From my Lips to your Ears (2024)

My partner, Billy Knight, and I owned a small luxury hotel on the island of Vieques off the eastern coast of Puerto Rico from 1994 until 2005.

Our elegant hotel, Inn on the Blue Horizon (google it), appeared in more magazine articles than we could count. Conde Nast Traveler celebrated us many times, Travel & Leisure many times, American Vogue, In Style, Bazaar, all the foreign Vogues, and many newspaper Arts & Travels sections.

The most delightful memories of three Puerto Rican housekeepers come to mind every morning when I make my Cappuccino. Let’s call the ladies Luz, Carmen, and Clarita, not to embarrass them, my lovely housekeepers.

Our restaurant, Café Blu, offered a gorgeous breakfast to our guests each morning, and my three extraordinary ladies began the day by making breakfast, clearing tables, washing dishes before changing rooms, doing the laundry, and folding towels.

I am a stickler for style. The Wedgewood Strawberry pattern dishes had to be perfectly placed, much like the footmen at Buckingham Palace, who use measuring sticks for perfect balance. Napkins had to be folded like origami, and Waterford crystal stemware filled with water.

I purchased a restaurant espresso machine with line-in water and a robust steam mechanism. I had to instruct the ladies to steam the milk perfectly. I waited for a day when the rooms were not full or when everyone spent the day at one of the spectacular beaches on Vieques.

I brought out a gallon of milk, a few towels to clean any spillage, and aprons for us all. I thought this event would take about a half hour! I heated the red espresso machine on the counter in the Blu Bar, poured milk into a steel carafe, and made a perfect foamy froth.

I instructed the ladies to hold the steam wand precisely on the top of the milk to allow the maximum of thick, creamy foam. Luz tried first. Milk spewed everywhere: on us, our hair and faces, and the terra cotta floors. I have never heard such laughter!

Next, Carmen gave it a try, even more disastrous! She was drenched but giggling like a small child.

When Clarita took the carafe, I thought the entire bar would need a cleaning! We took turns for four hours and emptied five gallons of milk before they each got the hang of it. We had so much fun!

Now, in my home in Kentucky, when I make my morning Cappuccino, I smile, remembering our funny day covered in milk. I will always have this fine memory of steaming the milk with my favorite employees.

By the way, they became proficient, and almost every breakfast guest relished those girls’ cappuccinos, which were delivered to the tables with enormous smiles each morning.

Happy frothing everyone! And stay tuned for more Blue Horizon tales. There were some doozies!

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I spent twelve years as the most often booked, highest-paid makeup artist worldwide. A pretty bold statement, yes? You may ask why I am not famous outside the fashion industry. Easy. Those who became famous, Kevin Aucoin, Garren, Way Bandy, Orbe, Frédéric Fekkai, and others you may have read about, worked for high fashion magazines for covers and inside editorial features for fame but little money.

The American magazines thought metoo clean, not artistic looking—too preppy! I once worked for The Fashion of The Times, the fashion periodical of The New York Times, with famous editor Carrie Donovan. The service (story in lay terms) was to shoot the five most famous women in fashion alongside their daughters. Polly Mellen, then editor at American Vogue, sat before me, extolling my talent as I painted her face.

“You don’t know me, and you don’t know if I am telling the truth, but you are one of the best makeup artists I have met. (All in a fake, throaty, mid-Atlantic patrician accent.) “Come see me at Vogue—I will make you a star.”

I was heading to stardom! I ran to our apartment on Park Avenue South and Twenty-third Street to announce my good fortune!

When I went to see my new best friend, Polly, at Vogue, she looked at me like I had broken into the Conde Nast Building! She opened my portfolio and thumbed through a few pages.

“Who did this makeup? It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed. I told her I did. “You? But you look so American, so clean. You don’t look like an artist! How did you do this work?”

I knew stardom had disappeared behind my horizon and decided to have some fun, knowing I would never work for her.

“Well,” I said snarkily. “Polly, it was like this,” I said, waving an imaginary makeup brush in her face, “I dipped my brushes into the makeup and applied it to these gorgeous famous girls, and this is the result.”

Harrumph! You need to go to Milan. There are over two hundred weekly magazines and only three or four makeup and hair artists. They will hire you no matter how bad your makeup is, and maybe you’ll learn from yourself or the models. Come back, and then I’ll discover you. Well, I’ll pair you with the Living editor for now.

“The Living editor,” I laughed. “Does that mean you have a dead editor? Lucky me! I don’t think she noticed my extended middle finger as she turned quickly to return to her couture-fashion-filled office.

As it turned out, the Living editor goes to the homes of famous, wealthy art collectors to photograph their collections and homes. My job was to make the lady of the house camera-ready for a shot in front of her Picasso, Renoir, or whatever we had come to shoot. The good part was Horst P. Horst, one of the most famous iconic photographers in the world, who shot many of those services (jobs). In my estimation, it was all a bunch of bull hockey (southern for you-know-what), and I lost interest in the silly people at Vogue America.

Some art directors from major companies like JC Penny’s hired photographers who could book the craziest high fashion girls, and everyone snorted co*ke all day. But not me. Instead, I watched and took notes. I was even fired from a thirty-two thousand dollar job for Penny’s on the third day of shooting because I would not use co*ke.

“Everyone on set is uncomfortable—we are all on a different plain.” The famous Japanese photographer asked me to snort or leave. I left. But I told them in no uncertain terms that if they did not pay me the total amount, I would go to the supervisor at Penny’s and The New York Times with my story. Different plain? I would show them—I could get on a differentplain—an airplane and go back to France and Italy.

My agent in New York at the time was furious I would not cooperate.” Jimmy, you’ll lose this account for the entire agency! Penny’s is a big part of our income.” I collected my six portfolios, grabbed my new boyfriend, Billy Knight, and we hightailed it to France, where I taught him how to become an agent.

The foreign magazines Vogue Italia, Vogue Belezza, Vogue Bambini, Vogue Gioielli, and many Italian magazines loved everything the snobby American editors did not.

“Giacomo, your makeup is a bellissima—you are to make me a very happy.” Roberta Marioni loved my Southern charm, manners, and gorgeous makeup. “I am so happy you do not have a ponytail; all the American want-to-be photographers who come to me to make them famous look so poor.” Senora Marioni laughed as she exhaled a long cone of blue smoke from her long American cigarette. “Who could trust that?”

When I arrived in Paris, the most challenging market for an American artist, the agent told me, “All of Paris believes you Americans have talentless souls—it has always been the Parisians.” Francois Chattaney, filthy dirty, with chewed, unclean nails and cats roaming throughout his studio with no litter box, took me on despite his misgivings because Beatrice, my Italian agent, recommended me so highly.

A day later, Francois received a call from an angry editrice of L’Official that the makeup and hair artist was terrible. “You must send me someone else.”

I left my room at Hotel Buci Latin in St. Germaine des Pres. I went to the Hotel Bristol, where I discovered a favorite American Model, Marpessa Hennink, floating in a mound of bubbles before German photographer Claus Wickwrath’s camera. Marpessa was thrilled to see me, and Claus loved my work. My life in Paris fashion began that quickly.

However, Claus loved to make money! The good-looking, comical photographer shot tons of cosmetic ads, including Bourgeois, French Lancôme, and a large German company, Margaret Astor, which I had shot with Wolfgang Kline in New York. My editorial career quickly morphed into high-paying advertising.

Soon after, an Egyptian photographer in Milano, Bob Krieger, sent for me to shoot Gucci, Andre Laug, Fendi, Basile, Valentino, and many other famous Italian brands.

Foreign magazines paid much less than the Americans. However, those prestigious, coveted tear sheets (pages) grabbed the attention of American magazines and major advertisers. But Italian advertising paid very well, and I lived a great life.

When I returned to New York a few years later (I loved working in Europe!!) I became the darling of cosmetic advertising, Lancôme, Revlon, Maybelline, Covergirl, Clairol, Wella,

Vidal Sassoon and too many more to list, and high fashion shows! Carolyne Roehm had left Oscar de La Renta to open her eponymous brand. I did the makeup for her first show at the Latin quarter, and we made a long-lasting relationship.

American magazines paid hair and makeup artists about one hundred and fifty dollars a day at the time. Cosmetic advertising paid artists like me anywhere from two thousand to twenty thousand dollars, depending on whether for a print ad or a commercial. Fashion shows paid three to five thousand dollars for three hours of work before we moved on to a second and then a third show each day. I abandoned editorial and cover shoots in the USA.

I will never forget the day at a mega-studio complex in Chelsea (New York) when Kevin Aucoin and I shared a Cappuccino break between shots at our respective studios.

“James, I think you’re the richest makeup artist in the world.” That took me by surprise. “Everyone in the business knows how much the cosmetic jobs pay, and from what I know, you work five days a week shooting all those big ads and commercials.”

I had never considered it and was surprised Kevin had. My agent confirmed Kevin’s suspicions. I was too busy to care. How about that?

All that I witnessed in those twelve heady years of Studio Fifty-Four, Danceteria, and le Bain Douche in Paris gave me fodder for several books. I have basedThe Boy in the Hemlock Treeon those adventures. Many participants, although dead or obsolete in most cases, appear under different names and rearranged personas.

Hopefully, an astute, non-jaded agent will realize the value of this story and the sales it will generate for my almost-tell-all and sign me up.

Stay tuned as I share other quips and tales you will find within the pages ofThe Boy in the Hemlock Tree.

From 1980 through 1994, I was a renowned fashion makeup and hair artist who took a captivating journey through the 80’s and 90’s countercultural epochs of high fashion, where I got an intimate glimpse into the glamorous but tumultuous world of the industry. While others spiraled into expensive rehabs, I took notes. After two decades of journaling, I have sharpened my pencil to take you to the darker and brighter sides of the radical wave of the hedonistic Sex, Drug, and Rock and Roll era of the 1980s and early 90s. Studio 54, Area, Danceteria, and Paris’ Le Bain Douche were the epicenters of this glamorous chaos, where agents exploited underage models and fees for paradigmatic photographers, models and makeup artists fees skyrocketed. Linda Evangelista’s infamous declaration, “We don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day,” epitomized the excess of the time.

My novel tells story of one person from these iconic times, Mackey McGillacutty, who experiences a profound and painful loss during his teenage years, a mystery that takes twenty-five years to unravel. Despite these challenges, he ultimately achieves worldwide notoriety as the most famous fashion photographer of the era.

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Mackey McGill remains the funniest person I have ever known since we were kids in 1962. Even then, he was still McGillacutty, a carefree, freckle-nosed, redheaded teenager charming girls and their mothers from the top of the three-meter board with his colossal cannonball splashes and half-gainers—long before he became the most famous fashion photographer in the world.

Even then, Mackey used his camera as I used my pencil, capturing moments in time that otherwise would have been lost. He spared no one from his lens, like when he caught Narcissus covered in flour, making her famous chocolate chip cookies in her kitchen. Or when Mrs. Mac concentrated on a heated bridge match, and he immortalized me with my face contorted in pain due to an ill-fated belly flop from the high dive.

But it was a fateful event, a chain reaction akin to a domino run, that forced all of us to confront the inevitability of growing up. It all began when Mackey hatched that hair-brained scheme to photograph Dink Westergaard from inside the branches of a Hemlock tree while she took a tennis lesson.

Theatre and dance…

I have long been a supporter of the arts in every city where I have lived and I can tell you that number is not small!

It all began when I was six years old in Louisville, Kentucky at a time I was courting a favorite Aunt. I was enrolled in a tiny dance school for tiny people. There was simple tap, Shuffle ball tap, shuffle ball tap only with a teddy bear to the strains of “Me and my Teddy Bear”. Sweet, right?

Amy Grimes was my mother’s just older sister who was not able to bear children and married a highly successful business executive with the L M Berry Company. They were the sole advertisers for the Yellow Pages at the time. Having no children and plenty of disposable income the couple was the height of glamour to all of the nieces and nephews. It was my goal to squeeze in and become her surrogate child.

As soon as I thought I had my dancing and singing role down pat I was ready for the attack. It was Christmas. After a long-winded Mass with a trip to the manger to hear the story of the birth of the baby Jesus that had quite frankly become tedious to me, our Christmas-dressed family went home for breakfast. Christmas breakfast was the longest most trying one of the year. We had every breakfast food that one might find at I-Hop. There were biscuits and gravy, pancakes and bacon dripping with melted real butter and Maple syrup, eggs, toast, juice, coffee for Dad and tea for mother. In other word enough food to put any kid down for the count. My parents loved irritating us to the point of ruining Christmas. All my two brothers and I wanted was to break into the library and dive into the mounds of gifts we knew instinctively were waiting on the spaces we had each marked with one of Dad’s socks the night before. Instead of elegant glittery embroidered red velvet stockings like all of our cousins had. we each were handed a sock from Dad’s second dresser drawer every Christmas Eve before we solemnly treaded up the stairs to begin the long vigil of avoiding Santa so we would not get left out of the gift business. The socks were clean we supposed and each of us were surprised how much chocolate santas and snowmen could fit into one of them when properly stretched. There were always tons of Nonpareil and Hershey’s Kisses to fill in the toes and heels. Luckily for our family we discovered no tooth brushes and Ipana Toothpaste, or packages of Johnson & Johnson bandaids like other kids got. Who wants practical things for Christmas? Not us!

Once we had all reckoned what gifts went to whom (often a large item like a B B gun or a silver Schwinn Racer) would have been hidden by Santa behind a sofa or draperies. We each had to double-check our lists that we made in triplicate, one for Santa, one for the parents and of course, one for us as a checklist. I saved a lot of misplaced gifts using that nifty system over the years that I absolutely knew were mine! So much for the spirit of giving. Better to get than Give was the motto on that day each year.

At long last we boarded the tan and white Ford station wagon that Dad used for his Barber and Beauty Supply business and headed out to the country to have dinner with my mother’s family. We did this every year except one. That one time was a disaster. Dad wanted to have dinner with his own family and wanted to begin the tradition that many families suffer. Go on alternate years to one or the other set of grandparents. We arrived, had a co*cktail, well the adults did, we had co*ke-Cola. Once the adults were seated at their grand table and we at the children’s table my mother began to cry. Well, more than cry. She actually sobbed. We rose from our respective tables and loaded back into the car for the long trip out to Fern Creek.

This Christmas, the one where I was going to score with this glam-aunt, we went to Grandmother’s. I was prepared and wouldn’t they all be thrilled? I usually pop out of the car so I can go in first. Dad had not taught us too much yet about holding the door for mother first. That would come later. This time I acted like I lost a small truck (I hated trucks) in the cargo space in the rear of the wagon that smelled like bleach and permanent wave lotion. Once they were all inside and I knew they were hugging like they had not just seen each other yesterday, I grabbed Teddy that I had hidden in the space where the third seat folded down. He was a little ruffled but I was able to refresh him by the time I entered the house. I went immediately to the pantry and hid him on a shelf of cans so as not to get him covered in sugaror flour. Then I went and was hugged by everyone too. I liked that. I still do.

Holiday at Grandmothers were always a formal affair. The adults dressed in their finest church wear and we kids were dressed up like department store mannequins with wescots, ties, shiny new Buster Browns, little bow ties and long trousers. Really uncomfortable.

In this home there was a large formal dining room with a huge crystal chandelier that was always cleaned and sparkly before any family event. The table was laden with Grandmother’s mother’s and her mother’s silver, extravagant china on silver chargers and crystal goblets. I always thought that was why we kids could not sit at the big table.

Aunt Amy did not disappoint once again. Her wavy lustrous brown hair flecked with gold shiny bits was cut fashionably short and chic. She dressed classically in sleeveless black silk dresses that grazed her knees and she always had a string of real pearls bringing out the soothe grace of her long neck. She probably vacuumed in her black patent leather high heels I thought. But soon I would discover her maid did the vacuuming and not in high heels.

I was a first-string cousin and was seated in the lovely breakfast room with pretty windows and curtains facing onto the back property and the fences that held back the cows on land that Mr. Brown leased from Grandaddy. We usually had snow at christmas so looking out the back was acceptable. We had a table set with linen, but we got paper napkins. We were given silver forks, salad size, and no knives. Our mothers made plates from the buffet in the dining room and delivered them to us. All the food was cut up child size. So knives would have been moot anyway.

The babies were lined up in a short row of wooden high chairs with animal decals on the seat backs.

As soon as I heard the grownup laughter and chatter subside I knew they had all made it through the buffet and would be seated making a toast or two. I made my move sprightly. Suddenly is was alone, like on a stage under a single spotlight, with paned French glassdoors open on either side. The light shone through the tall windows with the lined chintz draperies wide open to let the light in. “Uhm….Uhm” I began. when they all looked up and I had their attention before someone swept me back to the boring cousins I began to do a little soft shoe, pulled Teddy from behind my back where he had been waiting to make his debut and began to rock, tap and sing. “Me and my teddy bear, had no troubles, had no cares, me and my teddy bear jus play and play all day …….” Mother leapt from her Queen Anne side chair and was heading to me saying “Jimmy, honey, now you go back to the table with you brothers and cousins. This is embarrassing”. Then it happened just as I planned. Aunt Amy was afoot almost as quickly as mother” He’s not embarrassing, Mari” as she swept me up and into her arms “he’s precious!” Done. It worked.

From that day forward we were best of friends and that lasted until the day she died at eighty-three. My first foray into theatre had been totally successful. I would have a life long love of the arts and what they could produce forever.

It has been a while since I have posted to my beauty blog, but changes have taken place and now I am writing novels fifteen hours a day and loving every minute!

My first novel, “The Boy in the Hemlock Tree,” stems from my makeup career and is a natural segue on this blog for you to enjoy.

The Boy in the Hemlock Tree is a gripping suspense novelof love, loss, and the pursuit of the truth about an abortion, and a fatheron a mission to destroya young man with an irrepressible spirit searching for twenty-five years to find a child he believes to be alive.

Stay tuned for more…………….

I have been posting about beauty, varius arts, manners, food and entertainmentfor many years. For ,the past three and one half years I have been tucked away in my office, fingers to keys, creataing the story of a wonderful, yest precocious character named Mackey McGillacutty.

Let me tell you a bit about myself as an author and I will soon share a small insight into one of the greatest fashion photographers of all time.

Renowned fashion makeup and hair artist and writer James Weis takes readers on a captivating journey through the 80’s and 90’s countercultural epochs of high fashion, offering an intimate glimpse into the glamorous but tumultuous world of the industry.

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In his engaging narrative, Weis delves into the darker and brighter sides of the countercultural wave of the hedonistic SEX, Drug, and Rock and Roll era of the 1980s and early 90s. Studio 54, Area, Danceteria, and Paris’ Le Bain Douche were the epicenters of this glamorous chaos, where agents exploited underage models and fees for paradigmatic photographers, models and makeup artists fees skyrocketed. Linda Evangelista’s infamous declaration, “We don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day,” epitomized the excess of the time while others spiraled into expensive rehabs. Instead, Weis took notes, and after two decades of journaling, he has now sharpened his pencil to craft an inspired tale.

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Central to Weis’ narrative are influential figures and events that shaped his journey. Annie Flanders, founder and editor of Details Magazine, played a pivotal role in his life. Details showcased the likes of photographers Steven Meisel and Bruce Weber who shot stars like Bette Midler, Cyndi Lauper, and Courtney Love for its grainy-textured covers. At the same time, columnists Steven Saban and other Annie-inspired writers covered renowned artists like Keith Haring, Julian Schnabel, and Basquiat. Annie, a doyenne of Andy Warhol’s downtown Manhattan, was not only a mentor to James but a source of enduring writing advice: “Write—and write some more—we can always take it out.”

Weis’s narrative also touches upon an encounter with best-selling author John Berendt, who imparted invaluable words of wisdom. Berendt’s words, “Write the kind of book you like to read,” inspired Weis to embark on various literary projects, including his current work,The Boy in the Hemlock Tree, a work of fiction based on concealed real and imaginary events.

In addition to his literary pursuits, Weis’ talents extend to the world of beauty and fashion, as he contributed hair and makeup text for the world’s first fuller figure model, star Ann Harper’sThe Big Beauty Book,in 1983. His creative ideas earned him credit in Elizabeth Geitz’s non-fiction work,I Am That Child, published in 2012.

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As Weis continues to shop his latest work,The Boy in the Hemlock Tree, readers can look forward to more compelling stories from his pen, including The French Violinist, The Mascara Chronicles, and Wounded Birds: The Inn on the Blue Horizon Story with the tantalizing possibility of a bonus cookbook. Watch out for exciting excerpts fromThe Boy in the Hemlock Tree, an enchanting blend of fact and fiction, coming soon!

James Weis is an accomplished fashion makeup artist and writer who has journeyed through the vibrant worlds of fashion and literature. With a passion for storytelling, he weaves his experiences and encounters into engaging narratives that captivate readers and bring the glamour and intrigue of the fashion industry to life.

Dad offered multiple times to purchase a brand new Hotpoint Automatic Clothes Washer and Dryer for my mother. I remember the commercials on our black and white television. A very sincere looking man in a gray gabardine suit who had pomaded short hair looked directly at us from the television screen. “Just drop dirty clothes in the open top and all the work is done for you. Your clothes get much cleaner too because Hotpoint’s famous agitator action and over flow rinse combine to remove all the dirt. You can set Hotpoint’s exclusive wonder dialfor your heavy things and you can turn it to low for Orlon, Nylon and Dacron. And when you are finished with the miracle wash simply place the damp clothes in the Hotpoint dryer for a few minutes and they come out dry, fluffy and sweet smelling. What a work saver this dryer is!” I could not understand why Mother never reacted positively to Dad’s offer.

Of Mother’s three sisters she was the only one of them who did her own laundry and she did not own a washing machine or a hot air dryer. That chore was taken to my grandmother’s home every Tuesday when Mother was not traveling.

Air conditioning was another appliance we did not own and we would not have that luxury until I was in my mid teens. My bedroom was on the second floor of our home in Anchorage, outside of Louisville where summer days were hot and humid there in the Ohio River basin. The heat and humidity was similar to New Orleans summers where you could actually see the heat waves rising from hot cracked blacktop streets. We lived under a canopy of oak and walnut trees that rose over a hundred feet above our house that had been built in mid-1800. The walls were thick and the ceilings tall and there were high, wide windows that invited in a plentiful cross breeze. Our house was not stiflingly hot but uncomfortable air held us hostage on many occasions and air-conditioning was not yet common in private homes. The way I kept cool at night in my bedroom on the second floor was to put a square floor fan on a table under one window facing air out. I pulled down the shade over my maple twin bed that had a ubiquitous Roy Rogers coverlet. When I opened my window about four inches a cool rush of air pushed the room-darkening shade out over my face keeping me comfortable. I especially loved rainy nights in those summers of my youth. The eaves that overhung from the third floor kept rain off my face while passing on the fragrance of summer rain falling on freshly cut grass and night-blooming jasmine.

After a light breakfast on these Tuesdays Mother and our housekeeper, Narcissus, gathered all of the soiled clothes, sheets, towels and linen napkins into several wicker laundry baskets. Once the car was loaded she drove us all out to my grandparent’s summer farm. The farm, Fern Creek, was aptly named after a long meandering stream that diagonally traversed their land. Several species of lush summer ferns and thick covering of Dogwood, Redbud and Lilac trees bordered the shallow creek on both sides.

Fern Creek was about thirty miles from our home reached by car on narrow country roads. We left home about ten in the morning but not before I had time to choose a toy or two to take to entertain myself for the day. I had a Dennis the Menace doll, a rubber effigy from the cartoon character from the morning funny papers, a doll meant for boys that I liked to talk to. Sometimes I would take my Davy Crocket Dancing doll. He was a soft cotton-filled lifelike doll who was as tall as me, dressed in authentic Davy Crocket brown cotton western gear. He had a removable fake Coonskin hat with a fluffy tail that I could wear myself when I took the notion. And there were tight elastic bands connected to the insides of his hands and under his feet that could be slipped over my own hands and feet making it easy for me to dance with Davy. When not engaged on my arms and feet he would lie flopped on the floor in a heap because he had no bones. Davy got plenty of use on the porch when no one was watching and I think that is where I developed my love for dance that would become a major part of my life when I grew up.

My two brothers and I would all go and play on the farm on these Tuesday excursions. I went every time. My older bother and his friends liked to go to our club to swim and play golf on the kid’s par three course. He was the only one of us who did not participate on a regular basis. It was OK with me when he did not come along because he was really mean to me all the time. He did things like making me touch the low voltage electric wires along the white horse fences that kept cows from eating the flowered border. It did not kill me but it hurt and I still hear the sounds of older-brother laughter as I lay on the grass crying and clutching one or other of my burnt hands. Other times he poked his foot under mine causing me to trip and fall into a fresh cow pie face down. He was never missed.

My grandparent’s country home was a large formal farmhouse close to the road, comparatively speaking, for such a big amount of land. The L-shaped two-story wood frame home was surrounded on three sides by a screened porch with high ceilings that had been painted sky blue. Four fat white plain columns held up each side of the porch making an even dozen. Six old wood-blade fans with black humming motors propelled warm air to cool off whom ever sat there to read or stitch. Massive gardenia shrubs reached about two feet above the floor level bringing a sweet aromatic fragrance floating across the outdoor living room. Big heavy green metal gliders made up most of the furniture with a few Birdseye maple rockers. There were several walnut side tables that that Granddaddy had fashioned in his wood shop. In early mornings and late afternoons soft golden light streamed in past trees and shrubs throwing pretty shadows across the black varnished floors and danced onto interior walls and windows. Because of the movement of the wind through trees the shadows were ever changing like day ghosts. I loved the solitude of that old porch and spent a lot of my childhood reading there.

Granddaddy was a gentleman farmer who enjoyed the action of overlooking the farm events each summer. Several farmers near by who had less land and owned large herds of milk cattle leased land from him for grazing. Sometimes he simply leant it to them. Another few farmers used a large portion of the rest of the property for crops like feed corn, tobacco and soybeans. The farm was worked different seasons by various famers who rotated crops from one to another to keep the soil fertile to produce better future crops. Granddaddy spent a lot of time conversing with his tenants and he thoroughly enjoyed watching their processes. And we all loved the occasional gift jar of milk with heavy cream on top given to him by farmer’s wives.

There was an ample the lake that was within a half-mile’s distance of the house that sat on treeless land that resembled a desert. There was a yucky mud bottom where I have seen snakes too many times to entice me to swim. On the other hand there was this genius amphibious contraption that had two old tractor seats welded onto a frame much like that of a bicycle built for two. Granddaddy hired a local metalworker to forge two aluminum pontoons shaped like long air filled bullets. It had a steel cross frame holding the two silver floats together and supported the bicycle. On the back was a paddle wheel like one on the back of a riverboat and it was equipped to move forward or backwards. When you pedaled the wheels on the bikes, the paddle wheel began to churn the water and off we went. Only two at a time could ride this marvelous water bobber and many times we would argue as to who had the next turn. The older cousins and my brother always misused their allotted time and we younger ones would begin to cry until at long last we got our turn. The water was never blue because of the shallow mud bottom and I was fearful I would fall in the murky water and be consumed by a brown water moccasin. But that did not stop me from enjoying the adventure across and around the lake.

The older boys were allowed to go gigging in the small tree-lined shady frog pond. It was visible from the road and the front porch but was partially hidden by the high horse fence and the surrounding trees that kept it cool. I figured that is why there were so many frogs in residence. My brother loved fried frog legs. He was really proficient with the three-pronged gig and he scored a lot of fat croaking frogs. It made me sad to see them piled up in a bucket waiting to be cut up and skinned. I refused to eat them until I was a grown man.

Aunt Clarissa had been working for my grandmother most of her life. She had raised my grandmother since before she was orphaned when she was ten years old. The hearty woman resembled the lady on the front of bottles of pancake syrup and a hearty chuckle was ever present. She raised her family along side my grandmother as she raised her own family of six children. Narcissus was Aunt Clarissa’s daughter who was Mother’s age. When Mother married my father Narcissus came to help set up her home and she never left. So you can imagine that these four women had a unique bond. They took turns loading the washing machine and when the clothes were deemed clean one of them ran them through the hand wringer to remove most of the water. The excess water rolled at a fast pace into a big galvanized bucket with handles on each side. I never understood where the dirty water ended up as it got hauled off and dumped into a small concrete pool. When I was older I discovered there was a deep dry well filled with boulders that this water landed in, returning to the ground. A pump and a hose produced water for plants in the yard and along the fences.

There was always singing, telling cute jokes and lots of happy laughter when this quartet carried out this work. I still hear the joy in my mind when I remember these Tuesdays. My mother and grandmother did not stay the full time in the small laundry room because they needed to be in the kitchen preparing lunch. When the clothes were ready to hang, however, Grandmother and Mother would come back to join the robust shiny black mother and daughter team to hang the wet clothes. Thick T-shaped galvanized supports, like crosses, held the four long cotton-rope lines where they would hang the clean clothes. The fresh-scent Ivory Snow filled the back yard onto the farm beyond.

I loved watching them from a long double rope swing that had a wide wood seat. I peered over the horizon of the height of the swing as they dragged heavy, wet sheets from the wicker baskets. This wonderful swinging single seat hung from a giant old walnut tree with lots of ominous heavy branches. We played in those branches in the daytime but at night, if we stayed over, my brother would hide in wait to scare the sh*t out of me. While the women worked I would swing as high as I could go, pumping back and forth until I was swinging way out over them. Sometimes Mother or Grandmother would warn me “Teddy You are swinging too high. Please slow down before you get hurt!” I never did fall although I had a few close calls but I never told anyone. The freedom of swinging high up in the humid summer air was exhilarating. I felt like a free flying bird. The hot air that crossed my face with each back and forth lift kept me happy as the scent of violets, wisteria and lilacs mixed with Ivory Snow rose to meet my nose.

When no one was nearby that I knew of I would sing songs of love like ”I’m just a lonely boy” that I heard Paul Anka sing on our one of our recordings. We had a new modern cherry cabinet with a phonograph that held a stack of ten L P phonograph records and I enjoyed all those love songs like “Patches” by Clarence Carter and “See you in September” by The Happenings. I would swing out high above the Bermuda grass that grew under the canopy of the big tree singing at the top of my lungs. I don’t think anyone heard me. I had such a wonderful time all alone imagining myself to be a famous singer all the while swinging high away from the rest of the world.

From my high advantage I watched the white sheets and pillowcases clipped together, one corner to another anchored by one spring-loaded wooden clothespin doing the job of two. Tee shirts were hung upside down so they would not end up with ‘angel’ wings on the shoulders. Dad’s briefs were hung by the elastic bands and socks were hung from their toes. Mother’s slips were hand washed since they were pure silk and they were hung on wooden clothes hangers to dry along with the rest of the conjoined clean clothes. I got the giggles seeing her bras each hanging from a lone clothespin. It felt naughty for some reason. When the swing moved forward the smell of Ivory Snow wafted up to fill my nostrils on light breezes leaving me with a longtime memory of that clean aroma and a picture of sheets bound together by adjoining clothespins. I can still envision the sheets flying haphazardly high in the air like kites when a strong gust of pre-storm wind rushed across the fields raising them up. My ten-year old mind saw Superman soaring high in great swoops wearing clean white capes.

My absolute love for these Tuesday trips to the country was the sumptuous lunches Grandmother prepared and the show my grandparents put on. Aunt Clarissa was a wonderful cook but Grandmother prided herself on making the mid-day meal. Aunt Clarissa would clean up and she would help serve but it really was Grandmother’s gift to her family every since she married Granddaddy in 1903.

Grandmother never prepared breakfast because lunch was her specialty. Aunt Clarissa’s mouth-watering breakfasts were wonderful and aromatic and she made big breakfasts whenever one or more of us would stay over. She scrambled eggs that came every morning from the Miller farm, and we had crispy bacon or fried salty Country ham that had cured in Uncle Henry’s meat house out behind the garage. I loved her homemade biscuits with hand-churned butter served with honey from Uncle Henry’s hives, his pride and joy. Grits were stone ground from dried hominy purchased from the nearby corn farmers. If you have never had them fresh I can tell you there really is nothing like real long cooking grits with butter.

Lunches were Grandmother’s domain and they were legendary. Several of them had even been photographed and written about in the society pages of the Louisville Courier Journal over her years as a wife, mother and hostess. And lucky us were treated to them every week.

The main meal was served promptly at one PM. This was known to be healthier and made it easier for my elderly grandparents to digest. Having a light evening course helped them get better night’s sleep. No matter the reason, lunch at Grandmother’s house in the country or city, was an event comparable to other family’s big holiday dinners.

My grandmother owned exquisite sets of fine bone china, much of it French and old and she used different services everyday. Many of her beautiful things came from her ancestors or from her wedding. The grand old lady had never owned stainless steel flatware so she used sterling silver on every table. When I became a little older I discovered most of my friends mothers only used their better tableware on special occasions. Grandmother had grown up dining in this fashion and it was all she knew. When we questioned her she told us she thought it was wasteful to keep things you will never use. All of her children and grandchildren did the same thing and so do I.

The mahogany four-leaf, three-pedestal Duncan Phyfe table was set on heavy damask table linens lain over thick table pads to protect the fine wood. Once completely set it reminded me of the fine china department at Stewart’s Department Store on the Corner of Third and Chestnut Streets in downtown Louisville. She always put fresh-cut flowers on the table and my favorite were the peonies with their splendid fragrance that let no doubt be made that summer had arrived in full force. Lighted Candles were used and set in heavy ornate silver candelabra that had been handed down from Great-Grandmother Ashcroft.

As a young mother, Grandmother set her table with silver condiment bowls and pitchers filled with mustard, catsup, mayonnaise and Hershey’s chocolate syrup. These things were part of her daily routine even though no one used those any of them anymore. After lunch was served Aunt Clarissa replaced the condiments into the jars they came from and returned them to the refrigerator until the next day’s meal. I never understood why these things were always on the table but changing customs as old as this did not come easy to either of these women.

Grandmother and Aunt Clarissa were the best soup stock makers on earth. They cooked down masses of bones with vegetables and fresh herbs very slowly for two days to extract every drop of flavor. What ensued was a pure stock that was savory and aromatic. The stock would be moved to an icebox overnight so the fat could congeal and easily skimmed away to be used in sauces. This method rendered fat-free stock. Excess stock was put in glass Mason jars and frozen, to be used at another time for sauces that still make my mouth water when I remember them. The soups that ended up on the table could not be measured against any top restaurants because she made much better soups. We had rich thick chicken soup with potatoes and vegetables. Sometimes rice was mixed in for additional starch to keep it thick. Her pea soup with ham hocks and vegetable soup and navy-bean soups were enough to become independent meal unto themselves.

Everyday an appetizer was served often times consisting of shrimp or crab, with some marvelous chilled sauce. Once the first course was removed a fresh salad from Uncle Henry’s significant gardens arrived to our delight. There was a robust meat or fish course served with delectable vegetables, sometimes cooked in a tall light soufflé, always followed soup. Bread might be cornbread or fresh Semolina or piping hot spoon bread served with butter and pepper.

Desserts were homemade and most of us grandchildren loved Grandmother’s rich chocolate pudding with fresh whipped cream that came from the farmer’s cows. In season we would have fresh red ripe strawberries full of earth’s sugar dripping on top of these decadent dishes. My particular favorite was the homemade golden shortbreads filled with strawberries with a big spoonful of whipped cream. That had ‘June’ written all over it.

The best part of the afternoon dinner was the interaction between our grandparents. Let me paint a picture of these old-world grandparents of ours.

Granddaddy was tall, in excellent shape and had pale English skin and the very whitest perfectly cut hair. I have seen photographs of him with his coal black hair of many years before I was born when I was given the opportunity to peruse their leather embossed photo albums. I only knew him as a white-haired grandfather. He dressed in dark custom-made trousers and he favored white shirts all winter but in the summer he was likely to wear a very pale blue and white check or summery-plaid long-sleeve shirt with the cuffs rolled over two times as neatly as you could imagine. His laced shoes were always perfectly polished like mirrors and his belts were brown or black simple leather with sterling silver plain square buckles. He did not don a coat for lunch unless there were invited guests who were not family.

Grandmother who had never had a haircut in her life was a curiosity to me. When I asked he why she never had a haircut her reply was “I have never needed it.” I do know from a very few black and white photographs that she wore her ravishing dark Chestnut brown locks in various forms of chignon. As her hair greyed almost to white she became less formal with her locks and had begun to have Aunt Clarissa make one very long low braid with the top parted in a perfect straight line in the middle. The ensuing braid that had been pomaded to keep the strays at bay was coiled into a beautiful chignon and secured at her neck with a few long silver hairpins.

Since she was a young girl in the very early part of the twentieth century long formal gowns were her daily attire. She did not change that look until she was well into her late seventies when she decided to ‘modernize’. At that late time I remember being shocked. However those frocks were hemmed to her ankles and she was still lost in another elegant period of time. We all remember this creature as one from another century, warm, well mannered and elegant.

This formality was constant and the only way we knew them and dining was a natural extension of that. Granddaddy was always seated at the end of the long formal table with his back to glass French doors concealing any kitchen activity. All of us, when we visited, were placed according to ages from eldest to youngest down the table away from the grownups. Aunt Clarissa served a first course to everyone visiting, then Granddaddy and lastly Grandmother who sat perpetually next to his left side.

This is when the daily show would commence. Grandmother stood behind him as his courses were served to inspect his food and to enjoy his satisfaction with his specially prepared meals. Granddaddy had developed late-in-life diabetes but he never had to take injections so his diabetes was controlled through proper food and a few pills. His meals were meticulously prepared and as different as possible every day for variety. She sat to eat her course and rose for each new course as he was served. There was always a nice full leaf salad and vegetables like cucumber and red heirloom tomatoes with dietetic dressing, an appetizer sans shrimp, and bread from the baker made just for diabetics. Every day Grandmother filled and set a cut glass saltcellar with his daily intake of pills that controlled what the food could not and see to it that he consumed them. Granddaddy was able to manage all of her succulent soups and he heartily enjoyed them everyday. Once the last course was before him and she stood again and placed her hands gently on his shoulders, gave a serene smile and took in a happy breath. We would all become hushed. A long moment would pass and Granddaddy would extend his arms in front of himself placing his palms face down on the tablecloth way out in front. With a deep smile showing no teeth he would say with the utmost of sincerity, “Uhmmmmmm Uhmmmmmm Uhmmmmmm…Mother! You’ve done it AGAIN!” Her entire face would smile a very content, satisfied gesture and gently kiss him on the top of his head. And she took her place at the table. We all silently sighed.

Once the lunch had been consumed and the dishes cleared except for dessert, Grandmother would once again stand as his dessert was delivered. We had our chocolate pudding or strawberry pie or whatever divine thing she had created for that particular meal. Then his was brought in on a small round silver tray that had a filigreed raised edge. My Grandmother who he referred to as “Mother” lovingly prepared all of Granddaddy’s desserts. Most of the times there would be dietetic ice cream double-scooped into in a tall elegant crystal parfait glass. Toppings were dietetic sauces of butterscotch or chocolate and dollop of dietetic whipped cream with a piece of fruit on top. When freshly shredded coconut was available he would be overly delighted to see it on top like Christmas snow. Once again he would take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds and then exhale slowly like one might when smoking a great cigar, repeating once again and every day, “Uhmmmmmm Uhmmmmmm Uhmmmmmm, Mother! YOU have done it again!” She leaned over him and placed another kiss upon his snowy white hair and took her place completely content that she had made him happy. I have never ceased to be thrilled by this genuinely affectionate display and to this day my brothers and cousins all repeat his mantra at family meals.

Now you understand why my mother did not want her own washer and dryer. It was many years, well into my late teens, before Grandmother could no longer manage these tasks. Once that happened Mother agreed to the laundry room and the machines but she never did her own laundry again.

Small Gardens

I know that a lot of you do not have large yards and want to do something to make them distinctive and easy to maintain.

A cactus garden is easy, especially to maintain, and pretty. All it takes is a small patch of land or a planter box, a few cacti you like. I get mine at Home Depot as they always have a great variety. You will want a few decorative garden stones and maybe a few you have dug up in your yard.

Always stay well hydrated when you are outdoors. I like to mix 7/8 water and 1/8 Ocean Spray Light /50 Cran-Raspberry Juice to make it more interesting. I find that this helps me drink more and outdoors it is really important. Of course you do not have to use a Baccarat Harmony glass … but I like to treat myself!

I put in my cactus garden last year and it is mostly something you change every year, as they do not always survive the winter in certain zone regions. In Atlanta we are in zone 8 and that is pretty good but the cactus mostly did not enjoy the five minutes of winter that we get here.

The photos you are seeing are the clearing of last year’s ‘crop’ and preparing the space for a new exciting one.

I had to first remove all of the stones I used last year and I will wash them off before replacing them in the new garden.

Pull out any leaf debris that gathered over the winter and put it in a mulch pile to use another time.

Use potting soil for flowers and plants to mix in with your yard soil. I like Miracle Grow at Home Depot. It has all of the nutrients your plants will need and save you the guesswork. Soften your soil with water if it is very difficult to dig in. Remove about 1/2 of that soil and put it somewhere. You will replace it with plants and potting soil.

Next you need to plan the garden. You will want a few tall things and some short and a few fluffy ones to make the garden interesting.

Place your new plants in their containers to see how it looks. At this point you can keep moving them until you discover a pattern you like.

Next dig the holes of the biggest plants you will use. It is so much easier to place the smaller ones later.

If you do not like the placement it is OK to unseat them and put them on another order.

I like to use a pretty potted cactus variety that Home Depot has plenty of. You might like to have it in the house for the winter and use it another way next season. I dig a hole almost as deep as the planter and burry it. I will pull it out in the fall and wash the container off and use it in my house.

Place the stones so that they overlap and fill in leaving no holes.

Now look and admire your work. As you see I have found some larger stones in my yard and I am using them as a border between the cacti and the rest of the garden to delineate it as a special little oasis.

Ah Ha! Finished! Pretty, right? And you can do this easily yourself.

If you have enough yard or perhaps even a large yard you can fill in around your cactus garden to expand the exoticness you have begun.

In my case I used some tropical looking plants like elephant ears in several colors plus a few Peonies.

I saw a great empty space from something that did not survive last winter and knew just what to do.

I added a banana tree because I placed one last year in my zone 8 temperature and it came back. So now I will have two.

Another good idea is a ’Table Garden’. You may have an outdoor table that you do not need or use or maybe one that is old. You can always buy something inexpensive. I have a glass top on a wicker box that was meant to use as an outdoor coffee table that I do not need. I change it up every year for fun and variety.

My last season table with empty pots. I will buy a few more for fun to mix it all up.

My table garden after.

Finished with this part of gardening for this week. I hope that has been helpful.

Watch for my new Blog format coming soon where my posts will be organized into categories so you can follow which ever ones you like.

And feel free to ask questions on all of them.