And some in Velvet Gowns

Hark, hark!

The dogs do bark;

the beggars are coming to town.

Some in rags and some in tags,

and some in velvet gowns.

Nursery Rhyme

Prologue

My two older daughters have often gritted their collective teeth in exasperation at how many times I have suggested miscellaneous costumes, names, titles, ideas, scenarios, etc. which though *obviously* clever, funny, terrifically witty to me, and even at times, they themselves, require explanation to EVERYone else in the world...

✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍✍

The so-called nursery rhyme above holds the key to one of the major components of my art business name, sarah fishburn: Designs & Ragtags. And it all harks back to childhood, from which I am a firm believer one must raise oneself up by the bootstraps if said childhood was something less than idyllic.

No precept was considered utterly sacred or immutable throughout my somewhat bohemian childhood; the awfulness of "begging" was the sole exception. Not only were we four kids not supposed  to "accept charity"(outside of from our blood relatives - I certainly had to often as not wear ill-fitting cousin cast-offs) but, for example, we were not ever allowed to trick or treat. The man I married insists this was all because we really DID need help. Ironic...

One year I won a citywide essay contest and had no parent available to take me to the evening award ceremony, and told my teacher who consequently offered to fill in. It was touch and go, as that fell into the category of not simply charity, but begging on my part as well. Finally to my great relief, I was allowed to go, but it was not without repercussions and recriminations.

The saying is, "Pride goeth before a fall." My family's pride certainly did go before my fall. I  grew up to be a woman who generally doesn't have much of a problem asking for things I want or need. World community is something I believe in with all my heart, so I try to be there for others as well, whether their needs are tangible or spiritual. The man I married is much more like my parents, and grandparents. I frequently find myself advising him to just ask for help when he needs it. More often than not, he ignores my advice and often as a result, does without.

Anyway. Back to the rhyme. According to several online sources (I edited the following):

The "Hark, hark! The dogs do bark" rhyme dates back to 13th century England. The origin...is steeped in history. Wandering minstrels, troubadours and beggars went from town to town singing their songs...Messages of dissent to the common people were often found in secret meanings in the words of their ballads. In this way, the propaganda of the day was passed from one community to another.  These secret messages sometimes lead to plots and uprisings against the royalty, clergy, and politicians of the day. 

But eh! Who cares for all that historical folderol? What a fabulous image comes to my mind's eye --- a raucous crowd meandering down the street, velvet gowns --- no doubt richly embroidered, if well-worn --- dragging through the dirt, ribbons streaming. Who cares if they're begging or carrying messages of revolution? All I knew then, and still believe now, is I want in. And if I have to beg for admission, so be it.

Spanish Gypsies

National Geographic 1917

Toys R (not always) Us

Two of the super cute & put-together Shaddock cousins on the right.

Me, looking like a dirty & blurry ragamuffin as usual, on the left.

Angela and I have been trying to get the Holiday Pasticcio "put to bed". But no, don't get excited yet, we aren't that close...

One of the upcoming Pasticcio "articles" called for snapshots of us with our moms - in mine, at the tender age of three, I'm already scooching as far away from her as I can on the davenport (now, in my sophistication, I call it a "couch" but back then it was definitely a davenport) to schmooze with her girlfriend. That snapshot was rather miserably faded, as many from the era are now. And I feel sad that I wasn't sitting right next to my own mother.

For the letters to the editor page, Angela has a fabulous promo photo of herself holding an Angela doll - she looks just darling, so does the doll. The analogous photo I found, after much searching? Well, in it I AM totally clutching a dollie, but when I think back, I'm pretty sure that doll wasn't actually mine - it was a doll I was allowed to play with when I visited my Grandad and Magy (maternal grandmother). I loved it, but only every few months. As for the image of me? I look like nothing more than a messy little 1950's street urchin, precursor to the adult ragamuffin I remain. I have never been able to achieve a polished, put-together look, even when I thought I wanted to. So much for dreams of being Julie Christie...

Earlier today I was thinking about a little felt mitten bookmark one of my grandmothers made for me way back in the 1960's, with a spring mechanism hair clip. It was white, and she stitched a little lace cuff onto it, and embroidered pink flowers with french knots. I looked online and found some current patterns but they are so FAT! She must have drawn the design herself as it was such a beautiful, delicate little mitten shape...

Why don't I have ANYthing left from my childhood except for a half dozen books? Hardly any photos even. The thing is, we were so poor and moved so often when I was younger that when I left my parents house at 17 for good and all, there wasn't that much I ever actually had, and what I did have, I know I callously said, "Oh, that's just material stuff...I don't care about any of it..." and it WAS just material stuff...and yet. I wish I had a little bit of it still - that little felt bookmark, my ice skater Betsy McCall doll, the kinda weird yet cool pose dolls my mother occasionally got for me ---

Confidential to September - those paragraph breaks are for YOU!