Unexpected Typewriter.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted a typewriter. Desperately. For some reason, the clickety-clackety keys make me happy. I have a tendency to romanticize times past, even though I'm addicted to my iPhone and couldn't live without air conditioning. I'm a walking contradiction.

Either way, here it comes: it was Christmas morning. Willie + I were at my mom + dad's house sitting in the "fancy living room." The Suze claims it ain't fancy, but it is. It's where we chit chat with folks who come over who we haven't seen in awhile and open our Christmas gifts. At any other moment in time, you can find at least six of us huddled in a fairly small area of the kitchen trying to find something to watch on Pay-Per-View. Anyway, there we were. Our Christmas gift from both sets of parents this year was a love seat (which still hasn't arrived, despite the fact that we ordered it in OCTOBER. But that's another story. Shame on you Crate + Barrel) so we figured we were pretty much good for gifts. Mom always has little stuff for us to open, but my Dad announced, "Wait. I have another present for Naurnie." (Yes, my family actually does call me Naurnie.)

I was completely befuddled. What in the WORLD could it be? Mom says to me kind of quietly, "You'll like this, but Willie won't." So of course, I immediately thought it was a banjo. Dad comes downstairs with a package literally wrapped in a garbage bag. "Careful," he said. "It's heavy." He put it on my lap. I lifted up the corner of the garbage bag and literally gasped.

My dad, the sweet man that he is, had seen the typewriter at an antique store in Asheville while there on a business trip. The antique store was going out of business, so my dad paid the guy a fairly small amount of money for the typewriter and hauled it home. My family had been holding onto it for nearly 6 months.

Dad did a little research and here is what we found. It doesn't have a serial number anymore, but based on the model it was made in Dresden between 1935-1938. The company that made the machine, Seidel + Naumann, made sewing machines, bicycles, and typewriters. The typewriters they made were used by most German military personnel in the 1930s-1940s. The original keys are still on it and are coated in glass. My favorite keys are the numbers/characters and the vowels with umlauts. The model, the Erika, was named for the founder of the company's granddaughter.

At first, there were some functionality problems with the typewriter. Willie found this old man in Chapel Hill who fixed it up real nice. Changed the ribbon, replaced some springs,  spit shined it up real nice. He said he'd only seen one other typewriter of the same make/model. It was owned by a WWII veteran who stormed a bunker in search of information. The bunker was empty except for the typewriter. He took it and brought it home.

SO really, I have kind of a scary typewriter. But there is a piece of history living in my house now. I've only written really lovely things on it and intend to keep it that way.  If it had the unfortunate task of writing nasty paperwork during dark times, maybe it will find some peace in the walls of my yellow house. The clickety-clacking fills my house up with such a pleasant noise. If only this sucker could talk, it would tell me how in the WORLD it ended up in an antique shop in Asheville, North Carolina only to be purchased by my Pop. Thanks, Dad, for a gift that is cooler and more interesting than we ever could have imagined.

i saved the tag. 

Hotter Than A Pepper Sprout.

image via house of cash.

Hey June,

That's really nice June. You've got a way with words and a way with me as well.

The fire and excitement may be gone now that we don't go out there and sing them anymore, but the ring of fire still burns around you and I, keeping our love hotter than a pepper sprout.

Love John

Three years ago, I was visiting my boyfriend in LA. It was Valentime's Day; we spent the day at the Getty and made chicken breasts stuffed with goat cheese and artichoke hearts for dinner. We even made a pit stop to look at engagement rings. It was a good day. Now, we are married. I sang "Walk the Line" to him at our wedding. He doesn't live in LA anymore and we don't do much for Valentime's Day. But tonight we are revisiting the stuffed chicken breasts and spending some time in our yellow house.

May you all be experiencing love like John + June. 

A Confession.

I have to confess that lately I have not wanted to do anything but read. It's not really the fact that I'm reading constantly that is odd to me. I devour books on a regular basis and have taken to keeping a list of books I want to read in my pocketbook. It's WHAT I am reading that is so shocking. I have been sucked in completely by the A Song of Fire + Ice series.

Last April, William began watching Game of Thrones on HBO. (Game of Thrones is the first book of the series.) He and Megan were raving about it, but I was skeptical. It seemed a little "Lord of the Rings-ish" to me, and that's not really my bag. I'm not really into fantasy literature and it always conjures up images of grown men living in their mother's basements and playing Dungeons + Dragons alone. Can you play that alone? I'm not really sure. But either way, I was really apprehensive to watch it.

William said this,"Watch this first episode with me. If you don't want to watch any more, I swear I won't say another word about it."

So I watched it. AND I WAS SUCKED IN. The IMP!? I love him. SO MUCH. Maybe it's just that Peter Dinklage is fantastic. But either way, I watched the entire season with him (although several times I had to look up family trees to keep it all straight.)

William received the entire series for his birthday back in June from his adorable pal, Matt (who is a fantastic present giver.) I read half of the first book over the summer, but got a little bored because I already knew what was going to happen. But I had since forgotten much of it, so I picked it back up a couple of weeks ago and read the entire thing in a very short amount of time. Currently, we are both reading the second book in preparation for season two, which starts in April.

Do you think if I got this tank top with the dire wolves names on it I would attract a bunch of weirdos? Probably. But I might do it anyway.

Willie + Caroline.

Meet William:
30 years old. My husband. Youngest child of the Branson family. Rascal and constant prankster.

Meet Caroline:
Nearly 25 years old. My younger sister. Youngest child of the Stephens family. Funny, gullible, adorable.

I've always been fairly interested in birth order. I find it particularly interesting when contemplating my own family. I am the oldest and I have married a man who is the youngest. My sister is the baby, but she is marrying a man who is the oldest. Since my sister AND William are both babies of their respective families, they have a tendency to pick on one another.

Wait. Let me rephrase that.

William feels like he can pick on Caroline because he never had a younger sibling to beat up on. Also, he is constantly pranking people. (Seriously. When we moved in together, there was constant pranking. It was like two teenage boys living in one house. We clearly were watching too much Jackass.) When I say "people" I am really talking about Caroline. She is possibly the most gullible person on the planet. He will tell her something completely outlandish, and she'll believe him. You should hear some of these conversations. He will also annoy the everliving crap out of her and she will strike back. Caroline really isn't used to having someone pick on her so much. I was a pretty nice sister, if I do say so myself, although I am a bit bossy at times. This is all in good fun, of course. They literally crack each other up. Sometimes, they like to gang up on me. Like when they make fun of Bob Dylan. Which is fine. It always makes me laugh.

Over the weekend, we were in Charlotte visiting my family. At lunch on Sunday, they started picking on each other. I snapped a couple of photos of them acting a-fool.

Jack. Blunderbuss.

Everybody has that one artist who completely makes them lose their shit. Keith Richards is it for my mama. Jack White is it for me. He makes me lose complete control of myself and yell things at the stage. Things like, "Oh, JACK! I LOVE YOUR BIG HAIR." True story.

Well, today my favorite man announced that he is releasing a solo album titled Blunderbuss on April 24 (Third Man Records/Columbia), but in true Jack style, you can stream the new tune and purchase a 7 inch of the new single, "Love Interruption" with backing vocals by Ruby Amanfu. Keepin' it local, Jack. I am so happy you have made Nashville your new home. Click that widget doo-hickey down there to hear it for yourself. And buy it, too, because buying records makes you so cool. Or you know, click here to visit the Third Man website that has been hijacked by my main man today.

And yes, you KNOW I pre-ordered that mess. And I've listened to the song approximately 12 times already.

Wedge Obsession.

I have a serious addiction to wedges. They are my most favorite style of shoe... they are more stable than a high heel but still make me extra tall. Not to mention how killer they look with my favorite flared jeans. Plus, I'm always digging the 70s vibe they help me cultivate. Last year, I was obsessed with these wedges from Tory Burch. I'm not usually a Tory fan because those Reva flats tore up my feets. (Lord, Tory. Could you make those things more comfortable?) But these? I could just picture myself in these standing on an imaginary stage with a guitar and a lot of bangles on my arm. But alas, they were out of my price range and now we all know I have a phobia of singing in public. So there went that pipe dream.

But recently, the ever-wonderful Madewell came out with these. And I feel like they are probably more reasonable, both in price and in wedge height. So. Who's buyin'?

Murdah.

My friend Liz. She is a daily inspiration for me to become a more bad ass lady. Her many talents include (but are not limited to): spectacular graphic design, throwing shit away, encouraging me to purchase gold boots in an effort to cultivate my Alison Mosshart look, and pulling me out of my old music cocoon and into the modern age. On my birthday, she gave me a memory stick loaded with Murder By Death. Now I'm obsessed. If I am being perfectly honest, I thought they were going to be all screamy and metal before I heard him. This skinny man has a deep voice reminiscent of one Mister Johnny Cash. If I were a boy, this is exactly what I'd want to sound like. Ok, fine. Maybe a combination of this guy AND Tom Waits.

Enjoy.


Murder By Death - Fox Glove from LaundroMatinee on Vimeo.

The Truth About Me + My Guitar.

It is a Saturday morning and I just finished playing guitar in the empty rooms of my house. For some reason, I feel like "Speed of the Sound of Loneliness" was meant to be played in my empty dining room in pajamas and knee-high socks on a rainy Saturday on an old Takamine with a worn down neck. I love the neck of that guitar. The indentions are where my thumb has rested since I was twelve years old.

I write a lot on this small blog about the music I love. I tell you what I'm listening to, the history behind why I love it, and sometimes the history of the music itself. But I never really share the part of me that enjoys playing songs for myself. I have purposefully left this part out. In fact, I hate playing in front of people. I don't know if it is because singing folk songs to myself is my coping mechanism, my vessel for self-soothing, or is a result of years of practicing locked in my bedroom plunking out songs and trying to find a way to reconcile my folk sensibilities with my happy suburban Tennessee upbringing. I guess I felt that in order to be a folk singer, you had to be a tortured soul. I was never a tortured soul. I was well provided for and loved, despite my ability to lean into a dark mood. Yet, somehow I was identifying with these singer/songwriters who were very dark, talented, holy souls. I always wanted to be more tortured than I was. As an adult, I am grateful that I am not. Although, I'm not a songwriter. And I still wish I was. It's not too late for that.

Playing in front of people strikes in me great anxiety. As an adolescent, my mother would have to force me to get out of our family car for my yearly guitar recital. I won't even play in front of friends without the lubrication of wine or bourbon. Unless it is with my sweet friend, Luisa, who can bring out of me things that I never imagined and who's big, soulful voice somehow blends magically with my tiny folksy one. For me to play at our wedding was an act that struck sheer terror in me and I was in a room full of people who love me deeply.  For some reason, playing in front of loved ones is harder for me. I want the people who love me to think I'm good. I could care less about strangers.

me, circa 2007.

Playing alone offers me some comfort. If I'm doing particularly well, I don't feel silly thinking, "Wow, Lauren, you sounded REALLY great." And if I don't hit a note? WHO CARES? No one can hear me. Except that's not really true now. I play in those empty front rooms because they are all reverb-y and empty and warm at the same time. And our yellow house isn't very big. William can hear me singing Townes or Bob or even at times Nirvana. And he never says anything. He just lets me do it without praise or criticism. Because he knows that's what I need.

In 2004, I was still a college student. It was a warm spring night, and I sang three songs in MTSU's studio B. I was barefooted and wearing jeans and a hoodie. I am grateful to have these recordings and cannot deny their sweetness. So in an effort for me to be bold, brave, and conquer a fear I hold deep, I share this with you. Only a few people have heard it including my family, my husband, and Liz, who encouraged this blog post. Be kind, internets. Even though I am not a tortured soul, I am a sensitive one.

Catch the Wind by Naurnie by naurnie