Another thing to love about the Southwest: dream cars aren’t only up for auction, they are all over the roads. The dry heat keeps them pristine, and oh are we happy that it does, because if every place had a climate like New York our dream cars might be in heaping piles of rusty junkers.
I was passing through Sedona, AZ a day or two before The Vintage Racing League’s West Coast Holiday and Porsche 356 rally. I’m not sure whether my crazy-person excitement is really shining through here… One would be lucky to see such a delicious specimen in a lifetime, and there I was, spotting a 356- my ultimate dream car- at every corner. If I had hung around an extra day or two, I would have been swarmed by hundreds, one reveler told me.
Here are just a few:
Red Speedster, found in the little mining town of Jerome. This sweet cherry had a crack in the driver side door, meaning it’s more than likely made from fiberglass, meaning its more than likely a kit car. A replica. Getting closer and closer to the real thing, but not there yet…
Just a few blocks down the street, we stumbled upon this rare beauty:
But with the customized paint job and modern antenna, we realized that this is a replica, too. Who would have the heart to desecrate an original?
Then in our little hotel parking lot we came across this black beauty:
You be the judge: would you drive your 45 year old Porsche Speedster through the dust and dirt of Red Rock Country and Oak Creek Canyon? Not sure if this is an original or not.
But don’t you ever doubt whether the dream still exists. Later that day on our way to Utah outside of the Twin Rocks Trading Post, we found our darling, a perfect sweetie pie: all original. Gray with red interior. Flawless.
And, by the dim light of the high dessert dusk, I even saw one just like dear old Dad’s… which rusted through the bottom in good old New York State. Keep dreamin’.
In Monument Valley I came across an elder Navajo woman who spoke not a word of English, only Navajo. She was cleaning up her table after a day of peddling recently handcrafted wares to passerby. The woman caught a glimpse of the cluster bracelet on my wrist and asked if she could see it, her daughter-in-law Janet translated.
I learned that she actually lived within Monument Valley, as Janet pointed to her home towards the horizon, and was related to everyone else who lives within it, either as a cousin, aunt, or grandmother.
This beautiful woman, with skin the color of the red rock surrounding us, had inherited her two bracelets from her mother. She was, of course, not selling. But, of course, I asked.
Sunrise in Monument Valley, mid-October. I certainly won’t ever forget it.
Click here for a large version
Nor will I forget the subtleties of the prior evening’s sunset.
Click here for a large version
If you haven’t explored our beautiful country, I hope you might put that next trip to Europe on hold and see some of what we have to offer, right here. To possess an affinity for American style and to not see the towns and terrain from which it is inspired is awfully sad. I’m guilty, too, of dreaming of Florence and the Amalfi Coast instead, but traveling the Southwest does give me a renewed sense of ownership of and adoration for the USA (at least geographically and geologically, anyway…)
Oh, and in but-who-is-counting fashion, happy 100th post and anniversary to me! Thank you to everyone who has tread across and continued to visit ISV since last October. Love and thanks! XOX
Well, they call New Mexico the Land of Enchantment for a reason. Coming home to a heatless, hot waterless Brooklyn house after an entire Sunday spent waiting out plane delays and breathing recycled airport air was a bit of a shock to the system, but both me and the house have since recovered. I’ve got a few more days ahead of pouring over several hundred photos before show and tell.
Meanwhile dream cars were abound on and off the road out West. I was lucky enough to arrive in Las Vegas the day after the Barrett-Jackson car auction at Mandalay Bay, where Christmas came early for fortunate and well endowed car aficionados. I had an opportunity to sneak into the hangar before every last one was carted away, but with Security breathing down my neck, I only snapped a pitiful handful of some dare-to-dream favorites.
I’m a Chevy gal when it comes to pick-ups but these late 40’s Fords were glorious.
1930’s Roadster
The black beauties. My dream (American) car, the Corvette C1 made from ‘53 to ‘62.
See the full list of cars here
A day later I got in the rented Mustang coupe and hit the road.
One of the great things about nature is that, if you’re lucky, it remains largely unchanged through the years. Over this past weekend I went deep into the county I grew up in (Westchester, NY) and rediscovered why it is so coveted by those that reside there, and why it means so much to me to have come from it. I’m leaving this evening for a ten days, headed to the Northwest briefly and then down to the Southwest. I’m excited beyond telling, but I have to tell you, there is a twinge of regret in me knowing that I’ll be missing ten whole days of this remarkable but fleeting season in New York. While I am away, get out there and enjoy it.
And this time, I’ve actually managed to pack light! (I think? I’ve only packed one flannel! Only three pairs of jeans! Only two striped tee shirts! Only two white tee shirts! Pretty good?) There should be plenty of room in that old aviator’s kit bag for vintage finds picked up along the way…
Simple times call for simple measures. Things weren’t so simple I suppose in the 1930’s and in the Great Depression, but the sensibility of the era shows through in each simple, clean detail of the clothes that the everyman or everywoman wore.
Three shirts from the 1930’s, each designed for a different type of person and personality, each perfect in their own simple way. And each replete with a perfect pocket or two. I love a good pocket (who doesn’t), and these are very good pockets. A functional necessity and an aesthetic pleasure. What goes in your breast pocket?
(All a little wrinkled, but then again so am I on the weekend…)
Boys button-down shirt, with a homemade hem
By Kaynee, and California styled (ooh la la). Kaynee is still in business producing nationally distributed school uniforms. This may have been part of a young teen’s school wardrobe.
Mens two-pocket cotton button down in cream. A soak in Oxy-clean took the rusty age marks right out of this one. A perfect weekend shirt. No label.
A little silky rayon blouse for the lady (oh, I guess that’s me…)
Precious flap pocket
Lovely ruching detail at the shoulder
Not a single detail overdone or gaudy, placed harmoniously within the context of the time.
(Thank you TT!)
A few months ago I watched an original pair of womens 1930’s Levi’s slip away on eBay for around $330. Justified this as an extraordinarily reasonable price in my mind, couldn’t believe I let them get away. Yup, maybe I have a problem. But as I know, good things come to those that wait, and I now sit wearing that very same pair procured for a modest two-digit sum.
Levi’s Vintage Clothing is a godsend! They replicate historic styles of Levi’s down to the rivets, and other pieces of blue collar denim, work and casual wear. It’s perfection. And it’s not widely available in the States, but hopefully and accoring to Michael, we’ll be seeing more of it soon. You can read more about LVC and the woman who, hands down, has the coolest job in the world, Lynn Downey, on ACL.
Looks from the LVC Spring/Summer 2009 book, from repeattofade.blogspot.com
Without further ado, the to-the-thread reproduction of the beloved original jeans lost to the eBay ether: the Harriet from the mid-1930’s (Levi’s 701). They arrived at my door never worn and with the tags still on, with the cute, punny but somewhat frightening original price tag of $501. Yup, maybe I don’t have a problem. Gotta love eBay.
With a buckle-back to cinch that waist extra tight.
Worked in, not worn-out. The arcuate (the arch typical to Levi's jeans on the back pocket) was not done by double-needle machine at this point in the 1930's, and so inconsistencies are seen from pair to pair. The "diamond" effect at the adjoining point which we know today wouldn't be seen for about another 15 years or so.
Selvedge, curiously stitched with gold rather than red as with most or all vintage selvedge Levi's made in the later first half and mid 20th century.
After all the money I’ve spent on new and old jeans in my life, I always comes back to one conclusion: Levi’s are the only jeans that matter.
Local hero Doug was featured again on The Sartorialist today! Just perfect. XOX
I was asked to whip somethin’ up about my hometown for a magazine I occasionally contribute to. Ultimately the piece was not used, so I thought to plop it here, you know, because. Thanks to my friend Ben who helped me edit it along the way.
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Portents of Inevitable Change
The town of Yorktown, NY was not long ago heralded as one of those places where traffic would stop for the farmer to guide his cows across the road— the main road that led directly to town— in the middle of the day. Throughout my childhood a barn still existed along the side of Route 202. That, if nothing else, proved that the legends must be true. The barn is gone now, but so am I, for that matter.
I was born into a picturesque 19th-century carriage house in the woods, nestled next to a glorious estate with ancient yellow siding and great big black shudders, terraces and verandas, stonewalls and rolling meadows, the grand and hospitable likes of which you might think President Lincoln trod by and spent a fortnight at while en route to greater destinations sprinkled about the Union. Our little carriage house toed the perimeter of the town limits, a town that was neutral during the Revolutionary War and a resting pad for both Patriots and Redcoats, named thusly after the decisive victory in Virginia. It was rumored that George Washington himself had spent time in Yorktown, at least enough to make a lasting impression.
Some months after my birth my big sister and I were ousted from the cribs of our shared bedroom in the Old Yellow House and moved to suburban splendor (not yet associated with all-negative-things-sprawling) on the other side of town. We had a massive tethered yard, both front and back. There were many kids to play with in our new establishment, and to our repute there was a swing set and an above ground pool, absolutely glorious in comparison to the ancient and mucky stone pool at the foot of the old estate. Our sportsmanship was honed beneath a nine foot basketball hoop at the base of the driveway. We had prime positioning at the foot of a cul-de-sac and were known to host magnificent games of kickball and spud, memorable for their triumph and will.
Our home was conveniently located around the corner from the schoolyard, and by the time we reached five and six years and were walking to school each morning with bows tied in our hair and a charming cocker spaniel in tow, we had a fairly good notion of what it was to feel happy and be privileged. Home was where our hearts were, in Yorktown.
Yorktown was the perfect place to raise a family and news of its joie de vivre must have traveled the four corners of the earth. As actionable young families laid down their roots, our modest schools were restructured to accommodate the overgrown classrooms—an image that my childhood memory likes to play with, flimsily remembering limbs and small bodies hanging out of second story classroom windows. A mysteriously defunct and partially dilapidated school, called French Hill (somehow rather eerie), reopened its great big doors after many years of destitution. Children were again welcome in its once forgotten hallways.
The emergence of wanton new shopping plazas and modern home communities became routine. They received their wings as our age-old favorites, part of what-once-was, disappeared into the ether.
The previously noted barn housed a single horse that for many years grazed peacefully outside in the corral, alongside the busiest road in town, while the borders of the farm continued to shrink. The horse disappeared one day, casually and unnoticed, and life continued with little reason to mourn. The road increased with traffic, and it was reconstructed to accommodate more travelers.
By the time that I was old enough to take a job at a small local grocer in the center of town, the midday cartage on our thoroughfare was so backed up that the sound of cars passing and horns honking came to provide a wretched song that we all came to know by heart. Old timers seemed to surrender to greater forces, and let the lamentable lyrics roll off their tongue, “this place isn’t what it used to be.”
An unremarkable pandemonium settled itself amidst our fair town, noticeable only to those whose memories were stained with images of Yorktown’s past.
It has been years since I have spent time in Yorktown, though I occasionally find myself driving through with vivid memories of ballet class, the dentist’s office, unforgettable local faces, and aimless teenage pursuits. But perhaps sentimental nostalgia is more suited to hometown heroes, not those merely passing through. A Yorktown that does not exist anymore is etched in my mind.
My father moved away from Yorktown during my teen years and settled down against a mountain in a neighboring county more suitable for country living. While at college in New York City, my mother left the house I grew up in for greater pursuits and the dry heat of the American West. I can accept having been reduced to a passerby; an ephemeral member of a temporary home that was once in bloom and now is not.
Some guard their home as territory. For others, home has no position on a map. To me, it is intangible; a feeling that lives deep within and offers a new definition of comfort, safety, and belonging— something that can be carried along from place to place, wherever that may be. And so, I hope that anywhere I may wander in life, I will come to find myself feeling at home… just where I am.
