INSPIRATION STATEMENT
Notes from the Road – Finding the Rhythm of the City
We left Sun Valley on April 18th in an excited mood, ready to lay down temporary stakes in a familiar neighborhood in San Francisco. Our van was packed with our eclectic and cheerful Summer collection, and with inspiration in our sails, we dropped anchor and found the flow of the city.
Five wonderful weeks of feeling like locals. As I've mentioned before, Wayne and I have a nomadic spirit when it comes to new journeys. We love jumping into the skin of the places we visit, embracing the constant sense of the new, and waiting to hear the rhythm of the cities and towns we land in. It is one of the things we love most about being on the road. And when you finally catch it: that rhythm — you dance.
Our hidden gem pop-up was small, but the reception from our neighbors, friends, and clients was mighty. We are so grateful to everyone who spread the word and sent friends and family our way. Susan, Carol, Sarah, Nancy, Stacy, Monelle, Carla, Sharon, Corey, and so many more. Big love to all of you.
And then, just like that, it was time to pack up and head north.
We would miss the morning runs through the Presidio, past the Palace of Fine Arts, and along Crissy Field. We would miss climbing those gloriously steep hills (the city's signature), and silently thanking them for getting us into hiking shape for the trails waiting back in Sun Valley. We would miss the endless list of great restaurants still on our list, and the date nights at the museum, the ballet, the theater.
But while it's always a little bittersweet to go, the next adventure is already waiting — and the excitement gets to start all over again.
We wound up Highway 128 to our first stop in the charming town of Mendocino. Gorgeous doesn't quite cover it. Then wove through wine country and the ancient Redwoods before finally arriving at a sweet little cottage on the Oregon Coast at Bandon Dunes, where we recharged body and soul before pointing the van toward Seattle.
Coming back to Seattle is like slipping on your favorite pair of broken-in shoes — comfortable, cozy, and completely familiar. Our customers never fail to greet us with warmth, good energy, and genuine enthusiasm. It honestly feels like a giant hug every single time.
And now here we are, one week left on this season's road trip — and just like that, we are excited again. Only this time, it's because we get to go home.
Get ready, Sun Valley. Baby is coming back, and the Excitement Meter is about to reset all over again.
DAD'S WISDOM
By Wayne Donnelly.
The lessons taught to me by my father were indirect.
I don’t recall him ever sitting me down to explain something. Instead, life lessons were taught on the fly, when the moment presented itself. This would be more of an introduction to Logic for me; a small view of what the bigger world should function like. One example would have been sitting in the passenger seat of dad’s truck, and witnessing a larger vehicle cut us off. “Always yield to tonnage” was his measured response to this, and I took it to mean a much bigger thing than what had just happened on that road. I am the youngest of three siblings, and there were many times in my childhood that I recognized the dad may be done with parenting. I stayed out of trouble because I had heard the stories of my older brother’s relationship with dad, which sounded like it was full of challenges. If ever I was on the cusp of trouble, dad might ask me: “did I ever tell you about the time…” And I would interrupt him with: “You chased Jack with a baseball bat..?”
Dad was raised in upstate Connecticut, along with his younger sister. They didn’t come from a place of privilege, and there were stories of a difficult childhood, mostly told to me later by my aunt.
Dad joined the Navy right out of school, and would serve from around 12 years. He was shipped to Seattle in the mid 1950’s, and met my mother, daughter of Italian Immigrants. Our family would remain in the greater Seattle area.
Dad’s Naval career was fascinating to me. He had traveled the world; proof that a man of simple means could achieve something like this by simply enlisting in the Navy. I am in possession of his “box of treasures”. The box contains yearbooks from the ships he sailed on, as well as certificates validating his crossing of the Equator, tracing the route of Admiral Byrd, and seeing penguins at the South Pole, as well as ports of call in places no longer listed on maps, like Formosa, Ceylon, and British Honduras.
There were strange coins, small ivory carvings, and other magical souvenirs. He had a stack of black and white glossy photos that documented his stops in exotic ports. Pictures of sailor pals in bars, Asian people in local garb wearing conical hats and pith helmets, and men in India wearing sarongs. This box of Dad’s was better to rummage through than our set of encyclopedias.
Dad had cool tattoos that were “Drawn by a Chinese guy with a bamboo needle”. He had classic Naval designs on his arms and shoulders of Hula Girls, an eagle, and a knife that appeared to go through his bicep, with a banner beneath it that read: “In Memory of Mother.”
All these things made the Navy seem very cool to me, and ultimately ignited my wonder of travel.
My Father was a big outdoorsman. He taught me to camp, and fish, and hunt. I didn’t take well to hunting, but today fly fishing is a very important part of my life. Dad was a responsible hunter, and we had guns in the house. He taught me far beyond simply gun safety; rather, we disassembled and cleaned them. I fully understood how they functioned, and how to diagnose a repair. We also loaded our own .30 caliber bullets for his hunting rifles.
This was the coolest thing dad had in the garage: the presses and grain scales required to safely assemble bullets at home. Not only did I learn about precision, but I learned what gunpowder was capable of...
Teach a 13 year old how gunpowder works, then show him where the key to that cabinet is, and then expect him to leave that alone? Good Luck with that.
In actuality I never did anything explosive with the small amounts that I pilfered, rather I would simply amaze my friends by lighting a little pile on fire, and watching it flame up in a tiny little mushroom cloud.
Before Jill and I bought Baby, I was a watchmaker. I had a good, long career with a Seattle-based jeweler in after-sales service and associate training. All of my mechanical aptitude certainly came from my father.
My dad was a mechanic for the Seattle Fire Department for quite some time, after his Navy Career. He had foremanship of a facility large enough to service Kenworth fire trucks, as well as the rest of the City of Seattle’s motor vehicles. Dad oversaw a team of a dozen or so mechanics. Like a lot of workshops (Watch Repair included) the facility provides the equipment, especially the large and specialized things. These large tools stay in the facility for regular use by the entire crew. The hand tools are often owned by the very mechanic, however. The mechanic’s tool box is a career-long collection of favorite and proven hand tools, and are considered irreplaceable and of values appropriate to this. Watch repair is no different; I had access to the best-equipped facilities at the time, and in addition to a fully equipped shop, I was given a series of drawers and cabinets where my personal tools would live.
Given the number of technicians around, in a vocation that can become cluttered, a mechanic would be wise to identify their tools as their own. For my dad, simply putting his name on something wasn’t enough. He was enamored with the technology of the day, and although a scribe with a carbide tip would do well enough to scratch his initials (or last name) into the handle of a tool, he took things a step further when he could.
Dad had discovered the Dymo Label Maker.
Dymo is still around, and if you look them up, the label maker of today is a completely different, digital thing.
But the fully analog office tool of the 70s was a thing of wonder: a hand-held, one-letter-at-a-time label maker. It would (eventually) dispense a rigid plastic piece of tape with embossed letters on it.
It looked a bit like a phaser from Star Trek, and in our world, just as futuristic.
Dad used the label maker to identify a lot of tools with flat surfaces. He not only did it for security, but also for practical, every day direction. Some of his reference books might have “Not Yours” on the spine.
Or, on the bottom of a carrying case, he might make a label that read: “Other End, Dummy!”.
While the Dymo label maker was good for light duty jobs, when it came to truly marking the territory which was tools, dad would often weld on a series of metal letters, actually welding material right on metal surfaces in the form of lumpy, tall letters. This was the height of security, and could not be removed.
All of his good tools wore the brand of his three initials, and where there was room enough to write it, my father wrote out a small sentence that further opened my mind to the passenger-seat logic that Dad was passing along.
He would write: Stolen From Edward Donnelly
In an instant I knew exactly the scenario and situation that made my dad scribe this, and from that time forward, I came to appreciate just how clever my father was. He didn’t simply identify the tool as his, but added something to make it less valuable, possibly non-transferrable, in the event that it left his possession.
So this Father’s Day I’m grateful to my dad for inspiring me to see the strange and beautiful corners of the world. I’m grateful for my manual dexterity and mechanical mind, and I’m grateful that Dad passed along his lessons with a sense of wit. I simply needed to grow older to recognize that they were in fact, lessons.
Back at Baby & Company, we use iPads for our registers. I have them engraved when I them order online, and this is how the engraving on the back reads:
BEST DRESSED
Event season is here — and with it comes the age old question that we always seem to keep asking: “what am I going to wear?"
For our part, I’m pretty sure we have the answer.
This season's edit is an irresistible mix of designers who understand that dressing for an occasion should feel like an event in itself.
We're talking Odeeh — architectural and precise with an undeniable sense of occasion. Mantù for the kind of effortless cool that makes people ask. Hannoh Wessel: quietly radical, always interesting. P.A.R.O.S.H. bringing that particular Italian ease that never tries too hard, and always lands perfectly. Tela for refined simplicity done with real intention. Smythe — because a great jacket can be the whole outfit. Hope for Flowers — joyful, generous, and full of personality. And Louiza Babouryan, whose pieces don't just turn heads, they start conversations.
Together, they make up a lineup that covers every moment on the calendar; the garden party, the gallery opening, the dinner where you want to walk in, and own the room.
Here's the thing, Baby: there is absolutely nothing wrong with getting voted Best Dressed.
In fact, we think you should make a habit of it.
We've got you — completely and beautifully covered.