Black and White and Red All Over

Every once in awhile, someone posts something on Facebook that really gets me going.

Last night, Connie Schultz shared a story entitled "Christina in Red," about a British electrical engineer who took photos of his daughter in 1913. Color photos. I was so taken with the story, I had to re-share on my own Facebook page.

With big sister, Denise

It's funny how the addition of color takes photos out of the past. Looking at them, you can imagine this young girl turning away from the camera to text her friend. In one shot, she's standing by a lilac bush in bloom with an expression all parents of young people have witnessed when you have ordered them to do something tedious. (Or maybe it's just her "pensive" face. It's hard to tell.)

I came of age in an era when family photographs (and television, for that matter) transitioned from mostly black and white to all color. Sometimes I have to stop and think about the various colors our house was over the years. I remember the pink checked romper I wore as a toddler, only because my mom saved it for me. But many of the other colors of my early childhood are lost in the black and white world that dominated the period.

From an artistic standpoint, I appreciate the rich texture of black and white photography. And I hate when they go back and colorize old movies. I'm glad this practice has waned. (I imagine an offshore technician in a little room somewhere deciding Bette Davis' ball gown should be green because that's the technician's favorite color.)

But I admit, I enjoy the rich color photographs that bring the world to my door. The cherry blossoms, the Aurora Borealis, the lights of distant cities.

And the old pictures from 1913, that transport me to another time and place. And make me wonder whatever happened to the Christina who lived there in a flash of red.

Hello Dolly!

Sometimes I like to sit back and let life take me where it may. Last weekend, during my trip to Columbus, that's exactly what I did.

I pointed the car toward the part of town that had boutiques and eateries and a Graeter's Ice Cream shop (yum!), and wondered where to park. Turning down a side street, I saw there was two-hour parking and pulled up in front of the Worthington Historical Society and Doll Museum.

During my childhood, I had a couple of dolls. Betsy was my go-to babe, with eyes that opened and closed. Her limbs swung back and forth but didn't bend. Her hair was styled in an auburn bubble cut. I spent many hours playing with her, changing her clothes (many of them hand-made by my mom), and engaging her in riveting conversation.

My Betsy

I've never been a really big doll person. I don't collect them or anything, but since I had agreed to follow where serendipity led, I went into the museum and had a look-see. The dolls were housed in two rooms, not in any particular order. Except for the dolls enacting the Japanese tea ceremony. (They were part of a doll exchange program with a city in Japan whose name escapes me.)

So, there I was, wondering why the muse led me there, when my eyes fell on a doll that totally stole my heart. She was dressed in a peach satin number complete with feathery trim and was wearing lace up booties. She had this amazing face. I wanted to break the glass and run off with her, but I figured they would frown on that sort of thing. Instead, I bent down to read the card: "Madame Alexander, Babs, 1948-1956"Aha.

At the end of my tour, I asked one of the volunteers if they had any literature on the dolls. Nope. Postcards? Nope. They had a gift shop but nothing about the dolls. A lost opportunity. The marketer in me despaired and decided to find out more on my own.

It turns out that Beatrice Alexander was the daughter of Russian immigrants, born in Brooklyn, New York in 1895. Her father had a doll hospital, purportedly the first of its kind in America. In 1923, she started making dolls at her kitchen table, and grew the business that is still in existence today, still in New York.

Ms. Alexander was a pioneer in American dolls. In the 1930's, she created them from movie characters, later making dolls with likenesses to other famous folks, such as Queen Elizabeth and the Dionne Quintuplets. And in 1976, she created first ladies dolls for the Smithsonian. Another fun fact: in the 1940's, she was the first to make dolls with eyes that opened and closed.

Madame A. passed away in 1990 at the age of 95. In 1997, she got her own postage stamp. Her motto, "Dolls are made to be played with and loved," is still espoused by her company, which can now be found on the internet. 

Who knew?

I went on Ebay and started looking for my Babs doll. I didn't find the exact one I fell in love with, but others from the same time period were somewhere in the $250 range. So I guess I won't own one anytime soon.

Maybe I'll email the company and ask if they have any plans to reissue some of the classic Madame Alexander dolls. Specifically, the Babs series.

That would be awesome.

In the meantime, I still have Betsy. Think I'll pull her out of mothballs and have a chat. For old times' sake.

Cutting Remarks

After much procrastinating, I finally got my hair shorn this week. Fortunately, I’m pleased with the results. But that's not always been the case.

My reluctance to get my hair cut dates back to my early years, when my mom would force my sister and me to walk up to the corner and get what they used to call a pixie cut. Translated, it means a very short bob with bangs.

 

The dreaded pixie cut.

I hated my pixie cuts.

These days, I frequent a Great Clips franchise located near my place of employment. It’s a crap shoot. The stylists change so often, it’s difficult to get the same one twice.

I have a photo of myself that shows the way I like my hair to be styled. I point and say, “Cut it like this.” I have not found this to be a guarantee of success. It is my belief that some beauticians have an idea of how to cut your hair, and they just go with that. For $13.99, you expect, what, to look like a runway model?

So I keep my expectations tiny, but sometimes I’m still whiny. I lucked out this week because my stylist listened and cut my hair exactly the way I asked her to. As a bonus, we had a discussion about hair coloring that was helpful.

Odd as it sounds, I have never colored my hair. Nope, never. But the day is nigh. The grey hairs, once an anomaly, are beginning to take over. So I know that one day soon, I will have to find someone who will do the deed and make the grey go away. For awhile. The trouble is, I know once I begin, there’s no going back, and I will be making regular appointments with a beautician.

Yes, a lot of women dye their hair at home. But I know my limitations. I don’t want to show up at work looking like Lucy.

When my mother-in-law lived with us, I used to take her to get her hair done. Now, when I think about going to a beauty parlor to get my locks colored, all I can see is a gaggle of octogenarians, paper-bibbed and ranting about their lumbagos and unruly grandchildren, while their stylists murmur, “really” and “oh my” and “what a shame.”

On the other hand, what’s so bad about grey hair? I look experienced. Mature.

Okay, okay, I get it. Move over, Agnes, I’m next.

Hopping Down the Bunny Trail

Except for the year I had chicken pox, in my childhood, Easter was a happy holiday.

The day before, we would color eggs. It was an adventure with all those kids. My mom was a saint. What a  mess. But a fun mess.

The Annual Easter Photo, BP (Before Paul)

Sunday morning meant wearing a new dress and hat to church. Then coming home and hunting for (real) Easter eggs "the bunny" would hide. As we aged and the real identity of the bunny (or, bunnies) was revealed, my older siblings would advise them when it was time to drop hints because the younger hunters still hadn't found two of the eggs and were losing interest. My parents did not want to leave the errant eggs unfound, to be discovered days or weeks later when the overpowering odor gave them away.

Then there was the Easter basket.

As with all things, my mom was excruciatingly fair. We each got a chocolate bunny, a certain number of chocolate eggs, etc. I would not be surprised if she counted the jelly beans. (I don't think we ever bothered to compare that closely, but now I'm curious.)

At some point in time, my mom stopped taking the annual photograph in the back yard. We would stand at attention in our finery right after church (the Easter clothes had be changed immediately afterward). My mom read somewhere that you should have the sun behind you when taking a picture, so we would squint gamely into the sunshine, trying not to burn our retinas, while she encouraged us to smile.

Later, with the eggs back in the cartons and secured in the fridge, destined for lunchboxes, we would nosh on chocolate until my mom held a cease fire. At around noon, we would gather to feast on ham. (I think it was ham.) And all the fixings. Then it became a typical Sunday afternoon. Then a typical Sunday evening, except with The 10 Commandments.

And we didn't have to go to school the following week.

This year, my kid will be doing his Joey Donuts thing on Easter Sunday, and, albeit with chocolate, it will be a pretty normal Sunday.

But I'm thinking of putting on a little Mitch Miller. And taking a turn around the coffee table. Just for old time's sake. (Care to join me, Paul?)

Happy Easter, everyone!