Workshop 2017: Juanita

She stands on the terrace. This is my constant memory of her, standing on a terrace in Ohio, in Mississippi, at the helm of a sailboat in St Thomas, a houseboat on Cumberland Lake. Standing, her left arm a casual prop for her right, which held her cigarette. There was an occasional flash as light caught the large diamond - a 25th anniversary present, an apology for infidelity.  Her scent - sunkissed skin, Norell (later Cote d’Azur) and Carlton 100s.  

Her hair was always artfully tousled, thought the colour has shifted from warm chocolate, to caramel, to silvery white.  She had found her style in the early 60s, before Kennedy was shot, before the kids left home. Style was more important than fashion, though it was important to be fashionable. One used accessories to be fashionable. Clothing, shoes, these were the canvas, the backbone.  She was always very careful to be well-turned out. ‘Even when we were poor, you made the effort. Being poor is no excuse for being ragtag.’ 

The house was always immaculate, even at the end when she wanted only to lie on the shag carpet - a recent installation, a throwback to her favourite year -- between the bathroom and her bed. She didn’t want anyone to carry her to the toilet.  

The hostess trolley and liquor cabinet were always well-stocked.  The crystal sparkled, the brasses gleamed. Years later, I would find comfort far away from her home in similarities - my mother in law has the same coffee mugs from Brazil, my husband aunt had the same pattern of Villeroy and Boch.  At the end, when we knew she wouldn’t bounce back, all she wanted was to have her hair done, a manicure, a steak from the Pine Club and a margarita.