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Nostalgia June 2018

Musings of an Undefeated Matriarch

Obviously I Was Born in the Wrong Century

By Sharon Kennedy

The first time my ex-husband visited, he said it was like stepping into his grandmother’s house. I was thrilled. That was the highest compliment he had ever given me. I had achieved what I was after. I had turned my home into a replica of one from the early 1900s.

I love doilies. Even the spelling of the word looks ridiculous, but that doesn’t change how I feel about the lacy little darlings I have scattered around my home. When I was young I used to tell Mom I was born in the wrong century or at least 50 years too late. I’m not sure when I fell in love with doilies, but they’ve been a part of my life since childhood. Mom said they helped keep the dust down.

Around the time my daughter was born, my doily obsession went into high gear. I rummaged through the house of my childhood and found lots of hand-crocheted tablecloths, most in pristine condition due to their lack of use. In the old days, people always saved their good stuff for special occasions. But when Christmas or Easter rolled around, there was usually too much going on and the “good stuff” was either forgotten or replaced by a festive cloth.

At one time there was a store in our town where seniors sold their handmade goods. It was a wonderful place full of unique and useful items. Some things were silly like outdoor chimes made from strips of beer cans. That didn’t appeal to me, but most of the other stuff was tempting. Knitted and crocheted afghans, mittens and hats, frilly cotton aprons, and doilies in all shapes, sizes, and colors made me a regular customer. 

I have no doubt my doily collection quickly grew as a result of that store. Like many other shoppers, I was disappointed when it closed. But one day while I was browsing the aisles of K-Mart, I spied a heap of cheap, mass-produced doilies. Although their quality was poor compared to the workmanship of seniors, I was smitten. Once again, my end tables, bookcases, nightstands, arm chairs, and every surface other than the stove was covered with a white or beige doily.

The first time my ex-husband visited, he said it was like stepping into his grandmother’s house. I was thrilled. That was the highest compliment he had ever given me. I had achieved what I was after. I had turned my home into a replica of one from the early 1900s. I had rescued furniture from garage sales, and my couch and easy chairs were reupholstered in chintz flowered prints. Oak side tables taken from our old house were stripped of their dark varnish until the beautiful oak grain was clearly visible. My walls were covered with pictures I had known all my life. I puffed up like a peacock. That is until Rick laughed. I didn’t say a word, but the next time he came around I made sure I had doilies underneath everything including his coffee cup. But doilies aren’t my only obsession. I love lace curtains. Every room except my kitchen has store-bought lace curtains at the windows. I even took the doors off my bedroom closet and replaced them with you know what. I can’t help it. I’m trapped in the wrong century. There’s no antidote for my malady. There’s no use trying to fight what comes naturally to me. My DNA is programmed for doilies.

I live in what I refer to as a “tin can.” It’s an old mobile home. It looks nice from the outside, but it looks spectacular inside. No kidding. I’ve transformed this space into a doily and lace sanctuary. When the morning and evening sun shines through my windows it’s like paradise. There’s a feeling of peace and security in my rooms unmatched in any other place I’ve visited.

My dimestore doilies and faux lace curtains are only replicas of a bygone past, but my heart is real. That must count for something

 

You know what I mean, don’t you?

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