I found this doll’s dress at a junk store yesterday. It was hanging on a little hanger, mixed in with a myriad of other stuff.
As I carried it around the store with me, I pictured the grandmother who crocheted it and how she hoped that her granddaughter would adore it, all white and gold. I pictured the little girl’s delight as she imagined that one day she herself wear a dress that looked just like this one. Her grandmother might make her a thick cotton slip for modesty, but the skirt would still swirl in a full circle of white and gold.
I also found this book in a junk store. It’s called My Favorite Things (1964) by Dorothy Rodgers. I had to google Dorothy Rodgers to figure out why people should care about her favorite things.
She’s Richard Rodgers’s wife. The Richard Rodgers of Rogers and hart and Rogers and Hammerstein. Dot’s a bit of a forerunner to Martha Stewart, advising that when you have house guests, you should ask them if they prefer a breakfast tray to their room or coming down to breakfast. And then you tell the cook.
It’s filled with these lovely ink wash illustrations as well as photos on incredibly full rooms, with Miro’s on the walls.
Both of these items are hopes for the future.
Both ended up at Junk stores because they didn’t represent someone else’s hopes. And then I giggle about the hopes of mine that will find their way to junk stores — the box of springs that’s going to be something one day, ditto the tiny Tinkertoys and bags of plastic ducks and rubber fish. And Mom’s ribbons and trim that were too good to throw away that remind me of her hopes. And all those partial projects.
Would you recognize them as hopes?