As a teenager, I took up smoking small cigars.  It was a rebellion against the cheerleaders who rode the bus with me to Catholic high school.  I figured if they wouldn’t stop stinking up the back of the bus with their cigarette smoke, I would stink it up worse. I had also found out that if you are fourteen, you can’t buy cigarettes yourself.  But if you buy Tijuana Smalls, and say that they are for your Dad, the store clerk believes you.

I continued smoking Tijuana Smalls off and on, even when I wasn’t riding the bus.  I became involved in a Catholic youth organization, and would occasionally smoke one during our fellowship sessions.  That’s what I liked about that group.  They accepted me for who I was, and didn’t shun me for my sometimes outrageous behavior.  Once I sat next to Father Mike in the circle.  I was smoking a cigar, and eating red shoestring licorice.  I found out that the licorice was hollow, like a straw.  While he was expounding on some religious thought, I reached behind him, with one end of the licorice in my hand, and the other in my mouth.  Unknown to him (until everyone burst into laughter), I blew the smoke, and made it look like it was coming out of one of his ears.  When he realized what was happening, he laughed, too.

One day, when I went to him for confession, he said he wanted to talk to me about my cigar smoking.  “Uh oh,” I thought.  “Here it comes…” I thought I was going to be reprimanded for my unladylike behavior.  With fake concern on his face, he reached into his desk and pulled out a box of Garcia y Vega cigars.  “Have one of these,” he said, passing me a fat cigar.  He took one, too, and gave us both a light.  Leaning back in his leather chair, he said, “Now that’s a cigar.”  It turns out he was only concerned with the lack of quality in my choice of cigar.

Catholic University School of Library Science, graduating class of 1949

A few nights ago, I spent part of the evening sitting on the love seat with a book in my lap, a magnifying glass in one hand, and a black-and-white photograph in another.  The photograph, taken in 1949, is of my mother’s graduating library school class at Catholic University.  The book was Thomas P. McCarthy’s Guide to Catholic Sisterhoods in the United States, or as I like to call it, The Field Guide to the Identification of Nuns.  Having been published in 1958, it was perfect for the task I had set for myself: to identify every order of nun that appeared in the photograph, or fall asleep trying.  When I was done, I had fourteen different names of orders scribbled down, from the Sisters of St. Ann to the Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart.

As I sat next to the couch where my husband was doing a Sudoku puzzle, I thought about how similar my activity was to his, except mine was more like those word find puzzles where you try to find the words hidden in what looks like a matrix of random letters.  But this was harder, because my puzzle didn’t tell me what nuns were there to be found; I had to take the visual clues I had in the photograph and match them up with what was in the book.

The task also resembled another of my pastimes, bird watching.  Nuns, in the era of my mother’s graduation (not to mention the early years I spent in Catholic elementary school), were at least as consistent in their habits (manner of dress) as birds are with their plumage.  If I could match the headdress, robes, and other accouterments from a nun in the photograph to one in the book, I had a certain identification.

Daughters of Charity, St. Catherine Laboure School, cira 1960

The arrangement of a field guide to birds is much more friendly to the bird watcher than this book was to a nun watcher.  Guides to birds are arranged by species, which means that birds that are similar in size, shape, and color are grouped together.  Not so with my field guide to nuns; it contains approximately 300 different orders of nuns and sisters arranged alphabetically, which has nothing to do with how they look.  Sometimes, I had to flip through the entire book two or three times to find,for example, the nun with the black veil with white lining, black robe with the white collar, and the silver cross around her neck (Sisters of the Precious Blood).

I was surprised that none of the nuns in Mom’s graduating class were of the same order that taught me for the first eight years of my education.  I would not have needed McCarthy’s book to identify one of them.  Even if I hadn’t known what the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul looked like, their habit is so distinctive that it would be hard to confuse it with any other.  As McCarthy put it, “…the white cornette and blue gown of the Sister of Charity is easily identified, even in a convention hall crowded with a thousand nuns of various orders.”

Catholic University School of Library Science, graduating class of 1949 (with annotations)

I spent about an hour this past Saturday morning updating a digital copy of the photograph, adding the name of the sisterhood and an arrow pointing to one of the nuns who belonged to it.  I don’t know why I felt compelled to create this image.  I guess it’s because nuns are part of my past, but I’ve never fully figured out why someone would want to be one.  Why would a person feel that in order to serve God, they had to separate themselves from the rest of the world physically and socially, if not withdraw completely from it.  I am aware that nuns have always worked in schools and hospitals and even libraries, but I never understood the need to dress like 17th century French peasant women.  But I feel drawn to these old nuns in a way that seems almost spooky to me.  They were the authority figures of my youth, and I never felt that I fully measured up to their expectations.  I might have stayed a Catholic if I felt that they (and the priests) were more human, and less idealized.  I would also have liked them to be more feminist in their theology, but that is just wishful thinking on my part.

Eastern Market's South Hall

Yesterday was the nicest day we have had in four weeks.  It’s hard to believe that it’s only been that long since we were buried under about two feet of snow, and about to get more.  There are still remnants of the largest piles of snow, but I suppose they won’t last long.  Spring is almost here.

With temperatures in the 50s and the sky mostly sunny, Eastern Market was buzzing in the morning.  We went to buy something for a tacky gift exchange we’ve been invited to later this month.  No luck there.  The flea market vendors have changed since I bought this little gem.  There used to be more sellers of vintage wares.

Felt slippers

Still, it was a nice day to take photos.  I saw a lot of vivid colors, which made up for dreary winter:  red bell peppers, yellow snapdragons, orange felt slippers, sparkly earrings.  Also catching my eye were  the brightly colored Girl Scout cookie boxes.  I bought two boxes of my new favorite, Lemon Chalet Creme.  Who would have thought that anything could have ended my love affair with Thin Mints?

I visited Country Funk, which sets up in the Hines Junior High School lot across from the Market.  I enjoy looking at their artistic creations made out of architectural salvage, mirrors, and coat hooks, and the interesting way they display them.

Rugelach

Our last stop was the Fine Sweet Shoppe, for some rugelach.  My favorite is the apricot; my husband’s is the chocolate.  So, we bought both.  He had to have a sweet potato bar as well.  We left Eastern Market with a bag full of sugary treats.  Sweet day at Eastern Market!

See all my Eastern Market photos in this Flickr set.  The most recent ones are at the end.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/tackyjulie/sets/72157600163612071/

Julie and the Monkey

For my second anniversary, my husband Bob surprised me with an oil painting…a portrait of myself.

This painting is based on two photographs.  Mainly, it is based on a photo taken of me, by Bob in May 2005 at an old-time music party near Charlottesville.  The other photo that was used in the painting was taken by Lynda Folwick in her backyard in August 2007. It’s a much better head shot of me than the one in the original photo, and Bob had the good sense to combine the two in his composition.

In the photograph that Bob took, we have just arrived at the party, and I’m so happy to be there.  I’m smiling at him as he gets up from sharing a beer with me to take my picture.  That’s his beer and bottle cap in the foreground, together with mine.  The toy gorilla is named Moogie.  When he senses motion, he starts singing and dancing to “Great Balls of Fire.”  The irises in the vase came from my garden, and I brought them along to brighten up my camp site.

When I first saw the photo, I told Bob that if he ever painted a portrait of me, I would like it if it would be based on this photo.  I didn’t know until the day he presented it to me on our anniversary this year that he had any intention of honoring my request.

I love this painting because it captures the feelings of joy and exuberance I experience when I am at an old-time music festival.  I hope that whenever I look at it, it will remind me of how I feel when I’m at my happiest.  I also love this painting because it reminds me that I’m married to a talented artist who understands and accepts and loves me.

For the artist’s statement about the painting, please go to Bob’s website:  http://www.bobcantor.com/paintings/Gallery2/images/Julie.htm

Window display at Kay Wigs

The window display at Kay Wigs is narrow, but crammed full of mannequin heads wearing wigs.  And not always the kind of wigs you’d expect.  These are wigs in colors do not appear naturally on any human head: pink, lime green, navy blue; many of them teased out five times the normal width of a human head.  Sometimes they sport fancy church lady hats and costume jewelry that I personally would not be caught dead in.  It’s not the kind of thing you expect to see on the street on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C.

Since I work nearby, I look forward to the periodic changes to the window display, and wonder about matters such as whether someone actually purchased the purple bouffant wig, or what church the blue satin pillbox with the excessive netting is now attending.  Kay Wigs doesn’t seem to fit along that strip of Pennsylvania Avenue, between a health food store and the Hawk and Dove, an archetypal Capitol Hill Bar.  But I like that it’s there, and it was only a matter of time before I went inside and bought a wig.  In June, I bought a purple wig to wear while I hosted the Tacky Treasures Road Show.  With Halloween approaching, another visit was inevitable.

Last Thursday, I stopped by the shop to see if it would be open on Saturday.  While I was there, I noticed an enormous blue cloud of hair floating on top of a disembodied head.  I wondered, “Who would buy a wig of such unthinkable proportions and hue?”  I had my suspicions, and on my return visit, they were confirmed.

A rainbow of page boys

I brought my friend Ellen to Kay Wigs on Saturday so we could shop for a little something to complement our Halloween costumes.  We descended the narrow, carpeted stairs into the tiny basement shop.  Half of the basement store is a showroom with wigs displayed on mannequin heads, shelved from floor to ceiling; the other half holds the counter and fitting area.  I saw a lot of wigs that were normal hair colors, but the overall look of the room was like a rainbow.  The display on the left as you enter the store was especially colorful.  It had even more unusual colors than the window: purple, orange, neon yellow.  There was a metallic green that reminded me of a car I used to drive in the 1970s.

Blue Beyoncé

I had hoped to see the giant blue wig again, but it was no longer in the showroom.  The most striking thing in the shop was a puffy aquamarine wig with hair draped all the way to the floor on mannequin head at the fitting counter.  The owner was in the process of styling it to a customer’s specifications, which later turned out to be a photograph of Beyoncé.  I asked if I could photograph the wig, and she agreed.  I extended that permission to taking photographs all around the shop.

Dolly and Beyoncé

Ellen hadn’t settled on what color wig she wanted to buy, so I let her go first.  She tried on a simple, blue-streaked page boy, which looked great on her.  Then she tried on a blue flip hairdo, which, with the right 1950s era dress, would evoke memories of Donna Reed (except for the blue hair).  Finally, she tried on a hot pink teased number that would have been perfect for a psychedelic Dolly Parton costume.  Ellen finally settled on the relatively tame blue page boy.

I was looking for a lime green wig, and the only one she had was the one in the window, which I had thought would be perfect until I tried it on.  It was a spiky style, and looked too much like a 1980s glitter rock musician’s do, and was longer in the back than I had realized.  Even though the owner said she’d cut the hair for me, I decided to keep looking.  I went back to the page boys (what a safe style; always in fashion) and eventually bought one in a lovely shade of [information embargoed until Halloween].

As the owner rung up our purchases, a man entered the store.  I knew immediately that the aquamarine wig was for him.  Maybe it was the way his eyes lit up when he saw it.  While he waited, he picked up a mannequin head with a purple bowl cut and admired it.  Fortunately, he didn’t seem in a hurry.  While I was signing the credit card slip for my purchase, the owner spoke to him, and then went into the back of the store and brought out the giant blue wig I had seen on Thursday.  I asked him if he had a stage name.  He smiled, and said, “Betty Blue Bubbles.”  Then the store owner asked him a question that almost blew our (Ellen’s and mine) minds.  She asked Betty, “Do you want me to bring out the really big one?”  Maybe Ellen and I should have stayed to see that one, too.  But our purchasing was done, and when I think about it now, the showroom was probably too small to hold us, the store owner, Betty Blue Bubbles, and three of her wigs.

The owner of the shop couldn’t have been nicer to us, and I plan to go to Kay Wigs for all my wig needs, whatever they may be.  If I ever need a wig because all my hair falls out, I might just go with the little purple bowl cut.

More photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tackyjulie/sets/72157622658039450/

Kay Wigs
325 Pennsylvania Avenue SE
Washington DC 20003
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