A Shawl Within Reach

OUR COUNTRY HOME

At Home with Molly DuBois

“A Shawl Within Reach”

Molly DuBois shares the everyday pleasures of making a home and dressing for the life being lived within and beyond it. From a favorite shawl to a fresh arrangement on the table, she appreciates useful things, thoughtful touches, and comforts that need not cost a great deal to mean a great deal.

Join her each month for friendly observations on home, clothing, and the small seasonal changes that help us feel comfortable, cared for, and ready to welcome company.

The first cool morning generally finds me reaching for something I put away with great confidence in Spring.

This year, it was my shawl.

I remembered folding it.

I remembered deciding where it belonged.

Unfortunately, those were two separate memories.

When I found it beneath a stack of heavier skirts, I carried it downstairs and laid it over the back of my chair.

There. Ready for the next cool morning.

Or that afternoon, as it happened.

October changes a house a little at a time.

A window that stood open through September is lowered before supper. A chair moves out of a draft. Somebody asks whether the heavier bedcover has been brought down yet.

The house begins to look as though people intend to spend more time inside it.

I enjoy that part.

After months of keeping things light and open, it is pleasant to unfold a warmer coverlet and see its familiar colors again. The rich golds, rusts, browns, and moss greens seem to warm the room all by themselves before anyone has drawn the coverlet over their knees. A little deep burgundy among them makes it all the more inviting.

A cushion returns to a chair. The mending basket finds a place where the daylight is good.

There is generally something in it that should have been attended to sooner.

Mine contained a loose cuff, two troublesome buttons, and a stocking whose heel had become more hopeful than substantial.

I began with the buttons.

A person likes an early success.

Mrs. Bell stopped by while I was working.

She had come to return a dish but remained to tell me that she had taken out her heavier skirt that morning and discovered a pocket full of things from last Winter.

“What sort of things?”

“A receipt, a peppermint, and the button I spent three days looking for.”

“Was it the skirt’s button?”

“Yes.”

We considered that.

“Well,” I said, “at least you know where it goes.”

She laid the dish on the table and looked at my basket.

“May I sit a minute?” she asked.

“Of course.”

I moved the shawl from the chair.

We talked about cooler-weather clothes while I sewed.

There is comfort in a familiar wool skirt, a blouse with sleeves that reach properly to the wrist, and something warm to put around one’s shoulders when the sun goes behind a cloud.

But everything benefits from a look before the morning it is needed.

Mrs. Bell had found a worn place near the hem of her skirt.

I had discovered that the ribbon on my better hat had survived Summer storage in considerably better condition than its feathers.

“I believe I shall use the ribbon and leave the feathers off,” I said.

“That will be easier in the wind,” Mrs. Bell added.

“And easier on the feathers,” I agreed.

For an ordinary October errand, I like clothes that allow me to carry a basket, climb a step, and reach home without having to rescue some part of my appearance along the way.

A pleasant color near the face helps, too.

Mrs. Bell had a russet scarf she was particularly fond of.

“Same coat,” she said. “But I feel quite different when I put that scarf on.”

I knew what she meant.

When the buttons were secure, I put the kettle on.

Mrs. Bell followed me to the kitchen and noticed a little bowl of apples on the table.

“Those look pretty there.”

They did.

I had put them there because the basket was in my way.

There are times when a house arranges itself more successfully than I manage with considerable thought.

On the porch, I had gathered a few sound fallen leaves for a small jug by the door. By the following morning, several had curled and one had fallen behind the umbrella stand.

I left the curled ones.

Their colors were still lovely.

A home need not hold its breath to remain presentable.

Especially in Autumn, when half the countryside seems determined to come indoors on somebody’s shoes.

Over tea, Mrs. Bell mentioned the quilt her mother had made.

She had brought it out the evening before.

“There is a little blue piece near one corner,” she said. “From a dress I wore when I was a girl. I always look for it.”

I have things like that myself.

Most of us do.

The extra cover on a bed may be there because the nights are colder. It may also bring back the hands that stitched it, the room where it was made, or someone who always insisted that you take another blanket.

There is a particular kind of warmth in being remembered that way.

And in remembering.

Mrs. Bell stayed longer than she had intended, she said.

Before she left, I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and walked out with her.

The afternoon had cooled.

Dry leaves traveled along the path, stopping against the gate until another little breeze sent them on.

“I had better see to that skirt hem,” she said.

“And I have a stocking waiting.”

Neither of us sounded especially eager.

Still, there would be a comfortable chair, something warm to drink, and enough daylight remaining to begin.

When I came inside, I put another cup beside the teapot before carrying my sewing back to the table.

Someone else might stop.