TRAVEL THERE: ALL I WANT IS MY OLD KODAK BROWNIE HAWKEYE CAMERA

2008 was a pivotal year in my life.  Yes, that’s the year I finally earned my BA after a three decade educational hiatus, and that was important, but it was also the year digital won.  Our vacation that summer was a cruise to the Yucatan Peninsula.  There are two distinct types of photos in my scrapbook.  Some are those rich gorgeous shots you get with 35mm.  The rest are not – and therein lies the problem.

Digitally Challenged

See, I didn’t quite get the whole digital concept.  I hooked the camera up to my computer and told the computer that I wanted to print the photos.  I had a color printer and I’d invested in some expensive photo paper.  I saw the pictures coming out of the printer and unhooked my camera.  The problem was that I didn’t look closely at the pictures and they hadn’t printed right.  That just happened to be the day my printer decided to go on the fritz.  Each photo was overlaid with multicolored vertical lines and the printer liked the look so well that it would never print any other way.

Disgruntled, I moved on to more pressing matters.  I researched printing photos a little more and decided to try a different method.  But the pictures were gone.  They weren’t on the camera and they weren’t saved to my computer.  Thankfully I still had the rainbow striped prints.  I was almost able to convince myself I liked the effect.  Anyway, they were all the shots I had of most of our shore excursions, so they were going into the scrapbook.

I was pretty upset and made it my business to get more digital.  I let my husband explain the camera to me and I figured out the whole production process.  I was never going to create online albums, because I already spend too much time at the computer.  So I learned to download the images to the computer first, then upload them to a print site and then wait for the prints to come in the mail.  I have to do it that way, because my husband won’t let me have a color printer anymore.  I know you can take the memory card to the photo shop or download them to a cd, but if I’m doing all the downloading stuff anyway, why not go ahead and upload, too.

I Miss Pre-Digital

I learned to adapt, but I missed the old photo processing days.  I’d scurry to the store with my rolls of film, fill out the envelopes and come back in an hour or so to pictures.  It was great.  Some of the pictures were good, others were not so good, but my scrapbooks always looked wonderful when I was through.

But photo processing wasn’t the only thing I liked about film.  I liked the cameras better, also.  I’d rest the camera up against my face, squint a little bit, maybe step forward or backward and then snap the picture.  More often than not, I got just what I wanted and often enough I was brilliant.  Not so with digital.

First of all I have to hold the camera away from my face to see the display.  That means 97% of my pictures are just a little bit fuzzy.  Without the camera held firmly in place by my nose, the camera just floats around taking rotten pictures.But that’s not even the worst bit.

My real problem is that I can’t see the display.  Of course, part of that is age.  Maturity means you can’t see anything that you can hold in your hand.  When I looked through a real viewfinder, I could see what I was taking a picture of.  With the screen, I can only see a vague estimation of what might be in the picture – and that’s when I can see anything at all.

I take most of my pictures outside in bright sunshine.  I’ve invested in prescription sunglasses to overcome the far-sighted issue, but thanks to my friend the sun, I still can’t see the screen.  If the light is good enough to want a picture, then the light’s too bright for the screen.  I don’t even want to talk about when the light isn’t so good.  I can see better but not enough.

Time for a New Camera

So about a year ago I started lobbying for a new camera.  I confessed to my husband that I had stubbornly refused to embrace digital for too long and even though I was late to the party, I appreciated all of its benefits.  However, I wanted a new camera.  I knew that there were digital cameras with old fashioned viewfinders and I wanted something faster.  That lag between one click and the next drove me to distraction.

My husband’s first recommendation was to get an i-phone.  I’m not sure why he thought that was a good idea.  I’d still be waving the camera in thin air and wouldn’t be able to see the screen in bright sunlight.  Heck, he didn’t want to  pay for the phone to have internet capabilities, either.  I know about boys and toys, but this still didn’t make sense to me.  I pressed on for a month or two more.

Then one day in one of the big box stores he wandered over to the camera department.  YES!!  I was on my way to a new camera.  That’s when we discovered the gap.  You know that gap between all those cute little digital cameras priced on either side of $100 and the real cameras.  Bill recoiled from the display with a chronic case of sticker shock.  I had to wait another month.

Last Sunday we went to the camera store.  An hour later we knew more about digital cameras than we even knew that there was to know.  My love of the viewfinder?  I’d ignorantly stumbled upon the greatest shortcoming of the digital age.  And what’s more – the younger generation is having to be taught the superiority of viewfinders one youngster at a time!  I tell you, we were ready to invest in a digital camera with a real viewfinder just like I wanted.  There’s just this one teeny tiny little problem – that three hundred dollar gap between the hot pink pocket camera and the real camera.

Vacation is coming.  We know that we don’t want to risk rotten pictures of the Columbia River Gorge, Mount Hood, Crater Lake, the Rogue River and the Oregon Coast with that little hot pink number.  We know the old digital camera we’ve had for the last few years isn’t going to cut it either.  I will have a real camera soon.  We just have to get over that sticker shock thing.

TRAVEL HERE: FAREWELL JEAN PAUL

Dallas is decidedly more fashionable than it was a few months ago.  I can see it everywhere.  Some folks will never give up their blue jeans and velour track suits, but the presence of a living fashion legend among us has encouraged the more couture conscious.

Jean Paul Might be More Popular than King Tut

I don’t have access to any official counts, but I think Jean Paul Gaultier might just have been more popular than King Tut and his relatives.  My measurement has nothing to do with official headcounts or tickets sold, I just observed how busy the Dallas Museum of Art was whenever I visited in the last few months.

They rearranged the entire museum to create a reception area for the Tut visitors, but I never actually saw it fill up.  I heard from some people who visited, on days like the day after Thanksgiving, that there were mobs on hand, but I didn’t see it.  I would see a lot of school buses whenever I ventured downtown, but that was usually a signal for me to go about my business without dropping in on Tut.  However, time and again I would drag someone down to the museum so they would not miss the important exhibit and we’d walk right in, only to discover we had the exhibit pretty much to ourselves.

Not so with Gaultier.  As a member, I never had to wait long for a ticket, but the visitors desk always had a lot of people queued up for the exhibit.  Several times on my way to a lecture or another event I’d be surprised by a hundred or so ticketed souls waiting to go inside – and it never seemed like there wasn’t any particular catalyst for the crowd.  One rainy, cold December day, in the middle of the week, I popped by the gift shop to pick up a few Christmas presents.  Not only did I have to park on one of the lowest levels, the entry area was crowded and buzzing with excitement.  And these crowds collected in the absence of  school buses.  The exhibit was entirely too sexual and risque for school children, proving sex sells museum tickets too.

My Final Visit

On Friday night, I made my farewell visit to Gaultier at Fashionably Late, a special event for members at the Sustainer level and above.  I keep telling you that you need to belong to the museum if you live here in Dallas.  A DJ played high energy music at a level which still allowed high energy conversation.  A buffet of light hors d’oeuvres and a cash bar offered sustenance.  Movies, Twitter games and other contests provided entertaining distractions and the Gaultier exhibit was open for a final, private, members-only peek.

I doubt that anyone was there for the first time.  During my other visits there seemed to be an urgency in the crowd to hurry to the next room and see what might be there, but on this late night visit, people were lingering before exhibits as if saying good-bye to an old friend.  I felt the same way.  My favorite part of the show was the mechanical catwalk.  I still can’t decide which I like best, the dark crepe dress enhanced with button embellished stripes or the hounds-toothed pantsuit with the pleated bell bottoms.  I love them both.  You have until February twelfth to choose your favorite outfit and say good-bye to Jean Paul.

As much as I’ve enjoyed The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gualtier: From the Catwalk to the Sidewalk, I’m excited about what is and will be available for viewing in the coming months.  The Main Concourse is filled Young Masters, compelling art from local school-age artists.  For lovers of the modern, Mark Manders remains through April.  Up in the Tower Gallery is a delightful exhibit of furniture and furnishing with a whimsical twist called Form/Unformed.

Coming next is Face to Face, an exhibit devoted to the key donors who’ve brought an international flavor to the museums permanent collection.  Youth and Beauty will come to the Barrel Vault in March.  Having enjoyed Making It New: The Art and Style of Sarah and Gerald Murphy back in 2008, I’m looking forward to another look at the Art of the American Twenties.    And to compliment Youth and Beauty, a collection of prints, drawings and photographs will be on exhibit one of the Focus Galleries.

May will bring George Groetz’s Impressionistic views of Dallas and late summer will see the arrival of plumed serpents from Ancient Mexico.  May will also bring an installation by famed glass artisan Chihully to the Dallas Arboretum, so this will be a very artful summer to visit Dallas.  Don’t miss it!

TRAVEL THERE: COW TOWN CULTURE SHOCK

For a little change of pace, Bill and I drove over to Ft. Worth yesterday. We’re no strangers to the other half of the Metroplex. We make regular pilgrimages to Joe T. Garcia’s and the museums.  Ft. Worth is no slouch when it comes to culture.  However, yesterday was not about museums or Mexican food.  We were on our way to the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo.

My Western Heritage

Fresh out of high school, I went down to Stephen F. Austin State University.  Before long, I was scooting my own pair of Tony Lamas across the dance hall floor to the sounds of Ray Wylie Hubbard and Jerry Jeff Walker.  I dated a bull rider and lost his heart to a barrel racer.  I hung up the tooled leather belt with my name on the back a long time ago, but after that taste of rodeos and round ups,  I thought I knew country.

So, was I ever in for a surprise!

Rodeo Seats Sold Out

My first surprise was a sold-out rodeo.  It’s not like I showed up on opening day and expected a ring side seat.  This thing had been going on for weeks.  I assumed most everyone would have already been there.  Whether the cowpunchers were just getting around to it or were coming again, they were there in force.  Bill and I settled for general admission tickets to the stock show grounds.

When I visit The Great State Fair of Texas over here in Dallas, my many years of Fletcher’s Corny Dogs have etched a map of Fair Park into my brain.  I know exactly where to park and short cuts to all my favorite attractions.  That wasn’t the case yesterday.  We took the shuttle from Billy Bob’s, faced disappointment in the rodeo ticket line and then wandered around lost.  We ended up in the exhibits halls, but before I get to that let me tell you about the animals.

Shock at the Sheep Barn

By serendipity we stumbled out of the exhibits into the sheep barn.  There Bill got his first up-close-and- personal look at a shorn ewe.  He was a little thunderstruck.  “Do you know what that looks like,” he asked.  Let’s just say he finally understood the joke he’d heard about men who are men and scared sheep.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable and somewhat embarrassed, he herded me on to the rabbit barn.  The cute little bunnies offered some education of their own.  Many cages sported signs saying, “I bite.”  Not what we expected from Peter Rabbit and Thumper.  Then someone took one of their rabbits out of the cage and the animal had more fight in it than some of the bulls I’ve seen in rodeos.

Moving on, we discovered the cow barns and some more cow barns and then even more cow barns.  We’d obviously wandered into the mother lode.  Practical iron railings in concrete set the scene for cattle lolling in stacks of hay, but in spite of the utilitarianism of the surroundings,  it was almost as if you could smell the money.  This was serious business.  Each heifer and bull was immaculately clean and recently blown dry.  I saw one cow crook her neck to lick some spot of discomfort and the owner flew to the cow’s side to scratch away the cow’s concern in order to avoid saliva besmirching the perfect coiffure.

I don’t know all that much about raising cattle, but I know expensive equipment when I see it, even if I don’t know what it’s for.  There were all manner of things I didn’t recognize in the stalls with the cattle and the faces of the cattle folk were stern.  Squinted eyes pored over the well-groomed livestock for flaws.  They were all getting ready for either the auction area or a panel of judges – and both demanded perfection.  These cows and bulls weren’t pets or hobbies, they were livelihood.  If we’d doubted that, we were corrected when we happened upon an auction where bulls were going for the price of luxury cars.

Still, we were aliens in a strange land.  In stalls, next to the cows, were sleeping bags and coolers for the human cattle.  Mom and Dad might be running the ranch, but in the ring, teens were showing the huge products of their pastures.  City slicker sanitary concerns were thrown out the window as kids ate funnel cake sitting atop the family cow and a cowgirl drank her beer while blow-drying her heifer.

We were eventually all cowed out and welcomed the sounds of horses hooves, but these weren’t just any horses.  We’d found the Gypsy Horses.  These beautiful, muscular mounts sported long manes, luxurious tails and furry fetlocks.  In the bovine arenas we’d been satisfied to stand at the top, watch the activity for a few minutes and then move on.  These lovely animals demanded that we find a seat and pay homage to them.

We learned from the announcer that Gypsy Horses were the newest recognized breed in America.  We also found out that they used to be solid colored, until the English were conscripting horses in World War I (think Spielberg’s Warhorse) and the wily gypsies found out that the military only wanted solid colored horses.  So, they started breeding the horses for painted coats.  The result is stunning.

The Exhibits

Now, back to those exhibits.  Like our familiar State Fair in Dallas, there were salad slicers, fudge flavors, massagers and glasses cleaners.  Unlike the sports cars we salivate over in Dallas, the Ft. Worth Stock Show vehicles are real muscle machines.  The tires were as tall as my six foot husband and the tread’s fist deep.  Though we have no use for or understanding of the multiple kinds of equipment we saw, we wandered among them as if they were masterpieces carved out by Michelangelo.

But what really amazed me was the bah-da-bing-bah-dah-BLING.  Thirty years ago, western wear was plaid shirts and Wranglers.  Let me tell you that those days are over.  Heavily embroidered jewel-encrusted jeans filled the clothing emporiums.  Forget hand-tooled leather with flowing floral patterns framing your name.  These belts had enough bling to make Rhinestone Cowboy Glen Campbell seem understated.

I remember when boots were all about the pointed lizard-skin wing-tip toe, but in a croc-meets-cowboy kind of amalgamation.  Now its wide-toed boots, under-girded all the way to the heel with double stitched soles.  What’s more, instead of colors like peanut brittle, black and brown in smooth stitched leather, the ladies were trying on suede boots in taupe and pink.

And those mother-of-pearl topped snaps that used to adorn western shirts?  Fuhgeddaboutit!  It was all embellished t-shirts with patterns borrowed from the tattoo parlor.

Well, I’m more informed about my country cousins now and if you hurry over to Ft. Worth, the Stock Show goes through Saturday, you can be, too.  One things for sure, if I go next year, I’m wearing rhinestones.

TRAVEL THERE: WILL MY CONSCIOUS LET ME GO TO CRYSTAL BRIDGES

It’s all my husband’s fault.  He’s the one who recorded the TV show about Alice Walton’s new Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art.  In his defense, I seriously doubt he recorded it with the intention of tempting me to abandon my principles, but that’s how things happen.  One minute you’re just watching a little mindless TV, the next you’re wondering if you’d be more successful at serial murders than the guy they just caught on Criminal Minds.

The Temptations of TV

And the fact that he watched the show one afternoon while I was getting ready to leave the house?  Well, he often chills out from trading after the market closes by watching a little something on TV.  The show about the Walmart heir’s museum was just a fluke.

Some radar I have no explanation for alerted me Bill was watching something about Walmart.  I heard the interviewer ask Ms. Walton about the people who bore a grudge against her father’s store.  I peeked around the corner to catch the answer.  The nice gray-headed lady in the bright blue sweater was polite, gracious and wise.  Walmart one – Me zero.

See Walmart doesn’t know it, but we’re in a war.  I’m one of those anti-Walmart people the interviewer asked about.  Originally it was all about narrow aisles, dim lighting and poor quality merchandise, but if you’ve been to Walmart lately, you know they’ve resolved those issues.

Then I held them responsible for the death of Mom and Pop stores in small town America.  I relished articles I’d read accusing Walmart of breaking promises they’d made to city councils, enjoyed the sex discrimination suit brought against them by women employees, loved it when I saw a documentary about their sweat shops in China and applauded when I read this article about lawn mowers.

The Challenges of Avoiding Walmart

I self-righteously didn’t shop at Walmart for years and then we moved to Pismo Beach.  In Pismo Beach, you either shop at Walmart or you stay home.  For six years, I shopped at Walmart through gritted teeth – each visit fueling my angst.

Moving back to Texas meant I had my choice of shopping venues, including my beloved Target, but my mom was a fly in the ointment.  She loves Walmart.  I didn’t want my eighty-something mom getting run over in their parking lot, so I started taking her.  She still loves Walmart, but her canny price savvy gave me new ammunition in my war.

She recognized which items were the truly low-priced loss leaders and which were higher priced rip-offs.  Sure there’s that Low Price Guarantee, but who’s really going to ask for it.  Then there was the way they’d offer brand name favorites, right up until they negotiated a deal for the product to be sold under their own label.  Maybe that Great Value stuff is the same thing as the stuff they quit selling, but who really knows.

Then I found out my husband was making regular visits to Walmart for fruits, frozen food and toiletries.  I weaned him away from the fruit by comparing one of my Market Street apples to the Walmart variety and showed him how Walmart was charging more for some of the frozen food, but it was Target that saved him from the toiletries aisle.  The Target Red Card debit card gives you five percent back on every purchase.  Take that Low Price Guarantee!

And so the war waged, on and on.  Walmart won some rounds and I won others.    My mom and my husband might shop there on occasion, but they can’t get me to do it.  I know Walmart doesn’t lose any sleep over me or the rest of the anti-Walmart crowd, but I felt like it was a battle I wanted to continue.

Then there was Crystal Bridges.  I’ll confess, I’m dying to go.  I’ll even confess that I’ve already picked out a weekend in February that would be perfect for the visit.  But I’m having a battle with my conscious.

Can I really go to a museum made possible by the marketing strategies of the man I think is responsible for the global economy’s threat to American prosperity, the death of small business, the disappearance of service and the replacement of value with mere price comparison.  I don’t know….what do you think?

TRAVEL HERE: FASHION AS ART

Pack your bags!  The Dallas Museum of Art is now a fashion destination.  Come see The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gaultier, From the Sidewalk to the Catwalk.

The Kick-off Party

Last Friday selected members of the museum attended a private soiree to kick off the new Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit.  The latest in wearable art filled the museum’s sidewalks, as did many pairs of very expensive blue jeans.  Mr. Gaultier’s fashions on exhibition were certainly art, but few of us would actually wear them…and price wouldn’t be the only hindrance.

Art is one of my reigning passions.  Of course, I love paintings and sculpture, but I have a preference for the practical.  I linger among watercolors, oils and marbles, but must be forcibly dragged out of Decorative Arts galleries.  A Victorian Silver Service for forty with a different fork for every type of food fascinates me.  Porcelain, crystal, pottery, furniture – it’s all compelling.  And decorative arts don’t have to be in a museum to get my attention.  A truly beautiful carafe in Crate and Barrel or a new teapot design at Target will bring me to a halt and make me forget what I came in for.

For me, fashion fits right into the Decorative Arts.  I love gorgeous fabrics manipulated into functional garments which flatter the wearer.  Many years ago when I visited England, my favorite museum was Bath’s Museum of Costume, now called the Fashion Museum.   We may laugh at the impracticality of bustles and crinolines, but when done right, the effects can be breathtaking.  And then there’s Jean Paul Gaultier.

Other Fashionable Art

Though the exhibition is Gaultier’s first, it’s not the DMA’s  first fashion foray.  As I stood in line, my mind wandered back to the mid-eighties.  Dallas was all aflutter over the acquisition of the Reves Collection.  For several years it seemed as if we should rename the whole museum Wendy’s Place.  I volunteered frequently at the DMA back then and it was not unusual to see Wendy Reves breeze in and out amid her flock of admirers.

In addition to the many lovely items the Reves Collection permenantly added to the museum’s holdings, Wendy also let us borrow some of her clothes.  The exhibition of her wardrobe wasn’t mounted in the DMA, yet it remains one of my favorites by the institution.  Wendy, a top fashion model in her younger days possessed an impeccable taste in clothes.    Well, maybe it was just similar to mine, but I loved absolutely every item in the exhibition.  I could easily imagine wearing each ensemble and wished for a life filled with the occasions to demand such a wardrobe.

The Exhibition

Most of what I knew about Gaultier, the museum’s current exhibit, was limited to perfume bottles and Madonna.  I love fashion, but couture is a little outside my budget.  When I do see photographs from couture catwalks I wonder where I would wear the ensembles and why top designers seem to no longer have an interest in pretty clothes.  Worth, Chanel and Lanvin would not approve.

Once I was admitted inside the exhibit I began to understand.  These creations do not suggest what I should wear, but address the social issues behind why I wear what I do.  Golden mermaids sport bras with the same problem as Pinocchio’s nose.  Men wear maxi skirts with the double button fronts of sailor’s trousers.  An elaborate framework of yarn covered circles allows the audience to see the body of one mannequin, while strategically placed pieces cloth with a religious theme hide the x-rated parts.  All this and I was barely inside the exhibit.

I turned to make a comment to my husband and he was gone.  Scanning the crowd I saw Bill awestruck across the room.  Fashion might be the focus of this exhibit, but it does not define its extent.  State-of-the-art mannequins display the clothes.  Instead of sculpted features, videos of actual people talking, smiling and blinking provide the faces.  In fact, Gaultier himself speaks to the crowd through one of the mannequins.  While most of the people in the room were commenting on fabrics and headgear, Bill discussed technology with a stranger.  Instead of gazing at elaborately embroidered lame’, he studied the trajectory of the ceiling mounted projectors.

The next room is devoted to Gaultier’s boudoir phase.  If you know his perfume bottle then you will feel at home, but the corsets for men and the female-corset clad male mannequins reveal his goal was greater than mere foundations for chubby women.  Sexuality and gender are Gaultier’s targets.

The blurring of gender lines continues and intesifies in the exhibit’s center room.  I doubt they’ll be taking third graders here.  Form fitting body suits are emblazoned with life-sized nude graphics.  What is covered is also revealed -both in form and and in photography.  Digging deeper, another body suit delves beyond the skin and sports graphics of the muscles underneath.  Reading the labels next to the display cases, Gaultier’s own words express his frustration with fashion gender.  Though he may be right, are we actually able to embrace his ideas?  The patent leather clad dominatrix astride her male companion in another display case seems almost banal in comparison to some of the mannequins.  After all, the costume was designed for Madonna.

I found the next portion of the exhibit to be the most entertaining.  Extraordinarily garbed mannequins glide at catwalk level before your eyes.  Though most of the fashions would never be seen on the streets of Dallas, Gaultier tricks you into thinking they might.  Take the black and white hounds-tooth bodysuit for instance.  I’d need to tighten up my thighs before donning it, but I could imagine a twenty-something walking into the hottest nightclub venue wearing it.  That is, I could until I realized the bodysuit also completely encased the head.

But for all of the obvious outlandishness, I truly began to see the skill of Gaultier beneath his shock factor.  Details like the closure on a green leather handbag, the lines of a sequined gown or a perfect pair of black pumps begged to become a part of my own wardrobe.  The beauty of the craftsmanship, the richness of the fabrics and the way the sleeves became shoulders were all signs Gaultier was not only an artist with ideas concerning self-image, sexuality, gender and politics, he was also a gifted artisan.

The final room was pure pleasure.  I found the fashion under the artist’s commentary.  I appreciated his vision.  Each costume included an elaborate creation for the mannequin’s head.  Some were as fantastic as costumes for the Ziegfeld Follies, but a collage of tortoise shell combs on one made me wonder if I could sport something like it to an event during the holidays.  Then Bill was through with fashion for the evening.  We joined the revelers in the atrium, who shook their booty while we checked out the buffet.

Go, go, go to The Fashion World of Jean Paul Gautier.  It will be in Dallas until February 12th.  I have these suggestions for you.  Plan your visit when the museum is not crowded.  The buzz in the room was so loud I could not appreciate the talking mannequins.  Observe more than the clothes; you’ll enjoy the technology and the people watching.  Bring an open mind.  This show is not about your closet or what you would be comfortable wearing.  Gaultier was aiming above the heads and bodies of we commoners.  And be ready to go with the flow.  Then you’ll have fun and maybe you’ll even expand your fashion sense.  Oh, and look for me.  I plan to be there often.

TRAVEL HERE: TRAVEL TO ANOTHER IDENTITY FOR HALLOWEEN

So who will you be this Halloween?  I’m not one of those that goes to the costume shop and buys a ready-made costume. Can you tell?

Halloween Costumes

For Halloween my husband and I have dressed as everything from the proverbial ugly American tourists to each other.  One year we bought scrubs and disposable gloves.  I was the doctor and he was the nurse – a decade ago that was funnier than it is today.  The last time we dressed up, I was thankful for his Middle Eastern heritage.  During our travels in that part of the world, we’d both gotten beautiful galabeyas.  Overwhelmed by my schedule, in the last moments before a party, I added a hijab made with a black scarf to my black caftan with golden embroidery and Bill wore his white ensemble without a headdress.  We had the most authentic costumes, if not the most creative.

These costumes were fairly tame, but in my younger years I was a little more adventurous.  One night during my clubbing years, I wrapped a white sheet fetchingly around my body and claimed I was Cleopatra.  Another year I did something similar and chose to call myself a Greek Goddess.  Without a doubt however, my most popular costume of all time was Trash and for a while I wore it year after year.

Though I’m very content with my homemade costumes now, there was a time when I dreamed of being able to afford a “real” costume – but my budget didn’t allow it.  So each year I’d dream up something I could cobble together out of my own wardrobe.  One year I lamented to a friend that all I could afford for a Halloween costume was a trash bag.  As soon as I said it, the creative juices started to flow and my Trash costume was born.

My Trashy Days

On the big night, I put on a pair of tights and my best high-heeled pumps.  I stepped into a trash bag I’d modified by cutting leg holes in it.  A friend suggested stuffing the bag with newspaper to fill it out, but instead, I tied an elasticized gold gift-wrapping cord around my waist.  Someone else said I should cut armholes in the bag and make a ruffled collar with the ends of the bag.  Instead, I tied a knot in the bag right next to my left shoulder to create an asymmetrical decolletage.  Then coming out of the bag along with my shoulders was some carefully selected trash, like an Aquafresh box, a crumpled page from a fashion magazine and the pasteboard core of a roll of Charmin.

But no lady’s outfit is complete without accessories.  I turned a box of Wheat Thins into a handbag with a paperclip chain. I wore small gold stud earrings, but dangled an artfully crushed Mr. Goodbar wrapper from one earring.  Topping off the ensemble was a large toilet paper bow.

Not even Cleopatra’s pet rubber snake had gotten as much attention my trashy pin-up garb.  This costume was such a success that I wore it year after year, from the toilet paper bow right down to the high-heeled pumps.  Don’t worry, I didn’t save the trash from year to year.  I just re-invented my look each year with different brands. I even tried to wear the costume once as an old married lady, but I wasn’t allowed out the door.

Now, even though a “real” costume is more affordable, what fun would that be?  If I were going to dress as a famous author, I wonder what my closet would offer up?  Most likely, I’ll be on my couch tonight, worn out from another day of getting ready for my parent’s estate sale…but next year?  Any ideas?

TRAVEL THERE: PACKING LIGHT VS. PACKING WHAT YOU NEED

Have you ever been to one of those travel demonstrations where someone packs four items into a knapsack and has everything she needs for a twenty-six day tour of Europe?  Well, I can assure you, that woman is not me, but not because I haven’t tried.

My Best Effort at Packing Light

The closest I ever came to this kind of packing was two weeks in England with one bag.  Well, actually it was a hang-up bag that hooked to and wrapped around a sort of tote bag.  I carried two pairs of pants, a skirt, one pair of shoes, several tops and a fold-up raincoat.  According to The Packing Lady I was ready for anything.  I arrived at Gatwick wearing a snappy straw hat, a navy knit shirt, a cozy cardigan, navy trousers, navy espadrilles and strappy red sandals.

Let’s start with the hat.  I’d been assured England would be balmy and dry in June.  Certainly there are no guarantees, so I was told to bring a fold-up raincoat, also.  Most days had several hours of sunshine, but every day also had fog, most were misty and the rest were downright rainy.   In the damp weather, the straw hat grew, the hat band shrunk and a perky feather gave up and rolled over.

Then there was my sweater.  I bought a thick, soft, cable-knit fisherman’s cardigan with a wide collar, generous pockets and leather buttons especially for the trip.  In the projected balmy weather I planned to keep this sweater handy, for the few times I might need it.  Instead, I was so cold I wore it every day, all day long, and a time or two I wore it over my pajamas to bed.  The sweater grew every day.  This growth did prove to be beneficial.  You know how you can sometimes sort your photographs by what you wore on a certain day.  Well,  since the sweater made it impossible to tell what else I might be wearing on any given day, the increasing size of the sweater had to provide the satorial sorting hints.

In the final picture I had on the same navy trousers I wore in the Gatwick picture, but it was the last time I wore them – ever.  I was so sick and tired of those pants after the trip that I could never talk myself into wearing them again.

The navy blue espadrilles didn’t make it to the final picture.  More than anything else I’d selected to bring to England, they’d done their job.  They coordinated reasonably well with everything I wore.  They were also quite comfortable as I dallied in the marble halls of museums, pounded the pavement and crossed cobblestones.  However, we spent the last few days of our trip in London proper and it rained – a lot.  At the end of the second day of schlepping around in the  pouring rain, I had to say farewell the espadrilles. That left the strappy red sandals which were supposed to dress up my outfits for evening wear.

I don’t care what The Packing Lady says, it takes more than a pair of strappy red sandals to feel dressed up.  As I’d wandered around the other parts of England, Dover, Arundel, Brighton, Stratford-upon-the-Avon, the Cotswold, the Potteries and even a day or so in Edinburgh, the strappy red sandals and my nice black slacks did the trick for the evening, but London was a different story.  I felt particularly dowdy among the fashionable Londoners.  We went to the theater, ate in a swanky restaurant and even visited the Savoy – but all the time I felt like a bag lady who might get booted out any moment.

And for the last day of sight-seeing?  Fuhgeddaboutit!  The rain had stopped, but water was standing everywhere.  The wheels  of every vehicle aimed a spray of water right at my feet.  It’s a wonder the poor sandals stayed together long enough to get me back to the US with shoes on.

There’s another problem you can’t see in the picture, my unmentionables are damp.  Yes, The Packing Lady convinced me to only carry a few pieces of lingerie in my bag and rinse them out after I’d worn them each day.  After the first four days, I’d washed out all my lingerie and none of it ever dried.  Ever.

The only item of this travel wardrobe that still graces my closet is the fold-up raincoat.  Instead of buying the plastic disposable kind The Packing Lady suggested, my mother talked me into forking out the money for a navy blue nylon number.  Mom assured me it was a good investment and would last for years.  Well, it’s lasted for years and it’s taken a lot of trips with me, but I don’t think I’ve worn it since London.  It’s huge.  It’s shapeless.  It has a hood.  Need I say more.

Now I Pack Heavy

So, I’ve expunged The Packing Lady from my list of travel experts.  I no longer try to cram everything I need into a single bag.  Instead, I research the maximum luggage allowance.

For any trip, I pack every possible sleepwear combo from a sexy babydoll to flannel jobs with feet in them.  I plan two or three outfits for every day and if some of them mix and match fine, but I’ll never wear a pair of navy trousers eight out of fourteen days again.  One of those daily outfits is always a knock ’em dead dress.  And I don’t have to tell you that there’s a pair of shoes for each outfit.  Just in case, along with my navy blue nylon raincoat, I have everything from a light shawl to a quilted ski coat.  And lingerie?  Heck I dump all the drawers in my lingerie chest into my tote bag.  No more damp cheeks for me!

Forget The Packing Lady!  What are your secrets to packing for a trip?

TRAVEL HERE; CORNY DOGS, THE NATIONAL FOOD OF THE STATE FAIR OF TEXAS

Have you been to The Great State Fair of Texas, yet? It’s hyperbole to say that everything’s bigger in Texas, but when you’re talking state fairs, it’s only the honest truth.  And the fair’s mascot, Big Tex will never be called Tiny.  According to it’s website, the State Fair of Texas has been around in one form or another since 1886, but it really took off for the Texas Centennial Celebration in 1935.

The History of the Fair

Dallas went to great lengths to spruce up the fairgrounds as a part of the official Centennial Celebration and the actual State Fair was skipped that year.  Fort Worth had been overlooked by the Centennial Committee, but they decided to sponsor their own celebration anyway.  You can read about that at the Texas State Historical Society.  The not-so-friendly competition between Dallas and Fort Worth resulted in some magnificent architecture and since Art Deco was all the rage about that time, the fairgrounds ended up with some real gems.

Famous Fair Food

The food of the State Fair of Texas is so amazing that it gathers national attention.  Even Oprah visited the food court once to sample it’s collection of fried thises and thats.  Pickles, Snickers, Butter – you name it – someone will deep fry it.  The real star of the show however is the Fletcher’s Corny Dog.

Now I know it would be real easy to turn up your nose at corny dogs.  I’ve had those nasty excuses for a corny dog that they peddle in the freezer section of the grocery store.  In desperation, I even had those mall substitutes, deep fried by surly paper-hatted teens.  I’m not talking about those corny dogs.

I mention my desperation for a Fletcher’s Corny Dog, because I can’t just decide I want one and go get it whenever it pleases me.  It takes planning.  They only do Fletcher’s Corny Dogs at special events and venues.  They tried drive through restaurants once and found out they couldn’t maintain the quality and service they were famous for over the long haul of daily operations. Fletcher’s did what they did best in spurts.

I’m a big fan of Fletcher’s Corny Dogs, but I’m not one of those people who plans my life around the events where I can find one.  However, I never pass an opportunity to get one.  If I’m at a fair, festival or special event and I spy a Fletcher’s booth I will get immediately get in line – in fact, I’ll probably be in line several times before the day is over – diet be damned!

But I never want a year to pass where I don’t eat a Fletcher’s Corny Dog, so come hell or high water, I attend the State Fair every year.  That’s where Fletcher’s first served their little miracle on a stick and it’s still their biggest event of the year.  Oh, I’ll enjoy all the animals, the creative arts, the cars and the concerts.  I’ll probably even ride a few rides.  But understand this, I’m going for the corny dogs.

There’s one other thing I need to tell you about corny dogs at the fair.  You can’t just sidle over and whip out your roll of cash.  It won’t buy you a thing.  First you have to go to the coupon kiosk.  The coupons will let you buy food, ride rides and visit attractions.  You get twenty coupons for $10.  Don’t tell Bill, but I always encourage him to buy too many coupons, so I’ll have an excuse to buy one more corny dog on the way out.

The State Fair of Texas and Fletcher’s Corny Dogs are a great reason to come to Dallas, but hurry, because there are only six days left!

TRAVEL THERE; EVERYTHING IS COMING UP ROSES AT THE TYLER ROSE FESTIVAL

So, what do you have planned for the weekend?  Here’s something you might not have considered:  The Tyler Rose Festival.

My Love for Tyler Roses

If you’re a Dallasite, you might remember the days when Tyler roses were sold on street corners.  Teenagers standing next to metal washtubs offered roses wrapped in butcher paper or newspaper and bound with a rubber bands.  I don’t remember the exact price, but it couldn’t have been much, because during rose season I rarely showed up at my Mom’s without a bunch of yellow roses and didn’t have much in the way of discretionary income.  Sure you can stop by almost any grocery store today and pick up some roses fairly inexpensively, but that takes planning.  The serendipitous joy of spotting a Tyler Rose stand and buying the fragrant offerings has disappeared.

My affection for Tyler Roses began at an early age.  One of my uncles was night watchman at the Dallas Country Club.  Whenever I spent the night with Aunt Hiley, Uncle Herman would come home in the morning with an armload of Tyler roses.  One bunch would be for his wife, one for my mom and another just for me.  The Tyler Rose people delivered roses to the DCC just about the time my uncle finished his shift.  One time I was even allowed to go to work with Uncle Herman and the floral delivery is one of my favorite memories from that night.

About the Festival

When I thumbed through my October edition of Texas Highways the other day,  looking for fall activities to enjoy, an article about the Tyler Rose Festival on page 67 captured my eye.  One glance at the riot of color in their featured picture and I remembered  I’d been to the Tyler Rose Festival. I can’t be sure how long ago that was, but everyone was sporting shoulder pads.

The Tyler Rose Festival began way back in the 1930’s.  The rest of the world was suffering from The Depression, but oil was booming in East Texas.  A Tyler garden club decided to have a festival highlighting local rose growers.  They also hoped to prove Texas was not bereft of culture.  The result was a glamorous event carefully cultivated with plenty of fertilizer.

The roses are glorious.  According to the Rose Festival’s site, “Approximately one-fifth of all commercial rose bushes produced in the United States are grown in Smith County, while over one-half of the nation’s rose bushes are packaged and shipped from this area.”  So it stands to reason that Tyler “is home to the nation’s largest Municipal Rose Garden. From late April until frost, the Tyler Municipal Rose Garden blooms with nearly 40,000 rose bushes exhibiting approximately 500 varieties of roses. Over 100,000 people from around the world visit the Rose Garden annually.”

But there’s more!  One of the most coveted titles in Texas is “Rose Queen.”  The Rose Queen and her court reign over the festival with a pomp and circumstance worthy of a royal wedding.  The Rose Queen is crowned on Friday evening and she’s the star attraction of Saturday’s Rose Parade and Queen’s Tea.  Tickets to the parade are $3, but we’re all invited to the Tea.

Though I can’t remember what year I visited the Rose Festival, it had to be before 1992, because KTRE tells me that’s when the Rose Museum opened.  Exhibits include everything from equipment used in the cultivation of roses to Rose Queen coronation gowns dating back to 1935.  Faithful readers of my blog will quickly recognize the reason for my excitement concerning my visit to Tyler this year.

There’s a lot to do in Dallas in October.  You might be attending the State Fair, enjoying Autumn at the Arboretum or seeing The Promise in Glen Rose.  But if you haven’t yet made plans, don’t stay home.  October is Texas at its best.

In a world where YA paranormal is all the rage, I’m a pretty down to earth kind of girl. With so many breathlessly waiting for Pottermore, I know my disinterest in vampires, witches and warlocks is the exception rather than the rule, but I still can’t stir up my enthusiasm.

What does get me excited is history.  I live for museums.  My poor husband knows that when he travels with me, he’s going to be visiting a lot more museums than the average tourist.

However, all history is not found within museum walls.  Battle fields deliver their own measure of the past, though I confess they do about as much for me as the latest werewolf.  I stand by some beautiful field listening to birds sing and watching the sun wink between the leaves and cannot imagine the clash of battle and the flow of blood.

Historic homes, especially castles and palaces, certainly bring the past alive.  Dover, Arundel, Knowle House.  Neuschwanstein, Schonbrunner, Linderhof .  Monticello, La Cuesta Encantada, Biltmore.  I hold the memories of these pilgrimages close to my heart.

Ancient places of worship deliver a dose of awe.  The hair on my neck still rises remembering my chance arrival at Salisbury Cathedral during organ practice.  Recalling the Mariachi Mass at San Jose Mission in San Antonio brings tears to my eyes.  Visiting St. Catherine’s Monastery in the middle of the Sinai Peninsula, where Christians have gathered since the 3rd century and Moses met the daughters of Jethro, was truly a spiritual experience.

I will never forget any of these moments, but every once and a while – every once and a great while – History will speak to travelers and I’ve been lucky enough to hear her three times.

The first time, History’s voice surprised me on the bare Salisbury Plain after the impromptu organ concert at Salisbury Cathedral.  Perhaps my senses were heightened by the  music which had swirled around me as I gazed at remarkable stained glass windows.  As we drove across the flat plains, Stonehenge stood out starkly against the sky.  I paid for a ticket and joined a group led by a guide to stand among the stones.  After a walking history lesson the guide led us to the stones and gave us a few minutes to wander among them.  (I’ve heard that you can no longer get as close to them as I did that day.)

As I stood among the stones, the wind lifted my hair and I could hear voices. It was if I stood in the midst of a cocktail party which I could hear, but not see, and the other guests were playing a wild game of historical charades.  One group banged chisels against stone, while others clanked about in armor.  Women slid by me with the rustle of silk and the soft slither of suede.  All the voices seemed to call out the titles of historical events which once played out their consequences on Britain’s soil.  The wind died and the voices faded.  I was alone.

Decades passed and I visited Sedona, AZ.  I found all the buzz about vortexes and little gray men quite humorous.  On a lark, my husband and I picked up a map of the area’s reputed vortexes.  We merrily visited private airports and local parks.  Finally, we headed out of town to the red canyons.  The overwhelming scenery inspired Bill to frequently stop the car and take up another canister of film.  (You do remember film don’t you?)

At one photo opportunity, long after we’d given up on the vortex map, I got out of the car and stepped away from the clicking camera.  There was a sudden chill and the sky changed.  The sound of hoofbeats filled the air and singing – many voices raised together in a chant.  Startled, I shook myself and scanned the horizon.  There was nothing.  The singing faded and the air returned to the bright day I’d been sharing with my husband.  I was reminded of the day on the Salisbury Plain and began to wonder if there were places where time and space have a weaker hold over us.

My final brush with the sound of History was at the Giza Plateau.  The day was typically touristy.  Our driver took us for fools and tried to scam us at a papyrus “museum.”  Then rather than delivering us to Giza’s main entrance, he dropped us off in some ancient neighborhood where we had to hire a horse and a camel to take us to the actual Pyramids.  I’d dreamed of this all of my life, but felt like I was caught in a Chevy Chase travel comedy.

Thankfully the Pyramids are so awesome they can overshadow any typical tourist frustrations.  We climbed the Sphinx, explored dimly lit chambers and then remounted our hired animals.  Heading back to the stables, the view of Cairo was breathtaking.  A haze sheltered the city.  I was struck by the way crosses and crescents populated the skyline.

Then I realized I’d been listening to sounds for which there was no explanation.  It was a late November afternoon and we shared the attraction with only a handful of tourists.  I felt as if I’d woken after a nap to discover someone had been watching TV in the next room, when it takes a few moments to separate the TV noise from the silence.

The vague noises were sounds of labor:  grunts of effort, sighs of frustration, shouted threats and heated arguments.  The heat shimmered on the sand and it seemed as if as soon as the shine disappeared, many toiling slaves would come into sight.  But as the sand returned to its burnt buff color, we were alone and true silence returned.

Those are my paranormal experiences.  It would be easy to mark them down to an overactive imagination, but I was just as excited to see The Tower, many a haunted plantation and Edinburgh castle – all of which are supposed to be just as para-normally active as these three sites.  Is there something special about the days I visited on or something going on with me that I didn’t realize?  I don’t know all the answers, but I’ll always treasure the experiences.  I hope someday History will speak to me again.