Age robs us of so much — family, friends, muscle tone, vision, the future.
And for too many of us former hippies and hipsters, it steals our dignity. It makes us lumpy and slow, awkward. It fogs our memory and does atrocious things to our skin and hair.
These changes conspire to make us feel less significant, let alone stylish.
To all of which I say “enough.”
Go quietly into the night? Baby Boomers have never been quiet. We were the generation of protests, women’s lib, civil rights, rock ‘n’ roll and free love, all of which had to be fought for — loudly.
We organized to end wars, level playing fields and feed the world. We ushered in computers, color TV, suburbia and shopping malls.
And we did it all, ahem, with style. We made blue jeans and T-shirts household staples. We gave life to both the mini and the maxi dress. We embraced platform and Earth shoes. And we brought down the beehive hairdo.
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We were a force. We still are.
Among the more delightful developments of the past few months is a style trend known as “coastal grandmother,” a phrase introduced by TikTok creator Lex Nicoleta.
It is the rage in Hollywood, on social media and maybe even in your neighborhood.
From what I can tell, coastal grandmother is about integrating a romantic, stylish aesthetic with an attitude to match. It’s a light, uplifting and refined approach to clothing, music, furniture and life.
Think whites and linens, think openness and natural light, think lingering over a good book or a deep conversation. Fresh flowers, good wine, that certain je ne sais quoi.
The trend is celebrated by big names (Ina Garten, Diane Keaton) and everyday folks, by men (Stanley Tucci) as well as women, by young people (Anne Hathaway) and seasoned veterans (Martha Stewart).
You don’t have to live on the water to be airy and breezy. You don’t even have to be a grandmother. But I absolutely love what the movement is doing to elevate the word grandmother, which is so often unfairly associated with something unflattering or even derogatory, especially when it comes to style.
In many ways, my nana was coastal grandmother long before it was a thing. And long before she lived near the coast.
She dressed and held herself in a stylish, put-together fashion. She had a light and confident air about her. Always comfortable, but always ready to bump into an old friend or a local celebrity. She kept a soft presence, with a smile at the ready — lipstick never far — and a positive outlook.
She enjoyed reading, painting, ceramics and gardening. Even though she was never “monied,” quality of life was always important. She enjoyed fine dining, dabbling in the arts and spending time in her garden.
She greeted you with a nicety and always had something tasty to offer, usually fine chocolates, fresh baked goods or a decent highball.
Like many women who came of age during the ’30s, ’40s and ’50s, being stylish was part of her daily routine.
By contrast, I was raised in a family of baboons. There were six of us kids all crammed into a small one-bathroom bungalow. My poor parents spent most of their lives outnumbered and outfoxed.
We arm-wrestled for the last candy bar, climbed over each other whenever there was pizza and sometimes drew blood over which TV show to watch. And our style aesthetic was a mix of clearance sale and hand-me-down.
But when we visited Nana, we immediately knew the rules were different. You said “please” and “thank you.” You washed your hands before dinner and asked to be excused after.
When I was growing up, Nana lived just blocks away. She’d had a daughter late in life, which gave me an aunt around the same age. I was fortunate to spend many weekends at her house, playing gin rummy, reading and taking in her wisdom.
“I got a loose tooth,” I remember announcing once while climbing into her car before a weekend jaunt.
“Have, dear. You have a loose tooth,” she corrected.
I never forgot that tip.
Nor did I forget the difference between fewer and less. Fewer faucets, less water.
She was the first person to read to me and the first to talk about plot and sentence structure. She introduced me to the limerick and the Irish proverb.
She’d worked as a secretary so grammar and spelling were important. It was on her personal typewriter, which she kept clean and covered in the den, that I first learned of ribbons and White Out. It was in her bedroom that I first spied one of those mirrored trays filled with bottles of perfume. Even at a tender age I remember thinking, “This is how to live.”
She loved shopping and her wardrobe reflected it. It was not unusual for her to “change clothes before heading out to dinner.” I remember being baffled by that. She’d already looked so nice. Why did she have to change?
Of course, she modified her ways as she aged. Her shoes became more sensible, her jewelry more discreet. But she was always stylish.
The last time I saw her, during a visit to Florida in 2001, my husband, kids and I took her out to dinner. She was 83 and her health was waning, yet she was dressed to perfection in brown slacks and a beige sweater.
After we drove her home, she stood in her doorway and waved. I remember tearing up and telling my husband, “I’ll never see her again.”
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I was right. She died the following April, on the same date she was born.
It has been 20 years and now I am a grandmother, a role I treasure with all my heart.
Though I can never be as fashionable as my nana was, I try to impart upon my grandchildren the importance of culture, nature, art and style. Quality of life matters. I want them to read, learn, grow and find their passion.
I want them to have Grace. It was my nana’s first name and, perhaps prescient of how endeared she would become to me, my middle name.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.