It’s been 364 days since my last blog post (egregious) but we’re going to ignore that. Today my Imogen Wilde is six! months! old! We celebrated with a mini photoshoot wearing a new sweater c/o my Aunt Julia and braving the outrageous cold to catch a few blocks of Philadelphia’s Mummers Parade, an exercise in sidewalk surrealism if there ever was one. These aren’t official statistics, but I’m pretty sure my sister and I were the only 18+ not buzzed or blindingly drunk. Our favorite bit was a husky twelve-year-old hustler on the corner of Kater and Broad hawking parade route must-haves in textbook South Philly brogue (“You wanna buy an air horn? Silly string? Hand warmer?”). Imogen’s favorite part was the endless audience of people she as per usual assumed had gathered just for her.
Naomi flew in from Salt Lake just after Christmas, and in just a few hours Olivia and her husband and their new baby boy (!!!) will be here to round out the party. The three of us deleted the Instagram app from our phones last night and it was a lot less traumatic than anticipated and unexpectedly, instantaneously freeing. I’m looking forward to a week abundant with some of my most favorite people the whole world over, doing absolutely everything and also next to nothing at all.
But before all that happens, one last thing: a vintage set of resolutions. In process of finishing one of JWM’s presents last month I found myself deep in the New York Athletic Club archives, sifting through old cover images of their journal, The Winged Foot. A 1950’s edition had the graphic I was looking for, but I bookmarked the January 1918 cover, too. In a block frame front and center they laid out their rallying cry under the banner “A Victorious New Year,” and I loved it immediately, appreciative of its resolute sincerity topped off with a certain Walter Mitty whimsy. The war referenced is, of course, the Great War, nine months old for America at the time of publication, but the word resonates with my modern reality in the same way that Light is forever fighting darkness and Regina Spektor’s The Call will never not make me sob like a tiny child. That it was coming to me from 1918, exactly one hundred years ago, seemed like a sign.
So I knew I had to have it for myself — but the original’s got it all decked out in holly berries and not my favorite of fonts so I reset the type in a vintage frame from my clipart cache, wiggled the colors around, and sent it to print. I’ve just taped it up alongside a few personal goals for the year ahead and I offer it up here as well, should you like to do the same. Happy New Year! May it send us victorious.