Perfume

I am in love with this perfume. Why had I never heard of it before? Why have y’all been hiding this from me? I saw the name “Rich Hippie” in the window of a new boutique that recently opened in downtown Florence, Alabama, and was immediately, like, “That is so me, really,” although I was with my husband and he pointed out that I am neither rich nor a hippie and am, in fact, a middle-aged suburban grandma who watches secretly watches Oprah. Not groovy. So the next day I ditched him and made it in to the store, Grassroots, by myself. After sampling four or five different Rich Hippie scents, I settled on Bohemian Wedding: “Chic, romantic, earthy floral with notes of Sumatran Patchouli and Italian citrus.” Yes, indeedy. “Wow, you really are a hippie if that’s the one you like the best,” the store owner said, admiringly. Or maybe that was just respect in her voice for One So Old. Hard to tell. I didn’t tell her, however, that I missed out on the late 1960s-early 1970s Flower Child-era by a few years. I could have been a great hippie and I so wanted to be, but my parents made me go to bed by 8 p.m. — 9 p.m. when I got a little older. And by the time I got old enough to embrace hippie-dom, everyone had gone all corporate and instead of love-ins we went to discos. Sigh.

I just realized I bought this Rich Hippie perfume on the 40th anniversary of the Beatles’ rooftop “Let It Be” concert. In fact I bought it as I walked back from a recreated homage of that concert a group of local musicians performed on the rooftop of our downtown drugstore.  Most of us watched down below from an alley. Matt McKean, the photo editor at our local daily newspaper, the TimesDaily, took these pics. (Go to www.timesdaily.com to see more.) In the crowd shot, I’m in the lower right-hand corner — well, half of me is — in a light blue jacket just above a woman in a black jacket. It was cold but great fun, even though I wasn’t wearing my Rich Hippie then. But I think I will from now on. If you want to get in touch with your inner Rich Hippie, go to http://www.rich-hippie.com/.

History

My husband pointed out, rightfully so, that when I talked about the Frank Lloyd Wright book in yesterday’s post I forgot to mention one of the main reasons my book club read it in the first place: There’s a Wright house in northwest Alabama. In fact, there’s only one Wright-designed house in Alabama, and it’s the only Wright house in the Southeast that’s open to the public. But even with that pedigree, it’s sort of a hidden treasure — a little gem of a place that delights and entrances everybody who comes to visit. The Rosenbaum House in Florence, Alabama, sits on a bluff of the Tennessee River. It was built in 1939 for Frank (who worked in the family movie-theater business and also was a college professor) and his wife, Mildred (a model from New York City) Rosenbaum. Wright never visited the house, but he also designed an addition in 1948 when the family had grown to four sons. I love going through this house. It seems to have gently sprung out of its two-acre site, and inside every single inch of space is functional and efficient. And  the main building-material of cypress wood smells so good! If you’re ever anywhere near Florence, it’s worth a trip. Learn more at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosenbaum_House and http://www.wrightinalabama.com/.

Newspapers

Newspapers have always been a huge part of my life. I grew up watching my parents read the big-city daily that came to our driveway every evening and checking our small-town weekly for school lunch menus and ballgame wrap-ups. I met my husband while working at the college newspaper. My first jobs as a college graduate and later as a newly  divorced woman and single mom were as newspaper reporters. My husband is a newspaper sports editor, I’m a newspaper columnist and we pick up newspapers everywhere we go. Am I worried about the future of newspapers as the industry faces crisis and change? Hmm … maybe. Read my column today at http://www.timesdaily.com/article/20090130/ARTICLES/901300301