Two gods in my pantheon died this week: Diana Wynne Jones and Irving “Daffy Dan” Shulman.
Every writer has a story. Before there was J.K. Rowling writing Harry Potter on the dole, there was Diana Wynne Jones writing the Chronicles of Crestomanci to replace the mediocre books that were available for her kids. I spent a good 10 years curled up on couches with one child’s head or another snuggled to my bosom (back when I had a bosom) reading Jones aloud. It put the fun in motherhood.
My friend B introduced me to Daffy’s, back when the main store was on Fifth Avenue and 18th Street. It changed my life. Suddenly I could afford clothes I liked. And there was a lot to like at Daffy’s. In fact, not a day goes by that I don’t wear something from Daffy’s, though now I shop at one of the stores on 57th St. Today it’s a pair of brown cotton sweatpants that has a magical drape. My mom has a matching pair in gray because she saw me wearing them and asked for them. I mostly dress down, but when I’ve had to dress up, Daffy’s made it possible. Hanging in my closet is the black satin palazzo pants and the beaded vest top I wore to a gala where I met Elizabeth Edwards and Wesley “the Subway Hero” Autrey.
The Subway Hero and me (I'm not sure where he shopped but I'm wearing Daffy's)