I have been ogling pages of the J. Peterman catalog, reading and rereading the romantic descriptions, imagining which beautiful things I would select if I had such a budget, and admiring the lovely drawings.
More than anything, it's the drawings.
It reminds me of when my sisters and I were young and our mother made most of our clothes. We'd take an afternoon stroll to Leggett's downtown, up those green rubbery wide stairs to where the patterns were. There was a hush like a library. At least another lady, probably without three active girls in tow, was there perusing the pattern books. It seems she always had the one I wanted to look through.
We'd sit high on the perilous stools that swiveled like a carnival ride and help Momma find a pattern.
What I really looked at, I must confess, was how cute the drawing of a girl with pigtails and rosy cheeks looked.
I suspect that as I look through the J. Peterman catalog, what I'm responding to most is the beauty and pattern-picture-simplicity of the drawings. When I'm imagining our trip and what I'll wear, I'm picturing me as a J. Peterman drawing with a romantic narration.
Something like: "San Francisco. I heard her laugh through the fog and fell in love. I followed it to find her sitting at a cafe across from a dashing young man who held her full devotion. My heart broke instantly."
"She wore a full, sweeping skirt and shaped bodice, with artful emphasis on legs, hips, waist, and bust. It was pure cotton, with a swinging sweep and sash ties, darts at bust and waist and a notched collar which stood up pertly."