A Time to Reap

Now is the harvest time in Naples.
People are leaving. They drop their old furniture, their bent golf clubs, their bad shopping decisions, the embarrassing cruise wear off at the Salvation Army, St. Vincent De Paul, the Goodwill. People have died. Their children come on their kids' spring breaks and dump their mother's Ferragamo shoes and St. John Knits, their father's golf shirts, their parents' hideous coffee tables off at the Goodwill. There is a line at the drop-off area four cars deep--a great tide of pilly sweaters, weighty beaded gowns, and Duty Free sunglasses, yes, but also the fur coats and Bally loafers, and Lilly Pulitzer capris pants.
And we, of the good eye, run through the aisles piling up the cashmere bounty.
Perhaps I've grown too confident in my eye, however--picking out the Louis Vuitton purse, the Gaultier blazer, the Gucci loafers from 10 paces--thinking I can tell from the soft buttery feel of the lambskin purse that it's an authentic Chanel.

A good fake. But still a fake.

Heeheehee.
You pitch it casually in the pile with the Dooney and Bourke, the little Coach bag and the Bruno Magli sandals feeling like a thief in the night. You might even walk on your tippy toes. You pull it out at home.
Heeheeheehee.
Aaand rats.
It's a fake.

The sidesaddle skirt

I've been thinking about the whole notion of "living authentically" lately. But not in a "to-thine-own-self-be-true" kind of way, which would be the wise direction. No. More of a hat-goes-with-the-shoes-which-goes-with-the-house-which-goes-with-the-sidesaddle kind of way.
After 20 years of living in Florida, I finally looked around and decided that, as a matter of fact, I don't give a shit about palm trees. I don't look good in Lilly Pulitzer. Or Patagonia. Or pants with little golf clubs embroidered all over them. I get seasick. I freckle. I just don't dig sand.
So I bought this farm in Kentucky last year.
And immediately started to think about style, of course.
Because of course there is "People of Wal-Mart," which, while jaw-droppingly hilarious, makes you think of that time you were fixing a toilet and you were just going to run down to Wal-Mart for this little, stupid but necessary emergency part, (and that, of course, was exactly the moment that your ex-boyfriend showed up at Wal-Mart and there you are: in a pair of fat-jeans cut-offs and wet toilet paper hanging onto the back of your rubber boots).  He was also embarrassed to be caught at Wal-Mart, embarrassed that his girlfriend saw the kinds of girls he used to date, and there was that silent agreement to forget the whole thing and pretend you were never there, but still. You can laugh all you want at "People of Walmart," but somewhere deep, deep down, know that you could be one of them.
You know you could.
So, I started the retail business (online and shows)--Hippik--with all the very groovy, horsey things that I love: custom-made sidesaddle habits with corsets hats, gloves, whips, boots, vintagey clothing and things, art, antiques, products for horse and rider. People have been saying it's Steampunk, but there's not much steam. Or time machines. Or underground cities. I was never much of a Jules Verne fan. It's more of an "Ag-punk" look: horses and carriages and falcons and peculiar, rare breeds of animals--more Dr. Doolittle than Phileas Fogg.
But it's hard to wear a corset in Florida.

And I think I could very well be the eccentric lady who drives a horse and carriage to her strange little shop in Shelbyville, Kentucky.

No Longer A Place for Second Thoughts.Forward!

To Ride is To Borrow Wings

When you're a writer, you are basically a retailer of ideas.
Ideas are your stock. The writing is your product. So, your inventory costs are very low.
Used to be, you needed a typewriter, paper, some envelopes and some stamps. Now, you need a computer and a decent internet connection.
And lots and lots and lots of time. Which is always expensive in anyone's accounting. But for writers--even though you can sneak in a paragraph in the morning before taking the kids to school, or change a word before you go to bed at night--it takes an astonishing amount of time to whittle words into sharp little points that drive your idea home. Even the worst, most prolific novelist really makes pennies per hour when all is taken into account.
But even years are not always enough time to make a good writer into a great one. Ideas--however good--sometimes moulder away in the mind's warehouse--slouched over in dull, lumpy shapes on musty couches, taking up space.
You have all those second thoughts as you go over them--maybe you can make something of them yet, if you just went at it again, brushed them up a bit, moved them around, maybe looked at them from a different angle. Maybe.
But I had this other idea. I'm selling actual stuff. Big stuff that takes up space and costs real money. Lots of money.
Soon, I'll be moving this blog to my online retail site--Hippique-Hippik. I'll have second thoughts about 19th century French sidesaddles and silver stirrup cups.
I don't have time for Second Thoughts anymore. It's forward over the wall!

The Hunt

The Goodwill Find o' the Day:
19th Century or early 20th century riding bowler with trolley for hooking onto your hunt coat collar to keep it from flying away. Its crown is cracked. The grosgrain silk is rusty and the felt is a bit moth-eaten. I overpaid for it.
But I love it. It has a certain macabre slyness to it that hints at memories of other places and cooler weather and rakish sensibilities.
There were no hurt feelings at these foxhunts, no guilt about blood sport, no politically correct sensitivities. There was just good sport, lathered horses, dead foxes and good bourbon in silver cups.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS SHIRT????

WANTED!!!!

I am a victim of my own organization.
This shirt has been hanging around for a year. It has become part of my critical mass of inventory. It is an Italian made man's shirt by Dolce & Gabbana.
I thought it would sell.
It was a sure thing to sell.
It didn't sell.
For three months, it didn't sell.
In September, I cleaned out old inventory. Some I put on final clearance prices. Some I must've pitched. I don't remember which category this shirt actually fell into. Because I sold it this week. And now I can't find it.
I turned my storage upside down. I moved through that closet like a piece of farm machinery.
I ran to the Goodwill and combed the aisles in the hopes of finding it--or something godawful like it.
I did not find it. (Though I found some other good stuff while I was there...)
So I sat and drank coffee and thought and looked at the mess I had made. And began picking the stuff up that I had flung about.
Carefully.
Piece by piece.
Refolding. Hanging up. Stacking and re-stacking.
And I found it. 
And I am happy again.

Hippique-Hippik-Outdoor Fun for the Whole Family

Outdoor Fun for a Family Like Ours

Finally! A W fashion spread with useful fashion ideas!  What appears to be a congenial, multi-generational outing on what looks like a  gorgeously grim autumn day practically smells of cold and damp furs and wool. If there were horses in this picture, it could be a print ad for my store, Hippique-Hippik.

As if the Gashlycrumb Tinies and the Addams Family were at the fox hunt.
I would feel comfortable at such an event, I think. Gramma's doing so well only a week after her ear-trumpet was struck by lightning, Cousin Reginald brought young Neville, that little bastard boy of his--(nobody knows for certain where he came from)--and little Wednesday looks all grown up. I have been wondering to what one could don that grand Louis Vuitton chapeau and well! Here we are!

Haute Obscura from the Gothic Tea Society

Rag Selling Time

It is now time to list.
To describe fiber content, texture, and sleeves. Spread collars, peter pan collars, tab collars, mandarin collars, nehru collars, notched collars. French cuffs, standard cuffs. Hems. Stains.
It is a monstrous slouching pile of clothing, purses, boots and shoes.
Time to turn these rags into riches.