Elizabeth Sways

I’ve always liked caftans. In the 90s, I remember seeing them in the pages of Vogue magazine and thinking about the boldness it would take to wear them. If you aren’t familiar- Caftans are basically full length tunics (although you sometimes see short flowy dresses with sleeves referred to as Caftans) , usually with bell sleves and an A line fit. Worn wrong, and they look like a mumu. worn right, and they look glamourous, effortless, and they have a certain J’ne sais quoi – i promised French references.

My grandmother was tiny – no taller than 5 foot and often less than 100 lbs. I would never have guessed she’d wear these items that would swamp her! BUT i guess she did – in a closet I found a red and white striped one and a plain black one. The red and white one would be fabulous with bold gold jewelry and sandals. I have no idea however where to wear it. It’s not really a “go out” kind of item. It looks like something you lounge in, but around a pool, the long sleeves and length would be warm. hmmm… i’m sure I’ll come up with something. The black one might take even more effort strangely enough. It’s a little polyester-y – i guess it’s from the late 70’s? And so it looks a bit like a ceremonial robe. Might have to get creative with a belt and colorful accessories.

Great Expectations

This is a poem my mother wrote a few years ago about my grandmother. It echoes some of the themes of this blog.

Deborah Scaperoth

She spent her years in a house
with her husband’s clocks
that never kept the right time.
Sometimes they would stop
until he, grumbling, wound them.
All day long, the clocks ticked
or chimed—especially in winter
when she cleaned house and tended
cuttings in the basement crowded
with junk and soured clothes
that could never dry in the damp.
In the spring she fled the noise
to tend the lush garden outside,
murmuring the Latin names for each.

She could play “Moonlight Sonata”
on her baby grand. Or “Fleur dis Lis.”
Her shelves were lined with books
and delicate carved horses.
I heard once that she would have liked
to have lived someplace like New York.
But she got side-railed and ended up
back in the midwest where she was born.
Raising kids and vacuuming worn rugs.
Sometimes she surprised us with
an ironic laugh or quixotic smile
as the pulled back a strand of hair
and patted her French twist.

One spring she died too quickly,
and we visited her grave
on a rainy Easter, her birthday.
I realized then I had been wrong
and should have taken time
to listen. To know her better.
I regretted things said and unsaid.
My chest felt heavy as I thought
of her imprisoned body beneath
the soggy grass. The yellow roses
that she loved, strewn carelessly.

Daniel came this weekend to see me in Columbus, and it’s been fun showing him around and sharing my alternate reality. We have gotten a chance to get to know my family better, and we even made a trip down to my childhood home and park. I am so full of love for him and my family this weekend. It’s really nice to know that he will be the Jeanne to my Hank. I can’t wait to love him for 100 yrs – he makes an easy job of it.

And he brought me a dress and that makes him even more lovable  - an adorable plaid number that I will layer up and wear warmly all winter. I’ve already worn it with my grandmother’s hat. I can’t wait to get home and combine these treasures I’m finding up here with the other parts of my wardrobe stashed at home.

He’s no slouch on style himself. Am I lucky or what?

So I mentioned the rack of necklaces behind the door…? I may have played dress up with them today. Is that bad? I put them back.

I love long necklaces, and yet I know that they are falling out of favor, as fashion is moving – as it always does to the opposite pole.

However! I don’t think chokers and little collarbone necklaces are ever as rock and roll as a long layered chain. And it’s funny to write these words about my grandmothers necklaces! She may have worn them more conservatively, one at-a-time with a turtleneck, but isn’t it funnier (and awesomer) to imagine her wearing them layered up with black eyeliner and boots?

My grandmother Jeanne Scaperoth

Did I mention that my grandfather had knee replacement surgery, and that’s why I’m staying with him for 3 weeks? He’s not dying or anything – no need to be worried. He’s textbook healthy.

Anyway- I walked into my grandfather’s bedroom today to look for a missing pair of slippers and I saw a big sign on the back of the door that said “Jeanne, CALL ME when you get up, or WAKE ME if I’m sleeping.” I wouldn’t have seen it, but of course I was naturally drawn to the necklaces hanging on a rack behind the door. You see, before my grandmother died, she had mini strokes that ruined her memory and cognition. So I guess this sign was to remind her that he was there. And it’s funny because I realized it serves the reverse purpose now. It reminds HIM that she was here. It’s not the only reminder – there are calenders hanging in almost every room frozen in February 2005.

All of these thoughts reminded me of a blog I wrote 3 years ago about this very same sentiment. I’m copy/pasting here: forgive this blog for being long, and not being about fashion at all. Hank fell asleep before dinner, and now I’m left to my own devices with a tray full of sweet potato fries.

Ohio Aria: originally posted on myspace (I know, “what’s myspace?”) on March 4 2008

On sunday, my grandfather walked me to my car to say goodbye. As he leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek – an italian holdover I am incredibly thankful for- he saw the state of chaos in my car and laughed. I was obviously embarassed. He said “It’s okay kid. I haven’t cleaned my car in three years. There’s a lot of things I haven’t done in three years.”

*** Three years ago this month, my grandmother died – that’s why I went to Ohio this weekend. Hank (my grandfather) isn’t easy to love all the time. He’s argumentative, stubborn, and always says the wrong thing, but I love him dearly. He – like my dad - regularly looks at me confused, wondering where this tall, outgoing, affectionate child came from. hugging and terms of endearment are generally outlawed in my dad’s family. My dad doesn’t even call Hank “dad”, he calls him Hank – so you can understand why my insistence on calling my father “daddy” and the like makes everyone fabulously uncomfortable… I love it.

Following the same logic – I don’t remember seeing my grandmother and grandfather touch much – except once i saw them steal a kiss in the kitchen. I think about that a lot. I have a tendency to think that love should be loud and obvious – written in the sky, but who knows where I learned that value.

I digress – earlier that same sunday morning at my grandfather’s house, as I tried to do some school work, I heard opera music coming from downstairs. I wandered down and found myself standing in front of the CD player in the living room. I was lost for a second while I listened to the tenor. My grandfather came in behind me and switched off the music. Seeing that I was holding some work, he said, “you need to be studying… You can’t study with that on.” I frowned and insisted I could study and listen at the same time.  After mumbling objections, he left the music on for me. As he walked out of the room he said, “well, don’t come complaining to me when christmas music comes on, It’s on shuffle, and I haven’t changed them since your grandmother passed. turn it off when you want – I don’t mind the quiet.” Then he paused and walked back toward the music. “She loved this one.” he said, ”She played it so loud your ears would bust.”

I’m not sure why that moment made me re-evaluate everything i know about love. I don’t envy my grandfather’s pain, but i covet what makes him hurt so bad. What I saw (or didn’t see) between my grandparents was such a small piece of the puzzle. I was lucky to get a rare glimpse of him this weekend. His love for her was private – as quiet as an album left unplayed for 3 years and a car never cleaned.  I don’t think I’ll ever see the men in my family shouting love from mountain tops, but sometimes on a sunday morning even the most silent love can’t help but sing an italian aria, even if only for a moment.

I guess I always knew he loved her, but it was powerful to see it manifested that way. i can’t imagine what it would be like to love someone like that for fifty years. we should all be so lucky.

Last night Hank insisted we find one of Jeanne’s (my grandmother – in my family we call them by their first names, who knows why) coats. I thought for sure we would be hunting down one that was fur, or velvet, or colorful, or SOMETHING fabulous.

His face lit up as he reached for the treasured article.  It was in the back, and to reach it in his debilitated state, he had to push aside her other coats – a beautiful cashmere coat with a mink collar, a knobby tweed trench, an ochre yellow suede blazer…

He said, “this one was my favorite. She looked great in this one.”

It was a plain khaki winter coat with a green sweater lining. But this was the coat he had been talking about for days. Fearing it had somehow been lost since her death, especially since he hadn’t had the heart to search for it until now. And now he’s giving it to me – along with the knobby tweed and several others.

The sleeves are dingy and it’s a little retro, but it’s interesting. I’ll wear it with skinny jeans and  the slouchy beanie that was tucked in its pocket, or a short skirt when it gets a little warmer.

I’m learning to respect his choice to keep and treasure objects that represent his love for her, and I respect even more the times when he is willing to share those objects with me. This is a slippery slope for sure – you end up with a house full of ghosts like his, but I love the way he values things. To Hank, objects have worth because she loved them. She must’ve loved this coat, and he loved her in it, and I am honored that he found it for me.

This was my first discovery. Hank – my grandfather, mentioned that while I’m staying here I should see if I want any of her clothes. As a teenager she had given me some really funky dresses and tops, but I don’t remember ever having seen this one. It is long sleeved and above the knee with the mock turtleneck you so often see in 60s dresses. Purple and white paisley- it’s perfect. I’ll wear it on a date or to a party, but where would she have worn it? I showed it to my grandfather and he looked puzzled, so he’s no help. I’m left to my imagination. She must’ve worn it to dinner parties with her hair pinned on top of her head – simple jewelry,and maybe a silk scarf.

Hank said, “Are you going to wear it that short?”

Yes! Of course! I wear everything a little too short!

Also, I’m 5′8″ and she was 4′11″… So do I really have a choice?

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..It’s funny how I am often reminded of things I didn’t know I’d  forgotten.

Yesterday, as I was rummaging through an upstairs closet at my grandfathers house, I found a collection of my late-grandmother’s straw hats. They poured out of the closet. Then I found more on a shelf, and more in a hat box in the corner, There’s probably more in this house yet. And here I was, remembering what i didn’t know I had forgotten: my grandmother wore straw hats. All the time.

Now I remember the hats in snapshots – her gardening in a wide brimmed style, teaching me about seed pods and how to know which plants were weeds. And then I remember her in a panama hat with a scarf tied beneath it to hold her long black hair in place. I remember her standing in a doorway wearing a tall one, like maybe a scarecrow would wear,  the straw sitting high on her head. In my memory she has her hands on her hips and a tired smile on her face. These flashes of woven straw and colored ribbon are comforting to me – a highlight reel of memories my brain had allowed to slip away in the 5 years since her death.

I feel as though I am like her. I want to be like her. Maybe my memory glamorizes her, but I think of her as elegant, but never pretentious; practical, but never unkind; and most of all, effortlessly beautiful. I think these hats could be described the same way. I’m sold. Are there rules against wearing a panama hat in the middle of the winter?

I am staying with my grandfather for the next few weeks and am trying to come up with projects to keep me sane. I keep finding beautiful things of my late grandmother laying around the house. This was always intended to be my fashion blog, but i think I’ll make it more specifically about fashion and the nostalgia of my grandmother and the life she shared with my grandfather- which he misses dearly. I’m sure this project will be temporary, and before long, i’ll be back to blogging about leggings and and hats, but for now, look for blogs about beautiful straw hats, a milk glass collection, caftans worth talking about, and all things french.