces me to let go of old friendships and make room for new. I’ve gotten quite good at it, sad but true.
This second family of mine threw me an engagement party, then a baby shower. They watched over my son as he toddled amongst the racks and hangers-- a bell pinned to his back so we could keep and ear out for him; watching over him as if he was their own—and took turns keeping an eye on him as he napped in his filthy stroller so that I could hang second-hand clothes. They bolstered me through my divorce and understood when I left Vintage under its pressures to work closer with my mom in the Household Department. They grieved with us when my father died—he had fixed radios in the Electric Department for eight years and then catalogued in Records for five. They fortify my mother and me even now.
It’s a parallel life I lead each Rummage Sale, and my family there is vast and warm. I love them because everyone’s just a little nuts like me. Most of them are good nuts; caring, hilarious and kind. There is the woman who takes home every bread machine and makes bread in it to test it, then brings in the warm, fresh bread to pass around before marking the appliance, “Tested – okay!” I’ve missed only three sales in eighteen years; when my son was born, when my divorce was imminent, and when I began my graduate school studies. This spring’s sale is taking place this weekend. I hope I’m there for fifty-one more.
My mom got sucked in first; then me, then my dad. Rummage, as we volunteers call it, -- because to us it names the destination, the activity, the sale, and the ensuing lifestyle—happens twice a year, always on the first Friday, Saturday and Sunday of May and October. It began as a fair on the polo grounds just outside of town over a hundred years ago, but there wasn’t a rummage table until a few years later. Now there are five circus tents, two long barns and a couple of smaller tents, which together house the 28 departments that comprise the sale.
People come from near and far to attend this twice-yearly event. Folks who used to attend or volunteer and who have since moved away plan their family reunions around the sale. I know a woman who lived and worked as scientist in the Amazon for years who planned her yearly trips back to the states around the sale. She even bought her wedding dress from me in the Vintage Department, which I ran for 13 years—even when I worked and lived in Manhattan; commuting out for 2 ½ hours each way every weekend for “set-up”, the month leading up to the sale.
Set up lasts the month prior and the sale accepts a steady stream of cars packed with donations, 6 days a week from 10am to 1pm. Over 400 volunteers work in the heat and dust, snow and rain, battling sunburn, mud and wasps; many of them every day to set up the sale. The constant movement and buzz of handcarts sorting and delivering the donated items to their respective departments gives the sale the appearance of a smurf village. My friend who works at refugee camps all over the world feels right at home at rummage. Except that we laugh a whole lot more.
Once delivered to the proper department, the item is micro-sorted, then sometimes nano-sorted. Electrical items are fixed, curtains and men’s pants are measured and clothing is hung up according to size and sometimes color. The fastidious-- read: borderline OCD--departments heads count playing cards and lego pieces, group golf clubs into sets, shelve books alphabetically according to subject and/or author and see that every puzzle piece is accounted for. It is a stunning monument to organization and systems. It is also a dysfunctional family.
For as much as we laugh over the ear of corn that was donated encased in lucite, or the souvenir dishtowel from a leper colony in Africa, there are tears. There is infighting and occasional back-stabbing, there are temper tantrums and betrayals. And every season, when our tent city sprouts up from the grassy fields out of nowhere like some bizarre Brigadoon, and we come together to hug and ask, “How was your summer?” or “Did you survive the winter?”, we notice the absences. We learn of sudden and tragic passings and the reluctant confinements to homes and beds. But mostly we learn of the grateful grantings of rest. It’s a curious thing to have ones friends die so often. It forces me to let go of old friendships and make room for new. I’ve gotten quite good at it, sad but true.
This second family of mine threw me an engagement party, then a baby shower. They watched over my son as he toddled amongst the racks and hangers-- a bell pinned to his back so we could keep and ear out for him; watching over him as if he was their own—and took turns keeping an eye on him as he napped in his filthy stroller so that I could hang second-hand clothes. They bolstered me through my divorce and understood when I left Vintage under its pressures to work closer with my mom in the Household Department. They grieved with us when my father died—he had fixed radios in the Electric Department for eight years and then catalogued in Records for five. They fortify my mother and me even now.
It’s a parallel life I lead each Rummage Sale, and my family there is vast and warm. I love them because everyone’s just a little nuts like me. Most of them are good nuts; caring, hilarious and kind. There is the woman who takes home every bread machine and makes bread in it to test it, then brings in the warm, fresh bread to pass around before marking the appliance, “Tested – okay!” I’ve missed only three sales in eighteen years; when my son was born, when my divorce was imminent, and when I began my graduate school studies. This spring’s sale is taking place this weekend. I hope I’m there for fifty-one more.
Textile Tango
I enjoy winter’s deep, rich hues of charcoal, cranberry and plum, but I love swapping out my wardrobe for the giddy pinks and melons of spring knowing that setting up my back yard patio isn’t far behind. Turning the corner of the cushion aisle at my local big box store, my mood actually brightens at the wild patterns and crazy color combos that seem to be saying, “You survived another winter. Now lighten up and let’s boogie.” I imagine a career where I would get paid to sit around and design patio cushions; thinking about patterns and color combos all day. Sounds like heaven; sounds like fun. And really, how hard could it be? So, I asked a friend of mine, Janna Sendra, who is Director of Textile Development for a manufacturing company that makes outdoor furniture replacement cushions for big box stores what it’s like to have a job where you think about color all day. Turns out it’s pretty intense, incredibly complicated, and ultimately fascinating. But it aint easy.
Beginning in high school, Janna collected textiles—curtains, tea towels, scarves and such—because she was drawn to quality eye-catching graphics, interesting patterns and unexpected color combinations. In art school she took a class in weaving which inspired a Masters of Science in Textile Design at the former Philadelphia College of Textiles and Science. There she learned the science of dyeing and finishing fabrics, weaving and printing, pattern repeat, yarn strength and the properties of cottons vs. synthetics. Before graduating she began an internship at a third generation family owned and operated textile mill, which began making piano scarves in 1903. There she learned how to design for and weave patterns into jacquard upholstery fabrics and interpret design trends in order to create a line for furniture makers and high-end fabric manufacturers, and on what to base her insight on color and design.
It was at about this time that I realized I knew precious little about the textile design business considering its omnipresence. Because of our friends on TV, we feel intimate with forensic science and have convinced ourselves that we could perform an emergency tracheotomy should the occasion arise. We’ve logged thousands of hours watching home makeovers and miracle interior reincarnations, but do we have an inkling of what really goes into designing the fabrics that will grace the aesthetic elements that define our lobbies, offices, hotels, restaurants and homes? Did I even realize that it was a science? Not really, no.
“The real challenge is responding to trends in color and design, which is ultimately led by fashion,” Janna said. Textiles, interiors, paints, appliances, home décor, rugs, and car colors are all influenced by the all-powerful runway and shifts in the economy. The more permanent the item—like a couch or a car—the slower the trends are to turnover and the smaller the knee jerk reaction to fashion. But the irresistible throw pillow will reinvent itself again and again, luring us with its promise of newness and right now. The art and science of successfully pinpointing color trends remains a delicate balancing act based on history and previous sales. There are few long lunches in textile design, but there are very, very long nights.
Janna explained the nuances between different colors’ personalities the way one might describe middle school lunchroom cliques. Green is important right now and blue is getting a lot of attention. Red is always popular; it always sells. Orange, pink and yellow are more marginal, but proudly maintain an anarchic streak as accent colors. Blue/greens are their own category with teal making a big impression lately, and purple is very hot, very on trend. To most Americans, purple is a mystery; only Europeans and gay decorators can appreciate its lure.
More recently Janna learned to merchandise the fabrics for decorators, creating books of fabric themes-- or “color stories”-- for decorators and hotbeds of home renovation. She then became a buyer, and is now in charge of textile development, traveling to Taiwan to oversee print runs and the process of mixing UV inhibitors in with dyes for outdoor furniture cushions; the very cushions that lighten my mood when I turn the corner in my local big box store. “Color is very subjective and emotional,” she said, “it’s hard to predict.” But one thing is predictable: we will willfully allow ourselves to be seduced by a fresh take on an old standby. Whether it’s a new haircut or simply re-arranging the patio furniture from last summer, we strive to be relevant; we want to be now. I may treat myself to new patio cushions or more likely settle for the simple guilty pleasure of a single, fabulous throw pillow. Either way, I like my seasonal, emotional tango with color. It keeps me on my toes.
Beginning in high school, Janna collected textiles—curtains, tea towels, scarves and such—because she was drawn to quality eye-catching graphics, interesting patterns and unexpected color combinations. In art school she took a class in weaving which inspired a Masters of Science in Textile Design at the former Philadelphia College of Textiles and Science. There she learned the science of dyeing and finishing fabrics, weaving and printing, pattern repeat, yarn strength and the properties of cottons vs. synthetics. Before graduating she began an internship at a third generation family owned and operated textile mill, which began making piano scarves in 1903. There she learned how to design for and weave patterns into jacquard upholstery fabrics and interpret design trends in order to create a line for furniture makers and high-end fabric manufacturers, and on what to base her insight on color and design.
It was at about this time that I realized I knew precious little about the textile design business considering its omnipresence. Because of our friends on TV, we feel intimate with forensic science and have convinced ourselves that we could perform an emergency tracheotomy should the occasion arise. We’ve logged thousands of hours watching home makeovers and miracle interior reincarnations, but do we have an inkling of what really goes into designing the fabrics that will grace the aesthetic elements that define our lobbies, offices, hotels, restaurants and homes? Did I even realize that it was a science? Not really, no.
“The real challenge is responding to trends in color and design, which is ultimately led by fashion,” Janna said. Textiles, interiors, paints, appliances, home décor, rugs, and car colors are all influenced by the all-powerful runway and shifts in the economy. The more permanent the item—like a couch or a car—the slower the trends are to turnover and the smaller the knee jerk reaction to fashion. But the irresistible throw pillow will reinvent itself again and again, luring us with its promise of newness and right now. The art and science of successfully pinpointing color trends remains a delicate balancing act based on history and previous sales. There are few long lunches in textile design, but there are very, very long nights.
Janna explained the nuances between different colors’ personalities the way one might describe middle school lunchroom cliques. Green is important right now and blue is getting a lot of attention. Red is always popular; it always sells. Orange, pink and yellow are more marginal, but proudly maintain an anarchic streak as accent colors. Blue/greens are their own category with teal making a big impression lately, and purple is very hot, very on trend. To most Americans, purple is a mystery; only Europeans and gay decorators can appreciate its lure.
More recently Janna learned to merchandise the fabrics for decorators, creating books of fabric themes-- or “color stories”-- for decorators and hotbeds of home renovation. She then became a buyer, and is now in charge of textile development, traveling to Taiwan to oversee print runs and the process of mixing UV inhibitors in with dyes for outdoor furniture cushions; the very cushions that lighten my mood when I turn the corner in my local big box store. “Color is very subjective and emotional,” she said, “it’s hard to predict.” But one thing is predictable: we will willfully allow ourselves to be seduced by a fresh take on an old standby. Whether it’s a new haircut or simply re-arranging the patio furniture from last summer, we strive to be relevant; we want to be now. I may treat myself to new patio cushions or more likely settle for the simple guilty pleasure of a single, fabulous throw pillow. Either way, I like my seasonal, emotional tango with color. It keeps me on my toes.
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