June 26, 2012
The Sad Allure of The Vermont Country Store
For me, browsing the offerings of The Vermont Country Store is a little like clearing out the house of an elderly relative who’s died.
Tender sentiments and pity mingle with embarrassment and faint revulsion.
I let my mind drift, and I’m in a house stacked with mildewed copies of the Walter Drake catalog and with issues of Yankee Magazine and Reader’s Digest. There’s a coffee table. Hard candies are fused together on “cut-glass” Anchor Hocking trays, and the sticky film of long-gone ginger ale adheres within jewel-toned metal tumblers. There’s a closet filled with muumuus and “house-dresses” that are muumuus and nightgowns that are muumuus. On a dressing table there’s a Wind Song bottle. The eau de cologne has evaporated. On the floor under the dressing table, a few mint-green Spoolies holding tangled strands of thin hair.
I like to believe that what I leave behind will not be so easy to sum up, so true to type. I’m sure I am wrong. I try to imagine a commercial catalog of my belongings and the person for whom it may hold a sad allure.
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…like clearing out the house of an elderly relative…
Just glancing at the cover of the Vermont Country Store catalog creates a musty smell though
I admit I’m attracted to the Seersucker Sleepwear section.
I won’t say that I never ever bought anything from the Vermont Country Store. But I am wary of making it a habit.
Muumuus. My mother wore those. Muumuu is the Hawaiian word for “far more shapeless than a nice dress.”
Promise you’ll take me aside and have a gentle word with me if ever you see me wearing something resembling a muumuu.
I promise I will slap you until you’re pink.
That’ll work.