Late November...early December. This darkest time of year always brings a definite feeling of foreboding, my personal ides of March.
A decade ago now, the last year serving as the Commander of a rural municipal emergency medical services department, a fall and winter of horrific motor vehicle crashes and attending to the dying, friends and neighbors, teenagers the same age as mine at that time, and the soul-shaking aftermath. It's strange how some experiences that would make most people faint with shock don't leave as much of a mark as some small, seemingly insignificant events do. And while most of the sad stories involved patients who were also residents of our small town, others were just as sad stories about total strangers, who fell asleep while driving home from a night at the casino, or were taken down while on that last ride on the Harley before winter set in for good. I can close my eyes and hear the rescue radio crackling with the dispatcher's desperate-sounding updates on the awaiting carnage, the wail of the sirens, running toward the crumpled wreckage, the body in the road.
And now, three days every week, I drive past too many ghosts, and I haven't forgotten. I think of the victims, the maimed, the friends and family, and my comrades...one of them, my husband, who understands.
So lest we forget, my dear friends and readers: your life or the life of a loved one might be shorter than what you've planned. So love deeply and fully, make sure every moment is special, even the most mundane moments. Appreciate what you have and this holiday season, leave petty grievances and useless worries behind. Because you never know what is around the bend.
Monday, December 8, 2014
Saturday, September 20, 2014
September Musing
This time of year is my favorite, despite what comes next, the too-long New England winter. The front garden has taken on a wild, raggedy look, which I suppose any serious gardener might not like....but I love its untamed look and earthy smell. The ornamental grass has gone to seed, the leave tips now a rich burgundy red. Some of the herbs -- notably the tenacious mint, oregano and lemon balm -- are even more richly scented. I gather all these botanical delights for the last fresh bouquets of the season.
Late September sharpens the senses. The air is crisper, cooler and reminiscent of days starting school, a newness with the waning of summer. Here, we start reluctantly preparing for the colder months. Some of the tasks: taking the window air conditioning units out. pulling down some of the old storm windows, taking an inventory of cut cord wood, and what needs to be cut, perhaps doing some exterior painting. And, debating on when we should have the boat hauled out for the winter. We don't give up on that too easily: one year, we decided to sail through Thanksgiving, and I'm not sure if perhaps we had lost our rationale minds, because when we finally did have it transported home in early December, that required motoring a few miles into 25 knot winds and blowing snow. So probably this year, we'll give up by the end of October.
Canning and freezing the garden's yield is almost done. But I do have enough green tomatoes for piccalilli and this time, I am going to use an old hand grinder that a dear friend gave me, instead of a food processor. It is time to think about baking apple crisp, butternut squash and roasts in the oven, and soups and stews.
This morning, the dog is snuggled under the bed covers and is in no hurry to get up, obviously sensing that there is a chill in the air, a chill that makes going out a little less appealing. (This is a rescued pit bull with the characteristic short hair and an intense dislike for cold air.) The cats are back sleeping with us, now that lying on the windowsills enjoying the balmy summer nights isn't an option.
And all is fine in our little corner house, our piece of heaven on earth.
Late September sharpens the senses. The air is crisper, cooler and reminiscent of days starting school, a newness with the waning of summer. Here, we start reluctantly preparing for the colder months. Some of the tasks: taking the window air conditioning units out. pulling down some of the old storm windows, taking an inventory of cut cord wood, and what needs to be cut, perhaps doing some exterior painting. And, debating on when we should have the boat hauled out for the winter. We don't give up on that too easily: one year, we decided to sail through Thanksgiving, and I'm not sure if perhaps we had lost our rationale minds, because when we finally did have it transported home in early December, that required motoring a few miles into 25 knot winds and blowing snow. So probably this year, we'll give up by the end of October.
Canning and freezing the garden's yield is almost done. But I do have enough green tomatoes for piccalilli and this time, I am going to use an old hand grinder that a dear friend gave me, instead of a food processor. It is time to think about baking apple crisp, butternut squash and roasts in the oven, and soups and stews.
This morning, the dog is snuggled under the bed covers and is in no hurry to get up, obviously sensing that there is a chill in the air, a chill that makes going out a little less appealing. (This is a rescued pit bull with the characteristic short hair and an intense dislike for cold air.) The cats are back sleeping with us, now that lying on the windowsills enjoying the balmy summer nights isn't an option.
And all is fine in our little corner house, our piece of heaven on earth.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Life Out Here
I just enjoyed a few days off. Nothing grand, just working on some little projects at home. This old house sits rather precariously on a crossroad corner, and with all the windows here -- twenty-four despite the diminutive structure -- life goes by and you just can't miss it.
Today was quiet because of the torrential rain. But yesterday, tractors, old Fords and Farmalls, started chugging by before 8 a.m., with their mowers, rakes and balers, undoubtedly on a mission to finish up the haying before the weather today. And, by sunset, back they came, hauling flatbed trailers piled high with fragrant bales.
Periodically, teenage boys with fast and furious ideas, roar up the hill on the north side of the house, stop at the intersection, and then lay on the gas and scream around the corner. A band of motorcyclists roar by. Then, the quiet of the country again.
The deer traverse the stone wall on the west property line; you can barely see them among the trees and dense brush. We had to finally put up a hot wire around the vegetable garden after they ate the beets, or perhaps more accurately, sampled them, along with a nibble of a tomato plant or two. The corn wouldn't have lasted long, I am quite sure. I'm grateful that they seem to be too timid to get near the house and eat the hosta plants.
The garden has produced beautifully this year. I have canned zucchini relish, bread and butter pickle, and dill spears. I have made just about every zucchini and summer squash recipe out there, and then finally blanched and froze the rest...and it's still coming in. Had a delicious eggplant parmesan last night, and the here come the tomatoes, finally.
And today I noticed some of the sugar maples starting to change. My mother remarked on the phone this evening that the eel grass at their place on the river was going to seed. My father always brings a small bouquet of the grass to the family plot; his mother always wistfully observed this natural sign of the change of the season, heralding the end of summer.
Today was quiet because of the torrential rain. But yesterday, tractors, old Fords and Farmalls, started chugging by before 8 a.m., with their mowers, rakes and balers, undoubtedly on a mission to finish up the haying before the weather today. And, by sunset, back they came, hauling flatbed trailers piled high with fragrant bales.
Periodically, teenage boys with fast and furious ideas, roar up the hill on the north side of the house, stop at the intersection, and then lay on the gas and scream around the corner. A band of motorcyclists roar by. Then, the quiet of the country again.
The deer traverse the stone wall on the west property line; you can barely see them among the trees and dense brush. We had to finally put up a hot wire around the vegetable garden after they ate the beets, or perhaps more accurately, sampled them, along with a nibble of a tomato plant or two. The corn wouldn't have lasted long, I am quite sure. I'm grateful that they seem to be too timid to get near the house and eat the hosta plants.
The garden has produced beautifully this year. I have canned zucchini relish, bread and butter pickle, and dill spears. I have made just about every zucchini and summer squash recipe out there, and then finally blanched and froze the rest...and it's still coming in. Had a delicious eggplant parmesan last night, and the here come the tomatoes, finally.
And today I noticed some of the sugar maples starting to change. My mother remarked on the phone this evening that the eel grass at their place on the river was going to seed. My father always brings a small bouquet of the grass to the family plot; his mother always wistfully observed this natural sign of the change of the season, heralding the end of summer.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Deary Brothers Stand: A Slice of Americana
There are many things to love about our town, Putnam, CT. But one of the things best loved by many is Deary Brothers/Mike's Stand. Open from April through September, Mike's Stand serves up ice cream, fried seafood, burgers, chowder and clam cakes to its adoring patrons. The stand is located on a side street off Route 12, originated in 1937 and has been family owned since then. In fact, old school Coca-Cola signs and lights still adorn the tiny red stand, which is kept as good as new by current owner, Mike Deary. The stand was an offshoot of the Deary Brothers dairy, which was formed in 1913, and offered home delivery of bottled milk and dairy products. Today, the stand's fresh food and friendly service, delivered by perky local teenagers, is excellent, but equally enjoyable is the gestalt of the place, and that means: the customers.
At any given time, a swarm of people form loosely formed lines for ordering meals, and ordering ice cream. And among those people are farmers in overalls, businessmen in suits, young mothers and babies, an elderly lady with a toy poodle in her arms, bikers in leather, teenagers in goth black, high school jocks, aging hippies, middle-aged couples. The rich, the middle class, the working poor, oldest and youngest, conservatives and liberals are mingled together without regard for their differences. Sitting at one of the shaded picnic tables, you know you're part of an American scene...an old-fashioned one, full of good values and mutual respect.
At any given time, a swarm of people form loosely formed lines for ordering meals, and ordering ice cream. And among those people are farmers in overalls, businessmen in suits, young mothers and babies, an elderly lady with a toy poodle in her arms, bikers in leather, teenagers in goth black, high school jocks, aging hippies, middle-aged couples. The rich, the middle class, the working poor, oldest and youngest, conservatives and liberals are mingled together without regard for their differences. Sitting at one of the shaded picnic tables, you know you're part of an American scene...an old-fashioned one, full of good values and mutual respect.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Gardening and Life
I guess it must have been the winter of our discontent....I've been AWOL because I have felt compelled to be outdoors in my every waking moment that I'm not at work. Despite the blanket of pollen that has persisted into late June, I've pruned, planted, added some new shrubs and perennials, expanded the vegetable garden. As in life, there will be successful and unsuccessful ventures, and that's OK....although I hope my efforts yield beauty, nectar for birds and insects, and healthy food for us. I did again plant some squashes although the squash beetles always seem to get the better of the crop by August. I researched some potential solutions for this year.
Last week, a big turkey found its way into the vegetable garden. I suppose it must have just walked through the opening in the fence, which is just one of those low, white wire decorative garden fences that probably doesn't really keep much out. Tom Turkey kept walking around the inside perimeter, looking a bit alarmed although it certainly could have probably hopped over the fence with little fanfare. Finally it got to the mulch pile, and made its escape. I'm expecting that there will be a new wild turkey generation soon.
We have a sweet little dooryard with flowers and herbs, including a New Dawn rose that was planted by the prior owner's wife in 1951. That just started to bloom. The rosa rugosa is blooming too; these are the indestructible "beach roses" which I have since learned are banned in some states because of their propensity to spread. They are considered a "nuisance plant". I had willingly planted a few that my father had purchased and quickly saw that they were spreading like mint. Only they are armed with the nastiest thorns, like needles, making them quite challenging to remove. I can see they are not going to give up!
Gardening is so much like life: live and learn. Laugh at mistakes, try to do better next time, love the imperfect.
Last week, a big turkey found its way into the vegetable garden. I suppose it must have just walked through the opening in the fence, which is just one of those low, white wire decorative garden fences that probably doesn't really keep much out. Tom Turkey kept walking around the inside perimeter, looking a bit alarmed although it certainly could have probably hopped over the fence with little fanfare. Finally it got to the mulch pile, and made its escape. I'm expecting that there will be a new wild turkey generation soon.
We have a sweet little dooryard with flowers and herbs, including a New Dawn rose that was planted by the prior owner's wife in 1951. That just started to bloom. The rosa rugosa is blooming too; these are the indestructible "beach roses" which I have since learned are banned in some states because of their propensity to spread. They are considered a "nuisance plant". I had willingly planted a few that my father had purchased and quickly saw that they were spreading like mint. Only they are armed with the nastiest thorns, like needles, making them quite challenging to remove. I can see they are not going to give up!
Gardening is so much like life: live and learn. Laugh at mistakes, try to do better next time, love the imperfect.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
This Somber Holiday
It's Memorial Day. The kick off to summer, a long weekend, time to plant the tomato plants. And lest we forget, a time to remember all the heroes, alive and gone, of America's wars.
I still can vividly remember a day in June, 1967; I was eleven, playing outdoors with my neighborhood friend, Janet, when her mother came outside, crying, and told my friend that her cousin Billy had been killed in Viet Nam. He was in a tank that was hit by enemy fire and exploded. He was 20 years old.
Viet Nam: My husband's father, from a farming family in northwestern Rhode Island was there at the same time, a Sea Bee. He survived, but struggled when he returned and died young, probably at least in part to exposure to Agent Orange. My cousin, Frank, now 70, also exposed at Agent Orange, who did two tours as a chopper medic. He's living in Florida, happily retired and enjoying frequent cruises and jaunts in his RV with his wife. He won't fly again, ever. He is an American hero but doesn't like to talk about his days in Nam.
My Dad is a Korean Conflict veteran. He's still alive, but his name is already on the WWII Memorial in his home town, where he still lives, still married to the woman, my mother, who waited for him to return. Like Frank, he doesn't talk about the time he spent overseas, either. He is part of "the greatest generation" memorialized on that monument. We've asked him if he would like to participate in the Memorial Day tributes; he always declines.
Last night, my husband talked on the phone with our young neighbor, the age of my oldest daughter. He was in Iraq; he went there thinking he would be working as a plumber, his civilian occupation, and found himself holding a gun in combat instead of a plumber's wrench. And he is struggling. I heard my husband say "thank you for your service, sir" before he hung up the phone.
This weekend, have fun. Be safe. And remember all our heroes. They are usually almost invisible, trying to just have a good life like we all want, sometimes succeeding and other times needing a helping hand, an acknowledgement, a kind word.
I still can vividly remember a day in June, 1967; I was eleven, playing outdoors with my neighborhood friend, Janet, when her mother came outside, crying, and told my friend that her cousin Billy had been killed in Viet Nam. He was in a tank that was hit by enemy fire and exploded. He was 20 years old.
Viet Nam: My husband's father, from a farming family in northwestern Rhode Island was there at the same time, a Sea Bee. He survived, but struggled when he returned and died young, probably at least in part to exposure to Agent Orange. My cousin, Frank, now 70, also exposed at Agent Orange, who did two tours as a chopper medic. He's living in Florida, happily retired and enjoying frequent cruises and jaunts in his RV with his wife. He won't fly again, ever. He is an American hero but doesn't like to talk about his days in Nam.
My Dad is a Korean Conflict veteran. He's still alive, but his name is already on the WWII Memorial in his home town, where he still lives, still married to the woman, my mother, who waited for him to return. Like Frank, he doesn't talk about the time he spent overseas, either. He is part of "the greatest generation" memorialized on that monument. We've asked him if he would like to participate in the Memorial Day tributes; he always declines.
Last night, my husband talked on the phone with our young neighbor, the age of my oldest daughter. He was in Iraq; he went there thinking he would be working as a plumber, his civilian occupation, and found himself holding a gun in combat instead of a plumber's wrench. And he is struggling. I heard my husband say "thank you for your service, sir" before he hung up the phone.
This weekend, have fun. Be safe. And remember all our heroes. They are usually almost invisible, trying to just have a good life like we all want, sometimes succeeding and other times needing a helping hand, an acknowledgement, a kind word.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Cat Owners' Corner: The Gift
I've always owned pets, cats and dogs, and for awhile, horses. Currently, we have two cats and a dog, but this post is devoted to Oki -- "Orange KItty". Oki is a rangy old cat who came our way via my youngest daughter, who reported that this skinny stray was hanging around her then-boyfriend's house and his parents were planning on taking the cat "for a ride in the country". Needless to say, I inherited another pet. That was about ten years ago. And we didn't know how old the kitty was then. Oki has earned his place as "best cat ever".
About a year ago now, Oki had a major health scare and a very expensive week long stay at a premier animal hospital. After that, Oki had to lose about ten pounds and is down from 22 to 14 pounds but is now an insulin-dependent diabetic kitty, requiring injections morning and evening. We also learned that Oki -- who we thought was a "she" -- is a "he", a neutered male. I guess our local vet never looked that closely and neither did we. It has been an adjustment calling Oki "he" and "him"! But that did explain HIS randy behavior around our petite female cat, neutered or not!
Frequently troubled by insomnia, I was particularly displeased last night when Oki jumped on the bed, meowing loudly and persistently. I think it was around 4 a.m. Diabetic cats get hungry and I kept trying to push Oki off the bed or at least quiet down so I could get just a little more shut-eye. Finally, the cat decided laying on my bladder would be comfy and I gave up on any more sleep. Being extremely near-sighted, I grabbed my eyeglasses from the nightstand and headed for the kitchen and coffee.
About ten minutes later, my husband was cursing and muttering....as he walked out of the bedroom holding a very fat and very dead mouse in a Kleenex. Eeeeeeeeeeew!!!!!!!! The carcass was laid neatly between us......an apparent gift from the fearless hunter.
So today I am washing a lot of bed linen. Now, when you own an old house with a fieldstone foundation, you need cats but......next time, Oki, could you just leave the vermin next to the bed? Or near your feed bowl? I don't think this incident is going to help my sleep problems!
About a year ago now, Oki had a major health scare and a very expensive week long stay at a premier animal hospital. After that, Oki had to lose about ten pounds and is down from 22 to 14 pounds but is now an insulin-dependent diabetic kitty, requiring injections morning and evening. We also learned that Oki -- who we thought was a "she" -- is a "he", a neutered male. I guess our local vet never looked that closely and neither did we. It has been an adjustment calling Oki "he" and "him"! But that did explain HIS randy behavior around our petite female cat, neutered or not!
Frequently troubled by insomnia, I was particularly displeased last night when Oki jumped on the bed, meowing loudly and persistently. I think it was around 4 a.m. Diabetic cats get hungry and I kept trying to push Oki off the bed or at least quiet down so I could get just a little more shut-eye. Finally, the cat decided laying on my bladder would be comfy and I gave up on any more sleep. Being extremely near-sighted, I grabbed my eyeglasses from the nightstand and headed for the kitchen and coffee.
About ten minutes later, my husband was cursing and muttering....as he walked out of the bedroom holding a very fat and very dead mouse in a Kleenex. Eeeeeeeeeeew!!!!!!!! The carcass was laid neatly between us......an apparent gift from the fearless hunter.
So today I am washing a lot of bed linen. Now, when you own an old house with a fieldstone foundation, you need cats but......next time, Oki, could you just leave the vermin next to the bed? Or near your feed bowl? I don't think this incident is going to help my sleep problems!
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Can YOU Do It?
Can YOU Do It?
Over the last few decades, so many skills that we baby boomers thought were basic knowledge are now a dying art. Like writing and mailing a letter. Having an engaged conversation in a restaurant without an iPhone. But that isn't what I am talking about.
I'm talking about DRIVING A STANDARD SHIFT CAR! Yes, folks, that's right. A vehicle with a CLUTCH and up to six speeds! I have been reminded a little too frequently lately about how not too many folks can drive one anymore. Recently, I brought our Mazda 6 six speed in for tires. I witnessed one tough and tattooed young man attempt to get said car from its parking space into the garage bay. After multiple stall outs, I finally had to stop the torture of my vehicle and drive it into the bay myself.
A related pet peeve is also a reflection of generally bad driving habits and cluelessness about what it is to shift a car. You know how folks nowadays just love to tailgate, way too close? Well, when you shift a manual transmission there can be an oh-so-slight hesitation as you switch gears. Not good when that Yukon is inches away from the rear bumper.
It's pretty hard to even get a lot of vehicles with a standard transmission now. Too bad. Driving a standard offers improved control and handling, and an overall better driving experience. We have four vehicles -- all standard transmissions.
So I throw down the gauntlet. Can YOU drive a standard?
Over the last few decades, so many skills that we baby boomers thought were basic knowledge are now a dying art. Like writing and mailing a letter. Having an engaged conversation in a restaurant without an iPhone. But that isn't what I am talking about.
I'm talking about DRIVING A STANDARD SHIFT CAR! Yes, folks, that's right. A vehicle with a CLUTCH and up to six speeds! I have been reminded a little too frequently lately about how not too many folks can drive one anymore. Recently, I brought our Mazda 6 six speed in for tires. I witnessed one tough and tattooed young man attempt to get said car from its parking space into the garage bay. After multiple stall outs, I finally had to stop the torture of my vehicle and drive it into the bay myself.
A related pet peeve is also a reflection of generally bad driving habits and cluelessness about what it is to shift a car. You know how folks nowadays just love to tailgate, way too close? Well, when you shift a manual transmission there can be an oh-so-slight hesitation as you switch gears. Not good when that Yukon is inches away from the rear bumper.
It's pretty hard to even get a lot of vehicles with a standard transmission now. Too bad. Driving a standard offers improved control and handling, and an overall better driving experience. We have four vehicles -- all standard transmissions.
So I throw down the gauntlet. Can YOU drive a standard?
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Remembering Easter Finery
Remember "back in the day" on Easter Sundays? My sister and I would usually be wearing matching outfits....fluffy dresses and white straw hats, tights and patent leather shoes. There was a sense of excitement as we would accompany my mother on a shopping trip in the weeks before Easter. My father worked in Worcester, and we would annually stay out of school for a day, and make the drive from Somerset to shop at the new mall down the street from "the office". After purchasing our new outfits, we would all go to Spag's and my brother would get to buy some Matchbox cars.
I still remember Easter Sundays at St. Thomas More Church. There was always an extra large crowd and a lot of overpowering perfume and rather outlandish spring hats. I couldn't concentrate on the Mass because I would be too busy gawking at everyone and in particular, the ladies. At the time -- probably around 1962 -- mink stoles were the rage and I was both horrified and fascinated by the stoles that boasted the actual little feet of the mink! Wouldn't be politically correct nowadays! The hats of course would rival some of the British royal fashion. There were a lot of flowers and ribbons in a dazzling array of pastels. One year, in the late '60's, the nautical look was in and my sister and I sported royal blue and white maxi coats. The church parishioners looked more like a band of sailors, lots of red, white and navy blue and less flowery hats.
My paternal grandparents who lived next door would always come over to see us in our Easter dresses. Pictures would be taken, sometimes, and we would all enjoy a nice ham dinner after church. And then, of course, the requisite chocolate bunny after that. And then we would put on our "play clothes" and go outside; the grass would be greening up and the spring flowers blooming.
Wonderful memories!
I still remember Easter Sundays at St. Thomas More Church. There was always an extra large crowd and a lot of overpowering perfume and rather outlandish spring hats. I couldn't concentrate on the Mass because I would be too busy gawking at everyone and in particular, the ladies. At the time -- probably around 1962 -- mink stoles were the rage and I was both horrified and fascinated by the stoles that boasted the actual little feet of the mink! Wouldn't be politically correct nowadays! The hats of course would rival some of the British royal fashion. There were a lot of flowers and ribbons in a dazzling array of pastels. One year, in the late '60's, the nautical look was in and my sister and I sported royal blue and white maxi coats. The church parishioners looked more like a band of sailors, lots of red, white and navy blue and less flowery hats.
My paternal grandparents who lived next door would always come over to see us in our Easter dresses. Pictures would be taken, sometimes, and we would all enjoy a nice ham dinner after church. And then, of course, the requisite chocolate bunny after that. And then we would put on our "play clothes" and go outside; the grass would be greening up and the spring flowers blooming.
Wonderful memories!
Sunday, April 6, 2014
The Happy Place
I suppose everyone has, hopefully, "a happy place".....whether it is participating in a sport, hobby or just daydreaming. I spent a good part of my weekend in my "happy place" -- browsing Pinterest, and crafting some cool new items for my micro-store at an antiques/craft collective in northwestern Rhode Island.
By yesterday evening, the kitchen counter was piled with horseshoes, burlap flowers, spring-colored ribbons, cork, stamps and ink pads, lavender, muslin bags, packaging materials, and the trusty hot glue gun. By bedtime, most of the end products -- horseshoe wreaths and lavender sachets and dryer bags, were neatly stacked in boxes. I like to experiment with packaging, too, because sometimes that makes all the difference in sales.
I am satisfied with the end result. Sometimes, I'm not....but it's OK. Part of this hobby is about trying to identify what people want...and I am moving toward more "upcycled" and vintage with an edge. I don't make my living doing this, so I am not unduly distressed if something doesn't sell. It's always an experiment. A friend of mine occasionally chides me about losing money....and I guess I am....but spending time in "a happy place" is surely worth something.
By yesterday evening, the kitchen counter was piled with horseshoes, burlap flowers, spring-colored ribbons, cork, stamps and ink pads, lavender, muslin bags, packaging materials, and the trusty hot glue gun. By bedtime, most of the end products -- horseshoe wreaths and lavender sachets and dryer bags, were neatly stacked in boxes. I like to experiment with packaging, too, because sometimes that makes all the difference in sales.
I am satisfied with the end result. Sometimes, I'm not....but it's OK. Part of this hobby is about trying to identify what people want...and I am moving toward more "upcycled" and vintage with an edge. I don't make my living doing this, so I am not unduly distressed if something doesn't sell. It's always an experiment. A friend of mine occasionally chides me about losing money....and I guess I am....but spending time in "a happy place" is surely worth something.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Being A Life Long Learner (LLL)
As I stowed casserole leftovers in the fridge last night, I thought, I should bring some of this to my folks. But then, I wondered if my simple shepherd's pie would be, well, too simple. At 86 years old, my father has become a close to a gourmet chef. Mind you, he and my mother are from the generation where the man would never set foot in the kitchen and the woman took care of all domestic household chores, including meal prep. Yet, a few years back, Dad developed an interest in cooking. He buys cookbooks at yard sales, checks them out of the library, and gets recipes and cooking tips on line. He makes everything "from scratch" -- no short cuts. He bought a freezer to put in the basement so he would have more room for his home made chicken stock and garden produce.
And, like most of the "greatest generation" who came of age during the Great Depression, he is quite thrifty. Have chicken bones? Make your own stock. That's much cheaper, and so much tastier than buying it in a box at the grocery store. Grow your own garden -- and he has expanded annually, growing tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, lettuce, peppers, squash, and herbs. Now that Spring seems to be here, our chats have focused on planting, growing something new, cooking and preserving the garden bounty.
My Dad has always had various interests and hobbies, for as long ago as I can recall. Bass fishing...antique collecting...gardening...and now cooking. He knows his way around the internet, self-taught. He is still eager to learn more, do more, explore something new.
How cool is that?
And, like most of the "greatest generation" who came of age during the Great Depression, he is quite thrifty. Have chicken bones? Make your own stock. That's much cheaper, and so much tastier than buying it in a box at the grocery store. Grow your own garden -- and he has expanded annually, growing tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, lettuce, peppers, squash, and herbs. Now that Spring seems to be here, our chats have focused on planting, growing something new, cooking and preserving the garden bounty.
My Dad has always had various interests and hobbies, for as long ago as I can recall. Bass fishing...antique collecting...gardening...and now cooking. He knows his way around the internet, self-taught. He is still eager to learn more, do more, explore something new.
How cool is that?
Monday, March 17, 2014
Reflecting On Our Irish Heritage
Happy Saint Patrick's Day! My Aunt Ruth Riley always said, after this day, spring is here. In my family, we didn't do too much on this Irish day of celebration. My mother -- who is not Irish -- would dutifully cook a corned beef and cabbage dinner to mark the occasion and we'd have some bakery made Irish soda bread, too.
My Irish ancestors came to Fall River from County Cork, in the later 1800's, living in what is now known as the Corky Row District. John and Catherine Riley and their brood. They were a smart, industrious lot, the women rather bold for their day, attending high school and even college, living singly or divorcing. It was a matriarchal family system, unconventional in that time; my father spent his formative years growing up in a tenement house on High Street, with his mother, uncles, one aunt, sister and grandmother. The aunt toiled in the city's mills, spending long hours winding bobbins and chewing tobacco, which inevitably claimed her life. Eventually, my father and his sister moved to Somerset with his newly remarried mother and there, they left those early rough-and-tumble Fall River memories behind.
As with most emigrant families, the early memories of arriving in this great melting pot quickly fade. The Irish in Fall River -- and all over Massachusetts -- quickly overcame fear and bigotry. Catholic churches were built shortly after the first wave of emigration; St. Patrick's Church, "the Irish church" in Fall River was built in 1875. Irish social clubs were founded. Political influencers were born. My grandmother was a die-hard Kennedy family fan her entire life, forever honoring her roots.
Today is a day to celebrate our Irish heritage as well as recognize the trials and triumphs of all arrivals to this great country.
My Irish ancestors came to Fall River from County Cork, in the later 1800's, living in what is now known as the Corky Row District. John and Catherine Riley and their brood. They were a smart, industrious lot, the women rather bold for their day, attending high school and even college, living singly or divorcing. It was a matriarchal family system, unconventional in that time; my father spent his formative years growing up in a tenement house on High Street, with his mother, uncles, one aunt, sister and grandmother. The aunt toiled in the city's mills, spending long hours winding bobbins and chewing tobacco, which inevitably claimed her life. Eventually, my father and his sister moved to Somerset with his newly remarried mother and there, they left those early rough-and-tumble Fall River memories behind.
As with most emigrant families, the early memories of arriving in this great melting pot quickly fade. The Irish in Fall River -- and all over Massachusetts -- quickly overcame fear and bigotry. Catholic churches were built shortly after the first wave of emigration; St. Patrick's Church, "the Irish church" in Fall River was built in 1875. Irish social clubs were founded. Political influencers were born. My grandmother was a die-hard Kennedy family fan her entire life, forever honoring her roots.
Today is a day to celebrate our Irish heritage as well as recognize the trials and triumphs of all arrivals to this great country.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Collecting Flow Mulberry (Obsessive Collections Disorder)
I wouldn't classify myself as a hoarder. But, like most antique junkies, sometimes a little thing catches my eye and then one little thing is not enough. A few years ago, my mother, who always has a good eye for fine collectibles, spotted a little inky purple and cream plate at a local flea market. She paid a few dollars for it and presented it to me: Do you want this dish? It looks old.
I immediately loved the little plate, a perfect piece of flow mulberry. It was clearly marked "John Alcock/Cobridge" and "Vincennes". The Kovels website states that "mulberry ware was made in the Staffordshire district of England from about 1850 to 1860. The dishes were decorated with a reddish brown transfer design, now called mulberry. Many of the patterns are similar to those used for flow blue and other Staffordshire transfer wares. Oriental motifs, floral patterns, romanticized landscapes, and historical scenes are some of the patterns that appear on flow blue and Mulberry ware, and other colored transfer patterns."
Part of collecting -- and becoming obsessed with the objects of one's desire -- is learning about them. And, like falling in love, there is always something about the object which is irresistible. In this case, the somewhat blurry purplish design and landscapes were fascinating to me.
Since then, I've acquired a number of Vincennes pieces, some like new, some with crazing, chips or other defects of age and use. I've been able to buy the less-than-perfect dishes and bowls very reasonably, and while they will never have great resale value, I so enjoy them displayed on the living room mantle. And it all began with a single flea market find. Thanks, Mom!
Monday, February 24, 2014
The Old Killingly Hill Church
This area of Putnam was once part of Killingly Hill, the site of an early settlement and anchored by the old circa 1818 First Society church, northeast at the Aspinock crossroad. The church, although not active for many years, continues to be maintained and is a local landmark. Flanked by maples and pines, this quintessential New England scene is photographed particularly in autumn, and frequently visitors with their cameras are crouched in our narrow front yard, trying to capture every bit of pristine beauty. We've witnessed marriages on the granite slab steps of the church and know that this place calls those who know it and has for hundreds of years.
The history of the old church is entwined with every colonial inhabitant in this village, every home, every headstone in the Putnam Heights cemetery. I purchased a history of the church including a transcription of its birth, marriage and death records. There I found most of the inhabitants of this house, at some milestone of life or death. I learned that the roots of the church began in a crude meeting house at the highest point on Killingly Hill. A more formal church was built in the 1700s at the northern end of the common, but later was moved to its present location. Periodically perusing eBay, I have acquired two photographs of the church, but at different periods -- the steeple was altered after a hurricane in the early 1800s.
The blacksmith's daughters told us that this house was built the same year as the church, although there aren't any records that verify this. My theory is that the original "front cape", which is just a center chimney two room structure, with a fireplace in each room, was a hostel of sorts for colonists who may have had to travel some distance in all manner of weather to attend church.
Visible from every east-facing window, the old church is a favorite muse. At sunset, the steeple and weathervane are illuminated pink or gold, depending on the western sky. The moon rises over its hulking silence, and then the sun climbs over the hill behind it as day breaks. There is an unmistakable ebb and flow of hours and days, of generations gone and those to come, the continuation of humankind.
The history of the old church is entwined with every colonial inhabitant in this village, every home, every headstone in the Putnam Heights cemetery. I purchased a history of the church including a transcription of its birth, marriage and death records. There I found most of the inhabitants of this house, at some milestone of life or death. I learned that the roots of the church began in a crude meeting house at the highest point on Killingly Hill. A more formal church was built in the 1700s at the northern end of the common, but later was moved to its present location. Periodically perusing eBay, I have acquired two photographs of the church, but at different periods -- the steeple was altered after a hurricane in the early 1800s.
The blacksmith's daughters told us that this house was built the same year as the church, although there aren't any records that verify this. My theory is that the original "front cape", which is just a center chimney two room structure, with a fireplace in each room, was a hostel of sorts for colonists who may have had to travel some distance in all manner of weather to attend church.
Visible from every east-facing window, the old church is a favorite muse. At sunset, the steeple and weathervane are illuminated pink or gold, depending on the western sky. The moon rises over its hulking silence, and then the sun climbs over the hill behind it as day breaks. There is an unmistakable ebb and flow of hours and days, of generations gone and those to come, the continuation of humankind.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Mulberry and mill towns
Our old house is well known in our parts. A blacksmith, and his wife, lived in the house for over 50 years before us. They were quite self-sufficient: the wife had a large garden, and canned until she couldn't anymore. On the small acreage, there was a horse, a few milking cows, pigs up in the back field, and a chicken coop. A wood stove heated the "front cape" and a coal burning cook stove heated the kitchen ell. There was no central heat until the couple was into their nineties, and the wife, during a stint in a local nursing home, said she wouldn't return home until there was a modern furnace. So, in 1995, an oil-burning furnace and hot air ducts were installed. But still, after the wife died, the old blacksmith reverted to his old rituals of wood burning -- collecting, cutting and stacking downed branches and trees, much to his daughters' dismay.
So everyone knew the old man. For at least three years after we bought the house, people would stop by, admiring our restoration efforts, and inquiring about the previous owner. We told them that his health had failed, he had gone to the nursing home down the road, and that is when he sold the place, but that he had come back for a visit not long before he died. His daughters brought him, so he could see the house again, and the barn rehab. And he seemed pleased with what we had done.
Our old house is perched at the crossroads at the old Killingly Hill church, precipitously close to the roads to the north and east. Our protection from wayward plow trucks and speeding teenagers is a tree, a very large tree, in the tiny front yard. It towers over the house. We had just begun some major structural work in the summer months after buying the place when one of the contractors asked about the big tree. He had noticed that the branches had leaves that didn't look at all alike, and that fruit was falling from it, staining the roof, and the road. Some research quickly revealed that our main defense from the road was a mulberry tree. Another mulberry tree grows in the center of the back field, but the trees don't look alike, although their fruit does.
Was the mulberry tree planted hundreds of years before, evidence of an effort of early settlers to start a silk industry? Or, perhaps, more likely, it is a native upstart, allowed to grow and flourish for the same reason we appreciate it: a natural barrier from the unnatural. Several years ago, a local historian provided me with a photograph of our home around 1930. The mulberry tree was only about ten feet tall.
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