A Person of Size

I'm throwing out lots of stuff in preparation for throwing out lots more stuff when I'm older, and this washed up on the tide of junque from yesteryear: a Simplicity pattern -- wait! What's a "pattern"?

A pattern is a guide, printed on tissue paper, for cutting appropriately sized pieces of fabric for sewing, and the envelope includes a printed step-by-step illustrated guide, in three languages and with idiot graphics, as to how to sew the pieces together and do the other tasks required for completion, such as pressing open the seams and inserting elastic into the tunnel one creates for the waistline. Apparently at one time (the presence of a bar code indicates 1975 or later) I got the jones to sew for myself an elastic-waist skirt or capris, and I did, because I used the pattern and kept the tissue-paper pattern pieces nicely folded in this envelope in case I wanted to re-use them to sew me some more of that with the Kenmore sewing machine that was my college graduation gift.

You gotta understand America was different then. Piles of cheap gaudy-bawdy synthetic clothes sewn in Asia that you wore for one season and chucked: Oh, no. You cared for clothes. If certain clothing items were not available, or you never found an affordable/desirable item on repeated trips to several stores, logic led you finally to buy a pattern and fabric and some notions and custom-sew the item yourself as all girls learned to do at age 12 in Home Economics class. We  didn't yet hate Spanish-speaking people either.

But OMG, the size chart is the most stunning thing. As a populace we are a lot broader and dumpier than we used to be, and ready-to-wear manufacturers have adjusted clothing sizes accordingly (called "vanity sizing") and although today I wear clothes labeled "small" or "extra small," size 4 or 6, and folks call me "model thin," by the standards of 30 years ago I'd be size 14-16.

U.S. Post Office, Powell, MO

Just a nice little post office, an honest piece of America. No "developments" or "cul-de-sacs" here in Powell. No "metrosexuals" or poseurs or celebrity-mongers ever come here. No glamour at all. Perhaps the last truly honest face of any given town is its post office. Maybe that is why I love post offices. Other people love stamps. Other people love mail. What I remember of the post office of my childhood, far away from here, was being ledup some concrete steps into a temple-like building of gray granite, into a great hall all hung with smoke and painted glossy green, footsteps echoing, keys lightly jangling, counters too tall for me to see over. Down its hall were shut doors with panels of frosted glass, labeled "Private," with unmoving shadows behind them, and a flooded type of quiet, like the library, except that people were doing something even more private: getting and sending and stamping their mail, their boxes, their money orders. A great and quiet efficiency (any noisy activity confined to the docks out back) and reverence for the ideas of order and service. And say what you want about the country going to heck in a handbasket: that beautiful flag is part of my heart.

German Contributions to America

Visiting Hermann and other formerly German settlements along the Missouri River, one remembers the things German immigrants brought to America; how wonderful:

• Breweries
• Beer gardens
• Wineries
• The town band
• Oktoberfest
• Clock towers
• Turnverein (fellowship groups, like today’s “athletic clubs”)
• Bratwurst (and knackwurst, liverwurst, wieners, and so on)
• Dance halls
• Potato pancakes
• Music schools and conservatories
• Pumpernickel bread

Thank you!