Hello Darlings.You now you've done enough now don't you? That Christmas is upon us, all is well with the world, and that none of those little niggly "got to be dones" really matter now?
Don't worry... you are not alone in feeling that no matter how much you plan, no matter what you do, no matter how organised you are, Christmas still manages to take you by surprise.. that your little pile of stocking fillers remains woefully small, that there are cards you forgot to write and brandy butter you forgot to buy and that above all else the Christmas you have created does not quite have the finesse of the Christmas you imagined...


You are not alone... the past hour here at Chez Brocante has been spent stringing up yet another string of lights around the greenery I dragged in from a walk the other day. I can't quite get the balance between twinkly and erm.... well Blackpool lights. And so I have today spent way too much time winding them in and out of the the laurel leaves, steeping over Finley to wrap them around the candlesticks standing tall either side of the mantelpiece and entertaining passing friends and neighbours by forcing them to endure the seven different ways the lights can twinkle (From static to all out flashing disco), so I can at the end of the day hold a consensus and make a decision...


And you know what? It doesn't matter. Now that I am finally sitting down, the lights are fading softly in tune with the flicker of many candles, and none of all the fussy little things that have been worrying my sleep matter anymore. I can't buy more presents. There isn't time to do any more baking. The house is quite as decorated as it's going to be, the beds are made with sheets starched to high heaven, our Christmas Eve Jim Jams are suitably cinnamony and short of declaring myself Sergeant Major and insisting the rest of the family dance to my rather demented tune, there is nothing more I can do to guarantee Christmas bliss other than relax and go with the tinselly flow...


This year will be the same as  the last.There will be toys without batteries. One of the kids will no doubt have the screaming ab-dabs.  Somebody will cry. Somebody will steal all the gifts out of the Christmas Crackers and stash them in her bra. Mum will have forgotten something crucial to the Christmas meal and we all, every single one of us delight and despair in the never changing round of that which is guaranteed at Christmas. Vintage family rituals are the bestest kind...

So yes, this year will be the same as the last. And yet, and yet, and yet.... in houses across the land thing will be different. People who sat at the table the year before may no longer be with us. Purse strings have been tightened to a degree some of us have never experienced, and children who once believed in Santa may have developed a scepticism we could hardly countenance in one so young. Things change. In my world, sadly, it will be the last time we spend Christmas in my childhood home...

Things change. And in the end it is only people that matter. Whether the lights wrapped around your mistletoe are doing a highland jig or dancing the Christmas Polka...

And so my Darling, in this my Christmas Card to each and everyone of you, I say enough now...you've done all you can and now it's time to snuggle up into the heart of those we love, put stressing about the state of your kitchen floor aside for three days and really enjoy all that Christmas is meant to be...

Enjoy it Sweethearts.

"My husband gave me a broom for Christmas. This wasn't right. No-one can tell me  it was meant kindly."

Grace Paley.

It is, I believe, ritual rather than housekeeping that has been the mainstay of BrocanteHome,because much as I consider some of the lowlier joys of homemaking to be a necessary evil, it is my personal and familial rituals that I hold most dear...

Rituals fall in to two categories- those that happen almost by accident and instantly become beautiful habit, and those that we design and force ourselves to repeat for the comfort we know they will ultimately bring. Ritual can be something relatively simple: always using a certain cup and saucer to drink cranberry tea is a ritual, as is following a complex pattern of behavior before snuggling up in bed at night. The fact that my sister insists on stuffing every Christmas cracker gift down her bra at the Christmas dinner table is a ritual as is the fact that every year my Dad refuses to to follow the ritual of collecting and binning the wrapping paper and I have something of a two minute hissy fit because he isn't doing what he should and then he goes and gets a bin bag and we all feel better... a ritual that has evolved from an effort to maintain a childhood certainty that made me feel that another year had passed but the world was as it should be...

What ritual to the Vintage Housekeeper however, is not, is compulsive. It is not set in stone and each of the little rituals we use to trim our daily and indeed seasonal routines should be constantly evolving and altering to reflect our way of life if they are to continue to bless our days in constantly changing circumstances.

In a December like this one, ritual becomes our mainstay. It is perhaps something personal, but it seems to me that this year the universe isn't putting on the pantomime that is Christmas with quite it's usual level of commitment to tinselly over indulgence, frenzied spending and merry enthusiasm. Perhaps it is this so called, media generated, "credit crunch". Perhaps we are afraid of throwing money at something that seems frivolous in a climate where too many people's livelihoods continue to be threatened. Perhaps there is something terrifying about standing in the certainty that is Woolworths two weeks before Christmas and watch a shop that is part of all our childhoods, try to liquidate its stock in crazy sales during a season in which we expect to pay top dollar for every item we chose to stuff in our bubbas stockings with. All of a sudden the world feels wobbly and somewhat jaded...

I don't know why. But I do know that Christmas doesn't feel the same this year. That everything is tinged with the unfamiliar taste of real, necessary frugality, and worse than that, the gentle sting of something like guilt. In some quarters Christmas 2008 is being held up as the year that will in history prove to be a turning point in the way that we all live: that blatant commercial endeavours will be replaced by acts of random goodness, that frugality and green ethics will have to establish a balance that makes it possible for an organic way of life to be achievable for every Tom, Dick and Sally, and not a way of life exclusive only to those who can afford it, and that in the long term we all benefit for having had the very fabric of our lives threatened by the kind of fat cat financial mismanagement we may or may not tolerate in the future.

And so as a society, and indeed as individuals we have no choice but to seek the comfort of familiar ritual, even if our expectations of those very rituals have to be shifted to reflect a way of life inflicted upon us by the powers that be. It is after all, entirely possible, that if for whatever reason whether it be ethical or financial, we choose to consume less, the rituals that stitch families together will gain greater significance in our lives, because we only have to look to the children in our lives to understand that it is the rituals of the festive season that matter most, and that we have an opportunity as the only generation of adults to have ever lived in a climate where money was almost no object and where value was measured by price, to shake off greed as a way of life and teach our children to really embrace the spirit of daily and seasonal celebration.

 

 

 

Oh dear. I've known about Polyvore since the day it opened it's doors and knowing myself as I do, thought it best avoided, if I was to get anything done at all. And then today I was all curled up on the sofa with my laptop on my knee, Christmas In Connecticut on the DVD (Oh what undiscovered joy!), and a long tall glass of hot chai latte at my side and I decided to have a play...

And here I am, a stupid amount of hours later. The baby no more than dipped in the bath (Ok so he's five and no more a baby, but he'll always be my baby, so don't argue with me when I've got PMT coming out of my ears!), the evening meal no more than a token gesture with which to fill our stomachs and the house gone to the dogs...

And all for the most fun you can have wearing furry slippers. I'm always late to the party arent I?

I like to think of it as fashionably so... 

1890 (On December 20th at the earliest):

Father: What about the presents for the children, my Love? Are you shopping soon?
Mother: Yes, I thought I would drive into X tomorrow or Thursday and buy two dolls for the girls. I fear if they are nicely dressed they most cost as much as half-a-crown each. 
Father: Dear, dear! When I was a boy we should have only spent that on useful gifts. What about the boys?
Mother: The two elder ones want penknives, but I am so nervous about them. Unless you could pick up very blunt ones tomorrow?
Father: What about wooden skates? It looks as if the frost would hold: they're not expensive.
Mother (admiringly): What a good idea! And I have got two nice gay picture books for the little boys. I have got red flannel petticoats for all the maids, so if you tip John and the postman that will be all, till the gifts at the Parish Tea at the New Year. I'm afraid I may seem rather extravagant after your Mother, but after all, Christmas comes but once a year.

1930 (About December 18th):

Papa: What have you been doing? You look a wreck.
Mamma: Quite, quite too dreadful. the shops were all crowded, though it is so early, and I got so depressed that I went all extravagant. A. wants a wristwatch, and you know those cheap ones aren't very reliable, so I got him a silver one - for £2.00!
Papa: I had a five shilling one until I was twenty!
Mamma: I hadn't one at all till I was his age. Then B. wanted a model aerodrome because a boy at his school had one. I had to go all the way to Holborn, and don't ask me what it cost. And as for C, well I hoped to save by getting some nice ordinary boxes of soldiers, but he's longing for a set of Romans and Carthigans, and they were rather expensive because of the elephants. So tiresome of Hannibal to use them!
Papa: What about the maids?
Mamma: Oh they were very little trouble as they wanted fur ties, so I got them al in the High Street for £2 each, and they really look more. But then afterlunch I began buying presents for our relations (so many!) and friends too! It would be heavenly if we were rich, but as it is one does get a sortof squint from seeing nice things for seven and ninepence when you are determined not to spend more than three and elevenpence! I seem to have got through about £10.00 on silly little gifts they won't care for.
Papa: Then why send them at all?
Mamma: Because they send to me, and it's so sweet of them. But somehow more people seem to give each other more expensive presents every year!
Papa: (without conviction): Why not make a stand?
Mamma (ignoring this): So you see though I calculated on only spending about £15, I've blued £25 already and I still haven't got anything for Uncle.L and his gardener- (Like al bad shoppers by nature I was always obsessed by a wild search for the most difficult recipients; the two in question were non-smokers, non-drinkers, had no gramophone and liked no books but those of a mildly theological flavour. My eldest son always declares that he spent Christmas Eve with me, wandering up and down Bond Street in a last desperate search, but this is acrocryphal).
Papa: Well what shall I get for you?
Mamma: Oh lets cancel each other out and wait for birthdays. We maybe richer then and anyhow it's no fun to shop just now, and - and- we must economize somewhere.

1950 (to judge by the advertisements), November 1st:

Daddy: Well, well! Only thirty more shopping days to Christmas. what about it?
Mummy: I've got the lists ready, and here are the advertisements and the catalogues. I've marked this cocktail cabinet to give to you.
Daddy: Splendid! And this mink coat is for you, I suppose. Have you got Toby's toy motor cars yet?
Mummy: Yes, I've seen one and it's quite perfect. Good tyres and splendid brakes and the batteries are charged. And it's only £25! I must get this baby doll for Angela. It walks and talks and sleeps, and I don't think it should matter spending so much less on her- only £5.00, and she's so tiny.
Daddy: Good! What about our respective parents?
Mummy: This advertisement recommends Mediterranean Cruises- tickets for them I mean. And I thought perhaps this Christmas hamper for old Aunt Jane.
Daddy: Aren't you being a bit lethal all round. the journey would finish off our old ones and Aunt Jane would die of indigestion.
Mummy: Well the hampers have a special line for the Not So Young, and the advertisement says Southern Sun Prolongs Life. But there are lots of other ideas of course. For cheaper gifts for friends and business acquaintances they recommend cases of whisky.
Daddy: I wish I could think anyone would take the hint for me.
Mummy: Or a demand subscription on a Library or if you want to be an original, what about one of the electric gadgets that make tea and shave you in bed? Or this little bookcase full of Forest Face preparations. They are all in the five-guinea line and I've only about a hundred names on my list.
Daddy: (coming out of Advertisement Land with a sudden burst of realism): I say, what can we afford to spend on presents this year?
Mummy: (joining him): Twenty pounds at most.
Daddy: Well then, one way and another, don't you think we'd better start again!   

Winifred Peck, Home For The Holidays, 1955.

Oh I do absolutely love the idea of stuffing a tiny little stocking with gift's inspired by The Nutcracker. Good old Martha Stewart has a list of suggested gifts for boys and girls alike and I think a stripy woolly stocking (I bought one in Ikea of all places... that and some meatballs) full of terribly old fashioned bits of childhood treasure hung on the iron bedpost of Finley's daybed on Christmas Eve morning would be the perfect antidote to the piles of plastic Santa will no doubt deliver the next day...


Next thing you know I'll be dressing him up in breeches and stockings and insisting he is seen and not heard.
In my dreams m'ladies, in my dreams.

Here she is, one Mrs Marjorie McWeeney ironing amongst the fruits of her forthcoming labour... For here she stands in Bloomingdales, New York, 1947 amidst a "symbolic display of her housework". Namely 35 beds to be made, 750 items of glass and china to be washed, dried and put away, 400 pieces of silverware to clean and polish, 174 lbs of food to prepare, and 250 piece of laundry to be dealt with...

Gosh. Add to that kids to be washed, dressed fed, watered and educated, a full time job, all the financial nonsense we are required to juggle these days, a social life of some description and a whole host of personal hopes and dreams and I tell ya, it's a wonder any of us are able to function without falling over from sheer debilitating exhaustion.

And yet we do. Because we gotta...

Christmas comes but once a year but please try telling that to every frazzled Mummy in the land. With just 34 days to go until the  heavenly headache that is the festive season is upon us , sadly it is time to abandon scrumptious visions of chocolate box Christmases and get down to the nitty gritty of  actually making it happen...


We have already purged our  souls and surfaces. We have  printed lists and downloaded planners to our hearts content. No doubt we have  all clipped perfect Christmases out of  airbrushed lives in our favorite magazines and done our upmost to curtail Christmas wish lists that threaten to bankrupt us... Yes we know Christmas is coming because the happy little elf living inside our heart is dancing with glee while our bones  ache with pre-emptive exhaustion...


Tis time I'm afraid to get this show on the road and lay the foundations of a season we will cherish (and probably laugh about) for always...


Firm Foundations.


* Money is the root of all evil and never more so than at Christmas when the whole world seems to be screaming SPEND! But this year is the year to turn over a new leaf. To say tis the experience of Christmas that counts. The spectacle of it. Memories of mince pie making and dusk walks Christmas tree spotting. Tis the room filled to the brim with snow flake sprinkled balloons left by Santa on Christmas morning that will remain in a childs memory. The delivery of fresh flowers on Christmas Eve in your Mums. If you can't get every gift on your childs list then so be it. Give them memories to treasure, because they are the only things they will take into their future. So resolve here and now not to feel guilty about buying a bigger turkey rather than shoving another bit of plastic junk into your little boys stocking and CONCENTRATE on making magic...


* Plan, plan, plan and plan again. I am naturally a coast it and lets see what happens kinda gal. Money turns up and events on my calender fall into festive place. Most of the time. But along the way I suffer bouts of unnecessary festive anxiety I drown in spiked hot chocolate and then wonder why I find myself without sellotape on Christmas Eve, letting people down left, right and centre  and only dreaming of all the things I think Christmas should authentically be.  Enough already. Make a list. Check it twice and re-invent yourself as a woman with a plan. Should you see me wandering the streets with an earpiece and clipboard just nod and understand.


* Divide what needs to be done over the four weeks. Make your master grocery list and divide it into four shopping trips. Non perishables and household stuff  this week, stuff that can be frozen (or made and frozen) next , sweets and fripperies the third week and all your fresh stuff the fourth. Etc, Etc...


* Now is the time to schedule a pre-christmas scrub. If you are using the planner the two day scrub is detailed there (and can of course be spread across five evenings etc). Christmas is a dusty affair and the last thing you want to do is lay it upon existing grub so trust me having a house thoroughly prepped will make all the difference to  the rest of the month and  go a long way to  making Christmas feel as calm and pure as it should be... What are you waiting for? Tie a happy gingham pinny on and get  going!


*  This really should be the last week to order Christmas presents via mail or internet. I know there is a month left but who wants to leave Christmas in the hands of strike prone postmen or natural disaster? Who needs that kinda stress? So sit down in snuggly jim-jams, wail along with Bing and navigate the confusing muddle (Might be the time to give Shoeboxed a go?) that is trying to think straight when you are shopping online... Do it tonight!


Things To Do This Week.


1. Make your Christmas card lists. Badger men and kids for  names they consider it essential  to greet at Christmas time.  Make sure you've got enough cards and seek out a pretty pen  specially for the purpose. Perhaps a fountain pen with hunter green ink for a calligraphic flourish?


2. Make your mincemeat for strudels and unusual pies and freeze. Then while you are in cooking mode do something deliciously old-fashioned and Christmassy like make Marzipan fruits...


3. Plant paperwhite bulbs in all manner of scrumptious vintage china cups, vases etc for a delicious display during Christmas week (Three to five weeks to bloom indoors so NOW)... And people? Put them everywhere: they cost practically nothing and fill the heart with  gladness.


4.  Buy stamps. Pay or arrange to pay mithering bills. Confirm times of church services, nursery pantomimes and hair appointments. Service the car. You know. Do the dull stuff...


5. Make some Christmas morning Jam to be served with warm croissants and christmas gifts... Choose a breakfast cocktail (cranberry juice and champagne?) and write it on your menu planner or fill homemade vintage paper crackers with white chocolate for a  snowy Christmas morning treat... Who needs Dinner when Christmas Day breakfast is going to be such a treat?

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The whole house is fragranced by the bewitching antiseptic fragrance of lilies delivered by a secret admirer or spurned lover. Thinking of you the card says. Ah if only whoever it was could see the humongous spot on your nose: your body still maintaining utter faith in it's hormone addled teenage self. You feel twitchy. Contrary to the myth your sister likes to perpetuate, you rarely lose things. In your own sweet, chaotic way, you are desperately organised: you never forget things and only occasionally manage to lose great big things like relationships and the cellulite on your thighs.But you have lost your camera lead and amongst everything else rankling your sleep, this is what keeps you awake at night. The world makes no sense if you cannot document the details of your day and so you carry on taking picture regardless. There is much to be remembered. It is Christmas. Santa is coming for breakfast. Your son has taken up spelling everything he says according to the laws of his very own alphabet and you are exhausted. Aching to commit to memory a picture of this exhaustion as a warning to lesser mortals.

Your little boy is a shepherd in the the school Nativity. The very idea of acting in a religious play (It's the story of Mary and Joe, M.A.R.I AND J.O, Mum. Do you know them?) appealing to the little man inside him planning to be a Shakespearean Priest when he grows up.

 

 

 

 
You promise yourself you won't cry. And you don't. You focus on recording his earnest little face shooing imaginary sheep and save your tears for later. Afterward, a chocolate Oscar in your hand, you help him undress in a classroom full of noisy kings and whiny angels.  You cannot find his scarf and the eagle eye of his teacher is on you as your son places a chubby little hand on your shoulder and says "For goodness sake Mummy, will you please keep C.A.R.M.". You look at Mrs Carr: she looks at you. All the complex unspoken intercourse of the relationship between teacher and parent passes between you. You are of course obliged to try to explain the enigma that is the silent "L". The words tumble out in a nonsensical fashion and he looks at you blankly and repeats C.A.R.M, Mummy, just stay C.A.R.M...

You wonder if you are losing the battle. (Safe perhaps, in the knowledge that he will win the war).

There is still shopping to be done. On Saturday morning your son's Father comes to steal him away and in a fit of what you can only term compassion in the face of your glaring PMT and massive family related worries, he insists you accompany them to the retail cathedral that is the Trafford Centre, because rumour has it, you can buy the feel good factor there in spades.

And so out you troop en famille, your child beaming and you, his parents, navigating a whole new dimension in what has always been for both of you, your defining relationship. But "friendship" sails on uncharted waters and there is much dangerous territory to be avoided, territory steeped in silent recrimination and tangly with the comfort of familiarity. You cannot help but say her name, though she is long gone. To watch his heckles rise just for the hell of it. Once you forget who you are and accidentally reach for his hand as you push your way through the tinselled masses.

It is too much. Too little. You leave the two of them sharing a H.A.P.I. Meal and wander around the food hall of Selfridges. Either the madness of frenzied shopping or the quandary of aching for something you no longer want making you feel claustrophobic. There is a whole section dedicated to elaborately decorated gingerbread houses. Sixty different types of olives, a sushi bar, and an area where people are turning taps on little bottle and creating mixes of you don't know what. Selfridges makes you feel shy. Too under dressed. Too pre-menstrual to investigate. You pay for garlic stuffed olives, an artisan made Christmas pudding and a pile of Wonka bars, and go through the arches to the Cath Kidston concession where you spend enough time there fingering the cowboy print wellies and pretty rosy corsages to raise the eyebrow of the pretty girl on the counter. 

(You buy a book. Of course you buy a book. As hungry as ever for the need to know).

Blessed lethargy  awaits you at home. You stand breathing ice into the air of your living room as you wave goodbye to your son, then shove the yellow Selfridges bags stuffed with the feel good factor into the Christmas Box. Christmas has not yet arrived here. There is as yet no tree: you being a stickler for personal ritual to the degree that you will not even contemplate decorating it until the 17th of December has passed. Your Mum laughs at you. Her own tree shrouded in nostalgia and fear you cannot take away.

Once again you swallow your tears,  avoid the calls of those who want to discuss the X-factor final (something you cannot watch because you can no more bear a strangers disappointment than you can your own), and disregard the texts spelling out the loneliness and boredom of the man you adored as a teenager. Things linger. They never quite die in your world.They linger on and on with all the ugly potency of  crumpled dying lilies. You seem to be waiting for the big bang.   

That night one of your best friends calls to tell you she is pregnant again. You are thrilled for her yet find yourself weeping as you recount her lovely news to your mum. It's always all about you isn't it? You hate yourself for it. You climb into bed with your beloved Anam Cara to remind yourself that it is OK to be the centre of your own universe. That from this all creativity and certainty and joy will spill. That someone somewhere gets who you are and quite likes your big bum. Your dreams taste of salt and yet you wake up with new vigor.

You package the last of parcels for the post office and turn the house upside down in search of the camera lead. It has gone. You are suddenly possessed to take action and drive the car with the broken clutch into town where you purchase a card reader for a silly sum of money and go home to unpack your little shepherd from his photographic box. And there he is.  Though you love him in a daily way, when you see him framed like this, true all encompassing Mummy love courses through your veins.

Because there he is. Yawning his way through his festive obligations and showing you the way to keep C.A.R.M. in a world where silent "L's" exist and the dusty carpet of your childhood is about to be swept away.

Tis the season to be silly (Tra la la la la- la la la). So I took a quiz. And after answering just two questions, I have been analysed to the nth degree and the survey says I am a Katherine... and really rather spookily attributes personality traits to me that I really cannot argue with.... You are a Katharine -- "I am happy and open to new things" (Though not bungee jumping, thank you very kindly) Katharines are energetic, lively, and optimistic. They want to contribute to the world. (But only when I feel like it. Understood?) How to Get Along with Me

• * Give me companionship, affection, and freedom. (But text me more than twice in one day and there will be trouble)
• * Engage with me in stimulating conversation and laughter.(Or tickle my elbows.)
• * Appreciate my grand visions and listen to my stories. (I'm all about me, me, me...)
• * Don't try to change my style. Accept me the way I am. (But pinch me hard if I get out of control)
• * Be responsible for yourself. I dislike clingy or needy people.(I get claustrophobic and bite you)
• * Don't tell me what to do.(Like you'd even dare)

What I Like About Being a Katharine

• * being optimistic and not letting life's troubles get me down (I live in a red wine haze. It's beautiful)
• * being spontaneous and free-spirited (And saying hello to passing dogs)
• * being outspoken and outrageous. It's part of the fun. (Trouble on a butty I am)
• * being generous and trying to make the world a better place (But leave my chocolate alone)
• * having the guts to take risks and to try exciting adventures (Which is the kind of thing that can get a person into trouble)
• * having such varied interests and abilities (That nothing ever gets done)

What's Hard About Being a Katharine

• * not having enough time to do all the things I want (It's mostly the shaving of my legs that has to be abandoned)
• * not completing things I start (Well yes. But I get worried. And scared and a teensy bit bored)
• * not being able to profit from the benefits that come from specializing; not making a commitment to a career (It is my very own cardinal sin)
• * having a tendency to be ungrounded; getting lost in plans or fantasies (Bless me and my high faluting ways)
• * feeling confined when I'm in a one-to-one relationship (Yup)

Katharines as Children Often

• * are action oriented and adventuresome (Ermmmmm...no. Give me a pencil and I was happy)
• * drum up excitement (and then abandon it )
• * prefer being with other children to being alone (So I could pinch them)
• * finesse their way around adults (A skill I remain excessively proud of)
• * dream of the freedom they'll have when they grow up (and then spend the rest of my life feeling terrified by it and wanting my mum)

Katharines as Parents

• * are often enthusiastic and generous (But putting jam on everything does not a healthy kid make...)
• * want their children to be exposed to many adventures in life (As long as it doesn't involve climbing. Or jumping. Or leaving my side for more than four hours.)
• * may be too busy with their own activities to be attentive (God bless you my Darling Finn. Please don't tell my blog readers that yesterday I forgot to pick you up from school because I was busy doing other things. Blame Kath. It was her duty to remind me that pick up time was half an hour earlier than usual...)

Ok Housekeepers, your turn... Are you a Katherine, A Bette, A Doris, An Ingrid, A Jackie or a Marilyn?

The Art of Home-Making In City and Country, In Mansion and Cottage, by Margaret E. Sangster, 1898.



Adventures In Home-Making, by Robert Shackleton, 1910



The Little Kingdom of Home, by Margaret E.Sangster, 1904



Practical Homemaking, A Textbook For Young HomeMakers, by Mabel Hyde Kittredge, 1914   



Cheerful To-days and Trustful Tomorrows by Margaret E. Sangster, 104




The Joyful Life, by Margaret E.Sangster, 1903



The Hearthstone, Or Life at Home, by Laura C. Holloway, 1883




Recollections Of A Housekeeper, by Caroline Howard Gilman, 1834





The Housekeepers Handbook of Cleaning by Sarah J. Macleod, 1915



Winsome Womanhood by Margaret E.Sangster, 1901




Home Interiors, by Eugene Gardner, 1878




Apron Strings by Eleanor Gates, 1917




The Simple Home, by Charles Keeler, 1904




Home Helps, by The First Baptist Church Ladies Society, 1910.




A Few Hints For Home Happiness and Comfort, 1863

Vintage Flower Christmas cards at Tamar

Dear Santa at J. Black Designs

Let Them Eat Fruitcake at Vintage Bella

Seasons Greetings At Love Dog Card Company

 

Let It Snow by the Blue Valentine Press

...and Christmas Bluebirds at Angelinas Cards.

 

 

 

 

Christmas Cards. Now here's a subject that makes me feel jumpy. All that paper! All that time! All that ugliness to be dripped all over your walls! And all to exchange Christmas greetings with someone you live within spitting distance of??

Oh I know. I'm Scrooge. But when it comes to Christmas cards I'm with the Bishop. In a fashion. He said we should be only be giving cards to those we love, while I believe those we love know we love them and it is those in far flung lands and erm... Glasgow, who need a paper token of our festive best wishes. It is those relative strangers we cannot kiss or rarely see, who need to hear the thud of a card on their doormat, not the woman next door to whom you will probably be delivering a box of biscuits to regardless. It is long lost friends and virtual treasured acquaintances you want to share a little bit of real life with- not every mum in the playground, nor the auntie you will no doubt be sitting next to at the Christmas dinner table...

Ok annual card screech over... because the whole point of this whingy little post was to showcase some of the most fabulous cards on sale at Etsy, and not to regale you with my slightly outrageous take on Christmas Cards... because let it be said: if I was sending a mile high pile of cards these are the ones I'd be sending...

Because there is nothing I like better than meeting the faces behind beautiful businesses. And it seems to me that in the current climate, we need inspirational people like Amy and David to show us that it is absolute dedication and belief in who we are and what we do that remains the key to success...

If I ever drop by and find you dangling sausages from your fake Christmas Tree there will be trouble, do you understand? Because yes indeed, click on the image above and you will see that this darling little vintage advert suggests poking your Hor D'oevres or canapes on to the branches of this stunning centrepiece...

Everyone loves the Wonder Tree.

If you choose to own only one book on green housekeeping then as a vintage kinda girl this is the only one you should offer Brocante shelf room to, if only because it is written by Christina Strutt of Cabbage and Roses fame, and thus is blessed with the kind vintage housekeeping imagery that makes pinny wearers like us swoon...
My favorite tip... lemon scented rags. Seep rags in two parts white vinegar to one part oil (olive or lemon) with the curly peel of a lemon in a screw top jam jar, and shake and leave until required. Et voila, lemon scented cleaning rags! Fill a pantry shelf with jam-jars full of fresh rags and come over all domesticated when you see them...

Vintage loveliness that costs nothing and gently scents the house without toxic chemicals? Just what the (house) doctor ordered.

Oooooh I'm not a happy chicken. Today the Met office has issued a Severe Weather Warning, and overnight I will be facing my very worst fear.. the scrunchy white joy that is snow. Oh my...

Now for normal people, snow offers the opportunity to ram a bobble hat over unruly curls and roll yourself a snowman, but for me, snow spells H.I.B.E.R.N.A.T.I.O.N in a month when the chill factor already has me shuffling my way under a velvet trimmed blanket at every opportunity.

While I love my house as much as the next woman, even I know that days on end puttering my way through air polluted by central heating, and windows darkened by Winter weight curtains means that all too soon my skin WILL shrivel up, and the house will start developing the fairy lit festive equivalent of S.A.D, with all the fragrance of a mouldy sock.

This will never do. And so my first weapon in the battle against the glitteryfied Winter blues is fresh air. It should be clear to all an sundry that I am refusing to leave the house and so instead, first thing in the morning, I layer on lots and lots of clothes, Eskimo style and run around opening all the windows while I complete my morning routine. It isn't pleasant. A bitter chill  fills the house almost instantly and the curtains waft around the room in a violent fashion. But here's the thing: when I close them again a little while later, making certain to push the curtains as far back as possible in order to maximise what little light there is, the whole house feels fresher, warmer and indeed cosier. But it no longer feels stuffy and keeping warm during the morning chill means that I have kept moving, got my circulation going and got the chores done twice as fast as I do on gorgeous Summer mornings.

Next in the battle against December misery is humidifying the house to offset the damage central heating does. This is a simple matter of adding moisture to the air and vintage housekeepers like us do it the old fashioned way, by foregoing the tumble dryer and using drying racks around the house instead, placing little bowls of aromatherapy oil scented water near radiators, opening the dishwasher before the drying programme begins, keeping a pan of spiced water simmering on the stove and for a very quick way of humidifying and freshening the house quickly, dipping tea-towel into fabric conditioned or oil scented water and allowing them to dry on the piping hot radiators.

Finally I can relax...and begin to make the most of my squirrel like tendencies on slushy days... making use of online grocery delivery services, completing my online Christmas shopping, taking steamy morning baths in a bathroom where I have pine oil burning on the fragrance burner, the bathroom window wide open (I'm a glutton for punishment!), and skin tingling from ten minutes of vigorous body brushing and later half an hour of bliss re-arranging my sock drawer wearing an eccentric combination of holey cardigans and yoga pants....

Happy Hibernating Housekeepers!