My mother was a couture dressmaker in New York City. Before she met. And married. My father. And became a wife. And mother.
My father was a very talented pencil artist. And illustrator. Who worked on large advertising accounts when in New York City.
The home they made for themselves. And my sister. And me. Was always beautiful.
My mother made all the curtains. Bedspreads. Slipcovers. Tablecloths. Napkins. Not to mention clothing for herself and her daughters.
My father got transferred. So we traded in our brownstone apartment building in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. For a house in Pennsylvania. Not far from the Amish countryside.
There my parents discovered the Amish community’s deceased estate sales. And bought the most beautiful second hand furniture. Which my father refinished and brought back to its former glory.
As well as gorgeous glassware. Dinnerware. Vases. Table linen. Chiming clocks.
So many pretty pieces to add glamour to the table we sat at.
And both my mother and father were fanatics about how their table was set for breakfast. Lunch. And dinner.
Always a tablecloth. Cloth napkins. No bottles. Or boxes. Of anything. Milk in a glass pitcher. Condiments in separate dishes. And in the middle. A vase of flowers picked from their garden.
I’m very much my parents’ daughter. And set a mean formal table for breakfast. Lunch. And dinner.
Except my table is set with candles as well as flowers.
And my cloth napkins, which are pressed on my ironing board cover of choice, the Fitz Like A Glove™ Ironing Board Cover.
Are always encased in a silver napkin ring when we sit down.