A Story Behind It All

 We are so fortunate to have two homes -- our old farmette in rural northeast Connecticut, and the cottage in Island Park. Maybe especially with the pandemic, having another place to go that's safe has been a soothing balm in a world out of control.

Of course, every so often we do think, well, maybe we should sell one of the houses. But that decision has been elusive, thus far, because we are too fickle. Sell the Connecticut house, that is a lot more work, with its couple acres and outbuildings and an old house that always needs something...but has so many memories and is meaningful because we saved it from the wrecking ball? Or, part ways with the seaside cottage, much less work, great neighbors, but rising tides and rising flood insurance?

The real story behind what to do is rooted more in the things I have, given to me by my parents, or inherited from relatives and friends, or favorite antiques found at flea markets or on the side of the road. Yes, they are just things but they are things that I enjoy and appreciate. Fact is I wouldn't be able to fit it all in one house. Both houses are small, 1180 sq. ft. and 860 sq. ft.

I think perhaps I will write about some of my favorite things and the stories behind them. Now to narrow that down....

COVID Life

We're now two years into the pandemic. The soul-numbing periods of isolation, fear for the vulnerable, grief for the young and mourning the dead has taken its undeniable toll. 

Yet we wait for the sunrise. We celebrate the mundane: decorating the mantles for Christmas, trimming the herbs that maybe this year will survive winter indoors, organizing a drawer full of old cards and photos. 

The television and social media bring more frightening news; music becomes a better option, as do Facebook sites like "Growing Up in the 50's and 60's". It's impossible to not look back wistfully, even if we were never inclined to do so before.

In the meantime, this day starts with the temperature barely above zero. The furnace is running continually and the woodstove is already heating the perpetually frigid north end of the house. Birds are busily visiting the suet feeder outside the kitchen window, a few brave chickadees and a downy woodpecker.

As my French Canadian grandmother always said, if you have enough to get by, food and a roof over your head, life is good. 

Silver Lake

My Mom is French Canadian and Dad is mostly Irish. Our dinner usually consisted of beef, pork or chicken and canned vegetables and POTATOES. Spices? No. Salt only and plenty of it. Fast forward to 1973 when I move into the dorm at Rhode Island College in Providence. Only about twenty miles away from my hometown of Somerset, MA but culturally, a world away. And the most immediate culture shock was the FOOD.

Eggplant? I had never even heard of it.

A few years later, I moved into a third floor apartment on Dorchester Avenue in Silver Lake. I might have been the only non-Italian on the street. Every Sunday, I'd wake up to the wonderful aroma of  my downstairs neighbor simmering gravy -- and by gravy, of course I mean tomato sauce, Italian style, with some veal and beef and a lot of garlic, maybe canned San Marzano tomatoes from the garden. If I was lucky, I'd get a handout of leftover eggplant, meatballs and gravy or beef braciole. I learned to cook a bit so I could duplicate my neighbor's meals. I learned that you only buy Land of Lakes American cheese sliced as thin as paper, at the local meat store. Pasta must be al dente. How would I know? Everything I ate at home was cooked until it nearly dissolved.

This was a time when the produce man and fish man would still come around every week. You would hear them shouting out as they came down the street, usually on a fairly predictable schedule, with their push cart or battered truck and the housewives would go out and purchase the wares. Old school.

Of course I ate out too. My favorite restaurant was The Original Marcello's on Cranston Street, in Cranston near the Providence line. The interior was '70's Italian decor -- red, white and black and cave-like. There was also another sister restaurant in Knightsville, right up the street, that was more of a diner. The restaurant served up the absolute best stuffed peppers ever made. To this day, I still am trying to duplicate them; the restaurant is long gone, as I recall, it burned down. I had better luck finally recreating the pasta fagiole that the Marcello's diner offered. After about twenty years of failed attempts, the Providence Journal posted a pasta fagiole recipe and the minute I read it, I was pretty sure that was the right one and it was.

Tonight I am (again) trying to recreate  Marcello's stuffed peppers. We'll see. Maybe this is it.

Building Community One Minute at a Time

We arrived at a local restaurant around 5 p.m., for an earlier than usual dinner on what promised to be another rain-drenched night. At this cozy and popular place, there is usually a hefty wait, but because of the early hour, we got a table immediately. Most of the tables were occupied already.

Some nights -- and I know you understand -- you want to hunker down at your table, no matter how close you are to your fellow diners...and pretend you're completely alone. After a long day at work, you might feel just done with people, and talking, being a little bit someone else you're not.

Tonight started feeling like one of those nights. But I noticed the older couple next to us -- a tall gentleman with a Vietnam War Veteran baseball cap, his wife clearly an aging hippie with fabulous crazy dyed red hair. They were finishing up paying, heading out and I told them they were smart to be heading home before the bad weather. We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, that it was getting dark so early, the slippery leaves. We were all smiling and enjoying the pleasant exchange, a model of civility.

Now come dessert and cappuccino time and the young couple to our other side is having an interesting conversation about white or red wine, red can give her a headache, their parents like dry red wines, what wine is like that on the wine list? Well. You know of course I had to oh-so-politely interject my recommendation (Storypoint Cabernet Sauvignon)....which lead to another incredibly light and delicious, erudite conversation about wine, sulfites, white vs. red, dry vs. fruity. Just a few wonderful minutes.

Connecting with the older and the younger. Politics, religion, any other subject prone to controversy never a consideration. If we can build a respectful, open community, a few minutes at a time, can we do it more of the time...all of the time?

Thank you, all of you brave veterans, for defending our freedom to express ourselves. Now let's express ourselves in a way that is equally honorable.

The Scourge of Yard Work

Haven't we all so looked forward to Spring! A few weekends ago, I realized that the pile of old bricks and leaves in the corner of the bulkhead and back addition of the Foster house needed to be moved...or the painters wouldn't even be able to access the lower clapboards and foundation.

It was a beautiful day, warm in the sun, cool in the shade, a gentle breeze. It felt good to be performing some manual labor, moving bricks in a wheelbarrow and pulling vines and raking leaves. I worked diligently until this mindless project was done, and felt pretty good about it. That night I was a little achy, but in that good kind of way.

By noon the next day, my feeling of accomplishment became a feeling of burning and itching as angry welts covered my forearms. The vines I thought were bittersweet? Not so much. Clearly, they were poison ivy vines.....or something of that genus. No telltale leaves, the vines were sort of orange colored and weren't going to let me escape unscathed.

A week or a little better of cortisone cream and nightly Benadryl got me through it but, wow, it was miserable! I remember as a kid being exposed to poison ivy and nary a bubble. What happened?

So gardeners and weekend warriors tackling yard work, beware. A Tyvek suit might come in handy.

House Restoration Roller Coaster

I would have written sooner; I have had whiplash from the careening roller coaster that is named "Old House Restoration Project".

We got the well in, hit water at 240 feet but had to rather inconveniently relocate it near the front walkway. Yes, there is a camouflage plan.

The work on the house has been a fascinating look at circa 1770 house construction. The post and beam skeleton is as strong and supple as ever. The sills needed only some relatively modest cleaning up; they are still solid. It's been heartening that a number of old house experts have looked at the basement and marveled at the perfectly straight dry stone foundation, dry timbers and enormous chimney base. That being said, though, wavy floors abound, as in any old house, and we attempted some leveling as much as practical without dismantling the entire structure. Probably the most impressive feat was bringing the rear wall of the house back about 8" to where it should be. If you know anything about old post and beam houses, you know that between the posts, there is often vertical planking, not used for structural support but as an anchor for exterior clapboards and interior lathe and plaster. Well, the vertical planking wasn't attached to the plate anymore and the wall had just sort of waved outward. Not really a serious structural issue but now it is as straight as it can be; the interior wall was studded the new-fashioned way and the exterior wall was brought in flush with that.

This house has always been lived in, and the inhabitants over the years made improvements, some of them unfortunate. The second floor is close to original, with two feet wide chestnut planks, and an original cove ceiling in the largest room. The first floor was once divided into a duplex; original fireplaces were traded for parlor stoves, and the original buttery gave way to a bigger kitchen in what was probably once a bedroom. Some old pumpkin pine floors remain but others are more newly installed wide pine boards, and there are some narrow oak board floors, too. Simply put, there wasn't anything much very original to the house. And therein the dilemma was what to do: try to return the interior to the long ago past, or embrace a more contemporary style -- the latter very foreign to me. Yet, that is what we have done and I have to give our contractor and his design consultant (the Mrs.) kudos. I never thought this old house would be clean, streamlined, and as a friend of mine said "contemporary with a vintage feel".

We took a wall down between the kitchen and old sun room and that created an open space from the hearth room through the kitchen and all the way to the new windows overlooking the back hill and fields right down to the Ponaganset River. New windows (yes, I acquiesced) were next, then a lot of carpentry work, sheet-rocking, plastering, new plumbing, electrical updates.....we are finally almost on home stretch. Most of the interior is painted. The exterior was power washed for paint -- new color scheme! -- but that was during the warm spell a few weeks ago and you all know what is on the ground now! It is not painting weather, alas.

Finally last week I breathed a big sigh of relief because it finally hit me: this old house is saved. It has a new lease on life and here's to hoping for a devoted and deserving new caretaker.

Old House Chronicles: Well, well, witching well......1/13/16 #2

Tomorrow we close on the Foster house. Today was a flurry of activity and last minute details before the rehab work starts. And a banner day, because we got an almost definite A-OK in the new well placement.

I figured the new well could be dropped right where the dug well is....a good vein of water that only dried up in August. The dug well is about 16 feet deep; when it's dry, you can see the dirt at the bottom. Another 100 feet or so in the same location would be perfect.....right?

Not so much. This house is in a little linear village, originally settled in 1720. Over the years, and a lifetime before there were any water or septic regulations, the village inhabitants graduated from outhouse to cesspools. Some modernized further with septic systems. Most private wells were eventually drilled deep but some houses, like ours, have dug wells. Old school country stuff. Unfortunately, though, modern regulations call for those things to be a certain amount of feet apart and therein is the issue. Old well is too close a placement to the neighbor's septic. So the new well has to be moved to the northeastern side of the house. It's going to be a real challenge for the well drilling truck to fit where it needs to go. Power feed needs to be disconnected and I have to get a tree guy out ASAP to trim some branches.

My neighbor there, an 85 year old walking fund of all matters country, called me a few nights ago.
"You know, you've got to witch that.....you might not hit water." She reminded me that all the neighbors to the north had troubles finding water, but she had hers witched and it serviced two houses, never an issue at less than 75 feet. She had the same person witch the well at the restaurant she once owned, and same thing, hit water right off. It's funny how one spot can yield access to a great vein of some underground stream, but 20 feet away is just ledge.

In case you town and city folks don't know about witching a well, it is using a person, known as a douser, who has the skill, the special magic, to use a live twig or branch to locate water sources. Here is a link to a great article that appeared in Mother Earth News a few years back: http://www.motherearthnews.com/homesteading-and-livestock/witching-for-water-zmaz70ndzgoe.aspx

I haven't found a douser yet and I'll ask my well guy what he thinks. I'll bet he knows someone who does it and probably believes in it, too. I'll keep you posted. Fingers crossed. I figure my odds of hitting water are a lot better than hitting tonight's Powerball drawing.

Old House Chronicles: The Foster House, #1

Once upon a time, decades ago now, I lived in a very old house in Hopkins Mills. It was a house with original clapboards, spaced closer together as they approached the barge boards, wavy in spots from centuries of settling, and old wooden windows. The house was painted white, like all the houses in the historic village, and was perched on a hill overlooking the Ponaganset River. The interior had been largely altered over the years as its residents made sequential changes to "modernize", but it still had a cove ceiling in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and steep stairs to the second floor. I always worried about the girls taking a tumble on those stairs, but they never did.

So now the house had fallen into disrepair, and was for sale, but no one was intrepid enough to take it on, what with its overgrown acreage, deteriorating structure, and 1980's fixtures. I started driving by, worrying that the old house would inevitably be bulldozed. I think you know where this is going: we bought it. To save it. And hopefully find someone to love it.

And there isn't an inch of it that doesn't need to be touched. The last few weeks have been busy finalizing financing, lining up contractors, and struggling with what is going to be restored vs. renovated. There is a difference. Being somewhat of a purist, I'd prefer saving the old 6/6 wooden windows and the narrow stair treads, but I am trying to think of what a buyer might want today. Maybe some added elements of safety and convenience might work to save the house for future generations to appreciate.

I can tell you, no vinyl siding will be on it! But some interior walls will come down, anything rotted will be replaced, there will be a new well, land will be cleared, and the kitchen and baths will be sparkly new. That is it in a nutshell; the detailed specs are almost 20 pages in length.

I'll be posting regular updates on this old house adventure. Coming next, everything you want to know about drilling a new well to replace the dug well that went dry every August.

Welcoming 2016

I have to admit, for many years, I didn't particularly care for New Year's Eve. In fact, I found it a bit incongruous to be celebrating another year gone. It became the epitome of those nights where you lie in bed, thinking about what you should/could/would have done in any number of completely inconsequential situations. I avoided raucous parties and drunken revelry, envisioning myself as a character in some horrifying Edgar Allen Poe tale (think The Masque of Red Death).

Of course, when I was on the rescue, many New Year's Eves were quite memorable. One was spent on stand-by at a huge chicken coop fire (the coop was empty) and I recall another tending to accident victims on a treacherous, ice-covered hill. Those New Year's Eves weren't so bad; you forget your own existential angst when you're on the job and focusing on helping someone else, who might be having the worse day of their lives.

Since reaching a certain age, and maybe some level of tenuous maturity, I've been able to embrace this time of year, if not the New Year's Eve thing. I try not to reflect too much, or make false resolutions, but simply appreciate the fact that the days are now getting longer, that the home fires are warm, and that I have the comforts of wonderful friends and family. We'll go to a local inn and have a quiet but elegant dinner -- and will likely be asleep before ten o'clock. And that's OK.

I have kept one family tradition, a nod to my mother's French-Canadian heritage -- making a French meat pie on New Year's Day. My grandmother, and great-grandmother would always make a meat pie, roast a turkey and have a veritable feast while the men played cards. They didn't do too much on New Year's Eve, either.

I wish all of you a safe, happy and healthy New Year -- no matter you celebrate (or don't celebrate). This year is another chance to get it right! See you in 2016!

Searching for Inspiration

It's been difficult to find something to write about....I don't want this to get into the political arena, don't have the energy for it, but the unrelenting mass murders on the news every day are just mind-numbing and inspiration-sucking.

The house is about 80% decorated for Christmas. It feels like spring this weekend (not complaining!) so we've stalled out a bit. A teeny bit of snow would be pretty in the next week or so.

In times like this, when it's easy to get overwhelmed and cynical, usually the best things to do are to (1) get outdoors and commune with nature, and (2) do good deeds for others.

A trek to the ocean, even in winter, or a walk in the quiet New England forests will always help clear the head and soothe the soul. We're so lucky we can do either here.

Most of us are fortunate. We have a warm place to live, food to eat, and regular income. Don't forget to do something good this holiday season for those less fortunate. Your local food pantry needs food donations, to be sure, but don't forget that other items that are needed -- diapers, toiletries, feminine products, low-sodium, low-sugar or other food products for diabetics.

Let's remember our humanity.

Today: House Painting

Today is my day off, and luckily, it is going to be about 70 and sunny on this early November day. What a gift! Our old house is largely scraped and primed and today is painting day.

It's not uncommon for people to ask why I don't hire someone to paint. I usually feel a bit defensive, like I am a freak of nature or something, because I don't pay thousands to have someone else do this job, when we can do it ourselves. Granted, our old cape is quite diminutive, and that is good. And, as any old house owner knows, scraping, caulking, priming and painting is something you had best get to enjoy. Generally, I do like it. It's a good opportunity to reacquaint myself with every clapboard, nail hole and gloriously perfect imperfections of this house I love so much. On a warm day like today, I'll play my favorite music, maybe some Railroad Earth, open the windows, and tackle the final phase of painting before the cold weather sets in for good. It will be a good day to commune with nature and this old house.

I'm proud to not be one of what I refer to "the HGTV generation". My father always painted his house, too, finally stopping when he was 85 and my mother banned him from doing any high ladder work. He still tackles the stairs and porch, though. My former neighbor in Foster, RI, now in her eighties, always did her own painting, too. And she owns not only her home, but six or seven rental properties. She still does some of it, too, but has a handyman get up to the peaks, which galls her. The lesson: be independent, don't be a slacker, know how to do things yourself.

So I am waiting for sunrise and for the temperature to come up just a bit. I'll tackle priming the north side of the house and the newly built bulkhead door (thanks to my husband) and then paint over all the primed sides...and if I still have any ambition, I'll scrape and prime some of the west side. We don't always do every side at once, and I thought we would run out of time to complete the west, back side of the house, but maybe the weather will hold up long enough to get it done.

I'll be enjoying my day. I hope you do, too.

Just Plane Crazy

I just returned from the foreign land of Tennessee, and that entailed four flights -- from Providence to Detroit and then on to Knoxville, and then the same trip in reverse. The entire traveling experience is always fascinating, and there is probably no better people watching opportunity than being in a big airport. There are always sports teams. I saw some amazingly tall female college basketball players, young, fresh-faced, intense, in uniform...perhaps they were in a hurry to catch their flight. A female body builder strutted her stuff in a short, tight dress in Knoxville, people turning to stare. A well-dressed woman stops in the "walk" lane (which actually means the "run" lane) of the people mover in Detroit's McNamara terminal, to sneeze, blow her nose and tie her shoe, causing a pile up of travelers and luggage behind her. She seems oblivious to the "stand" lane to her right and glares at the muttering, rushing crowd trying to pass her.

Of course, the actual flight is the most entertaining and as anyone who has flown knows, you're up close and personal with the people seated next to you. First flight from Providence to Detroit: I had the pleasure of sitting next to a woman, some years my senior, who as it turned out was a psychologist who works about a mile away from my office. She was intelligent, conversant, socially adept and the trip went by too fast. We exchanged cards. Second flight from Detroit to Knoxville: I had a window seat and the woman sitting next to me was not so friendly, with her nose in a book and nary a sideways glance. I read my own book.

On the way home, on the first flight, I was next to a forty-something year old woman, who I guessed was a business traveler. She spent the entire hour and a half working on her laptop, serious and seemingly in her own world, rather curt to the flight attendants. I was again next to the window and turned my head away from her direction. After getting a grand workout in Detroit, lugging my bags for what seemed like five miles, I board for the final leg of the trip, back to Providence. This time I am stuck in the middle -- never a good place to be in any circumstance. To my right sits a young woman, maybe twenty, pretty but with an anxious countenance. As I settle in my seat she offers barely a wan smile and I immediately notice she has her in-ear headphones on and is clutching her iPhone and know there will be absolutely no conversation with her. Passengers stream on by and I observe several men who look like cowboys, boots and hats and western shirts, some families with babies, Even though I am heading to Rhode Island, I don't see anyone I know, which is unusual. As I begin to think that perhaps the aisle seat won't be filled and I can move a seat away from the girl and have some space, a tall gent who could pass from Kramer on Seinfeld spends an inordinate amount of time trying to stuff his luggage in the overhead compartment and then flops in the aisle seat. He greets me heartily, and then apologizes as he procures an enormous paper bag and empties the contents on the seat tray -- a greasy cardboard to-go container loaded with fish and chips, cole slaw, tartar sauce. He offers me some and I decline. He inhales his dinner in about two minutes, crumples up the bag with its contents and stuffs it into the overhead compartment. He then buckles in and starts sprawling, arm on my seat rest, right leg in my space. I start moving toward the girl and she looks out the window. In flight, he wants beer and wine and is surprised to find out he has to pay for it. He skips the booze, takes a juice and when pretzels, cookies or peanuts are offered by the pretty flight attendant, he takes one of each. She has a French accent and they converse and he reveals he is from Toronto. My annoyance turns into sympathy (well, not much sympathy, but less annoyed) and I surmise he doesn't travel much or maybe they do things different in Canada. Do they serve free booze there?

We make it to Providence and taxi to the terminal. While passengers collect their baggage and impatiently await the door to open to let us escape, it is fairly quiet save for a female voice with a southern accent somewhere in front of me, loudly crowing about her four million dollar deal, how they have now sold over eight million dollars (of what, unclear) and how "one of "y'all are going to Paris". The voice grew louder, more animated and I started looking carefully at the passengers to see who the chest-thumping voice belonged to. Naturally, it was emanating from someone on a cell phone, a billowy blonde who finally exited the plane, still yelling into the phone about her sales prowess.

I'm finally off the crazy plane.

This Morning on Facebook

Wednesday is my day off, and usually I would have some plans to get something productive done around the homestead. Instead, I watched the weather, confirming that another miserably hot and humid day is on tap....and then I browsed Facebook.

Today, I saw that my youngest daughter had posted a New York Times article on the upcoming release of "Black Mass" on my page. We're both eagerly awaiting the release of the film, next week, so that was good. Next, I saw a posted article on where the best places for a burger and shake are in Rhode Island. I didn't read that. I shouldn't be even thinking about burgers, shakes, fries or the like. Following that, there were a few depressing posts about a poor starved dog that had to be euthanized and how we should basically all rally to stone the dog's owner.  Naturally, there was a horrifying picture to accompany the call to action.

Next up, some local news posts, all focused on some murder and mayhem....a missing couple in Connecticut and the arrest of their son on a gun-related charge...a poor child found dead on an island in Boston harbor....a local pol accusing another pol of being dishonest.

Now we have the Patriots and Tom Brady memes, but not being much of a sports fan, I only glance at those. The next news article posted by a local news station catches my eye: "Providence diocese says new annulment process emphasizes mercy". Under that, a post from a friend who is a feline aficionado entitled "This is what the workplace would be like if a cat were boss". I click on the link and get to read a series of vaguely amusing comic strips, "Adventures of Business Cat".

As I scroll down the page, I am quickly reminded that Friday is the anniversary of 9-11. While I do believe this should be observed as we observe Memorial Day, I cringe at the vivid images of the twin towers in flames, a plane flying into the second tower, and other trauma-inducing photographs. I wish these posts were less focused on the horrific, and more on patriotism and survival.

Happily, there are some photographs of friends' children, off to pre-school or college, camping, or driving a kid's motorized Jeep. Whew -- a pleasant interlude. But what is next? A post on Kim Davis, a fine example of a municipal employee, thanking her supporters. Next up: IKEA recalls crib mattresses due to concerns about flammability. And after that, Christie Brinkley, she's 61 and looks 31! What is her secret? (I don't know, didn't click to open this, I am going to be 60 and don't think there is much hope of looking like I'm 31.)

Now we have the admonitions: Don't live your life impressing others. People will judge you anyway. There only person you should try to be better than is the person you were yesterday. On a bad day there is always lipstick.

And next is an article on how much you need to save for retirement. I don't bother reading that either but have the gnawing feeling in my gut like I might have an ulcer.

Now my day is off to a wonderful start. I think I need to get outdoors and pick up dog poop.

A Few Antiquing Tips for Labor Day Weekend

I'm just about done with tomatoes. I've canned, frozen, made various sauces, eaten a lot of BLTs and Sungold cherries on salads. The garden is winding down and this drought hasn't helped, despite watering.  

Today I took a pile of San Marzano tomatoes and put them in a freezer bag and stuck them in the freezer, whole. My friend Sarah told me that when they thaw, the skins come right off. Perfect!

Instead of slaving in the kitchen, I thought maybe going to the beach for a swim would be great....until I realized my one bathing suit was on the boat, 40 miles away. Plan B: browsing at a few local antique stores just over the line in Rhode Island.

I started at The Town Trader in Chepachet, RI. I really like this store; there is a lot to look at in the warren of small rooms and hallways. My little house is chock full of stuff already, but I like looking at the prices on things that I already have. Sometimes I am pleasantly surprised although it doesn't really matter because I would have a tough time parting with some of the things I have. If it is in my house, I most likely love whatever it is and there is some story behind it. Today, I bought some autumn decorations, even though it was over 90 degrees outside. I was sorely tempted to buy a green and cream enameled flour container but I don't even know where I would put it so I managed to restrain myself....today.

From there, I cruised south on Route 102 toward Foster. I stopped at a roadside flower stand, just north of the intersection of Route 101. I bought two gorgeous bouquets of sunflowers, zinnias and herbs for $5.00 each. It's an honor system -- you leave the money in the box or you can write an IOU note and leave it. I've treated myself to flowers from there for many years now.

At Route 6, I headed west, crossed Route 94 and the only traffic light in Foster, and then pulled into A Bee's Buzz, on the left. This is a huge barn that has two floors of antique and vintage collectibles and furniture, as well as displays by local artists and merchants. You could spend hours here! Again, there is a lot to look at, from handcrafted soap to locally made jewelry, antique oil paintings, glassware.....you name it. I bought a few more fall motif items for the house. I'll probably go back for a 1960's era purse I saw, a purse that has the kind of old school clasp that will pinch you good if you're not careful.

So if you're an antique lover like myself, check out these stores. In Chepachet. there is also Old Post Office Antiques, across from The Town Trader. I always stop there, but they were closed today. This is another amazing store, with tiny rooms on two floors of the old post office, crammed full of treasures. The Brown and Hopkins General Store -- the longest continually operating general store in the country -- should also be on the list of must-see stops in this historic village. 

Take an afternoon or weekend cruise. You'll be delighted!

Today's Garden

I am not very happy with my garden this year and have to admit, it has a lot to do with the gardener. My weed control failed; the straw wasn't laid thick enough and I spent too little time tending to it. But despite that neglect, this morning I again brought in buckets of Roma, Sungold, and yellow pear tomatoes. And, the fennel is ready. The corn looks good, too, but last year, the ears never quite matured.

Every year for the last five years, I've had the garden expanded. Looking it it now, I am thinking scaling back is in order, unless I hit the Lottery and hire a gardener. And a cook, too, because I wasn't planning on having to do something with tomatoes all day today, but I think that is what I must do.

I thought about making salsa, but I don't have enough peppers. There's not quite enough tomatoes to justify making a huge batch of Italian sauce, "gravy" to put up. So it might be just stewed tomatoes. Plain, but useful, my French Canadian memere canned them every year until she was well into her 80's. She and my grandfather always had a big garden, at their house, and then after they sold the place, they had a smaller one in a community garden at their apartment complex. Memere grew up on a farm in St. Valerian, in Canada, the eldest of thirteen, and she knew how to make everything from scratch. Waste not, want not.

The elderly couple that owned our house before us were French Canadian, too. They used every bit of space on this few acres, and of course had an expansive garden. When we cleaned out the basement we found a dusty cabinet full of canned tomatoes and canning supplies. The attic was stocked with dried bunches of herbs, long forgotten. The daughters told us about their pig pen, up in the southwestern corner of the property, their chicken coop, and the milking cows and horses for pulling the milk wagon.

It's nostalgic to think about an idyllic farm scene, and pleasant to do, but memere always said that working in the mills in Fall River was a lot easier than working on the farm. I can believe that. But today, for a short time, I'll continue the tradition and put up tomatoes.

Rhode Island's Victory Day

Today I am the envy of my Connecticut neighbors and Massachusetts family: I work in Rhode Island and today is a holiday. A holiday in August is in itself something to celebrate. Usually the question that follows is, what holiday is in August?

Rhode Island, long a symbol of rebellion and a middle-finger-up sort of attitude, is the only remaining state that observes Victory Day -- formerly Victory Over Japan, or VJ Day. Back in the 1990s, bowing to objections that the holiday was no longer politically correct, the legislature renamed the day and removed the reference to Japan. Some years after that, Governor DiPrete attempted to rename the holiday to "Governor's Bay Day" or some such non sequitur. That didn't stick, either. Everyone I know in Rhode Island, and I lived there for decades, calls today VJ Day.

As the holiday's name connotes, this marks the surrender of Japan and the close of World War II in 1945, 70 years ago this year. Everyday citizens of almost every country around the world took to the streets when the news spread on August 15. Newspaper headlines in the United States, New Zealand, Canada, the United Kingdom and Australia heralded "V-J Day". President Truman named September 2, 1945 and the formal surrender ceremony "VJ Day".

Why is Rhode Island the only remaining state to observe Victory Day? For starters, the tiniest state in the union sent over 100,000 of its residents to war and 10,000 of them were killed, wounded or missing in action.

In 2010, Scott McKay of Rhode Island Public Radio wrote in an essay:

If ever a state was at the center of the American war effort in World War II, it was Rhode Island. From Westerly to Woonsocket and everywhere in between, Rhode Island was focused on winning what has become known as, in Studs Terkel's famous words, "The Good War". Newport was home to the Atlantic destroyer fleet, where thousands of sailors trained for service abroad. Quonset hosted thousands of troops who built Quonset huts and trained engineers and Seabees to work on ships. PT boats were built on Bristol and the man who was to become the most celebrated PT commander i history, John F. Kennedy, received his training at the Navy's station in Melville....A state that suffered through the Depression suddenly blossomed into an industrial powerhouse when war came. Liberty ships were made in Providence, torpedoes in Newport, army blankets and uniforms in textile mills all over the state. The machine shops of the Blackstone Valley thrummed with parts for guns. Even the jewelry makers flourished, turning out medals for the arms forces.

So the Rhode Island legislature has repeatedly and stubbornly close to keep observing Victory Day, indicating that to stop celebrating it would be an insult to veterans. As the greatest generation slowly fades into history and memories, Rhode Island continues to carry the torch, remembering its soldiers, World War II and the joyous end of that dark, frightening time. I hope that never stops.

JUSTICE FOR THERESA CORLEY

Camelot was over and the Summer of Love had ended over a decade before. Viet Nam protest marches, the Kent State shooting, and the Nixon era were a memory. It was December, 1978, winter in America, a time of disillusionment and discontent. Darkness came early and every night seemed starless. But even in that time of financial and cultural depression, the humdrum of life bumped along. Those lucky enough to have a job worked, and if you had an income, even a paltry one, it was probably enough then to allow some discretionary income for having some fun.

In Franklin, the Train Stop, a popular watering hole, was as usual hosting its odd assortment of patrons. From college students to plumbers, orderlies from nearby Wrentham State School and townies, loud voices and laughter were fueled by the great social equalizer, alcohol. Many of the customers on Monday, December 4 were young, under twenty-one, attending a birthday celebration, their jubilant mood interrupted by an argument, some misunderstanding, and the abrupt exit of some of the party-goers.

Exactly what happened after that is not completely known. But one nineteen year old girl, someone’s baby, someone’s sister, never made it home. That girl was Theresa Corley, of Bellingham, one of nine children. She was working in a local factory, attending junior college, just beginning to become a woman, more independent and adventuresome, finding her own way. Her nude body was found in a ditch on the side of 495 a few days later and she had been strangled.

Thirty-seven years later, her sister, Gerri, still remembers her mother’s anguished screams when she learned that her missing daughter would never come home, a sound she says she will never forget. And she and the Corley siblings feel the hurt and despair that her mother did, not knowing who did this to their Terry. An investigation had taken place, to some degree, anyway, and a disjointed story emerged, that Theresa had been sexually assaulted at an apartment in Franklin, left there, was seen by other witnesses, was picked up and dropped off at the Bellingham Police Department not far from her home but was never seen alive again. No one was charged. Years went by and the case grew cold. Investigators have retired. Some potential suspects or witnesses have died.

This year, Theresa Corley would have been 56. For years, there have been whispered allegations and overheard conversations in Bellingham. And quite probably, those most directly involved or knowledgeable about the crimes that were committed that night are out there. Among us. 

Thirty-seven years. It’s a long time to wonder what happened, knowing that someone has gotten away with murder. It’s not too late to put this puzzle together. And that could mean taking a brave step forward. Rumors could lead to facts. And that could lead to conviction and JUSTICE FOR THERESA CORLEY. Can YOU help?

If you have any information at all, and every bit of information can help, please contact any of the following:

Bellingham Police Tip Line at 508.657.2863 or email detectives@bellinghamma,org

Franklin Police Tip Line at 508.440.2780 or email at tips@franklinpolice.com

The Norfolk District Attorney can also be contacted at 617.593.8840.

A Facebook page has also been created: Justice for Theresa Corley Bellingham 1978.

The Unlikely Visitor at the Putnam Post Office

Last Thursday was memorable for a few reasons. First, because I mailed my retirement application into the state retirement board; second, because of a surprising encounter with a visitor to the Putnam Post Office.

As I descended the steps of the post office, I heard the distinct "caw" of a crow, or so I assumed. The persistent cawing became so loud, I was sure some bird was going to land on my head. Stopping to look for the sound, I looked up to see an enormous black bird perched on the parapet of the stone post office building. He -- or she -- was doing sort of a soft shoe dance, and was making its crazy cawing noises which echoed between the downtown buildings.

Within a few minutes, more passersby joined me, standing in front of the post office, necks craned to marvel at the unusual sight. A woman said "it's not a crow, it's a raven." Someone else pointed out that there was another raven on a nearby steeple, and it did seem like they were occasionally calling to each other. This unexpected visitor seemed curious about the impromptu gathering below as it leaned over toward us, continuing its shrill cawing, and performing its skips and hops to our collective delight. We took pictures and videos with our phones, looking like tourists in our own town.

A raven! Of course! I wasn't sure if I had ever actually seen one. Perhaps my greatest familiarity with ravens was from the famed Edgar Alan Poe poem The Raven. "Quoth the Raven 'Nevermore'".

The Cornell Lab of Ornothology All About Birds website calls the common raven "intriguing" and notes that ravens are "among the smartest of all birds." And, "ravens are confident, inquisitive birds that strut around or occasionally bound forward with light, two-footed hops." A 2013 article in The (New London) Day, Ravens: Nevermore no longer (Robert Tougias, 1/4/13) explains that over the last few decades the raven has slowly extended its territory south from remote northern New England, probably due to global warming. It is a highly adaptable bird, but is still largely a wilderness bird. So its appearance in downtown Putnam was rather unlikely.

A few days later I told a coworker about my encounter. She in turn told me a story about a friend who had an owl fly into her house and die, and that was a bad omen, and the friend became very ill. The native American tribes people that the friend had lived near had used herbs and incense to try to rid the house of evil spirits but their efforts failed.

Although I am not of a superstitious nature, this suggestion was a little unsettling. I researched "ravens and superstitions" and learned that the raven is quite enigmatic, with different cultures embracing opposing beliefs about its spiritual significance. While some see the raven as a fore-teller of death (probably thanks to Poe), or a symbol of war, others identify the raven as a good omen, associated with wisdom and magic.The Celtics believe that a raven on the roof brings prosperity.

But I prefer this definition of the raven: The raven, bird of prophecy and bravery, protector of seers and clairvoyants.

And even if the raven is but a bird, with no exotic and mysterious association, it was a very cool experience. I've included a very short video -- not sure if Telegram readers will be able to upload it -- which isn't too good but captures the sound pretty well.

Remembering June

My mother and I were talking on the phone this morning, as we always do on the weekend, and the subject of the chilly weather this morning inevitably came up. We agreed that we didn't like to be cold and we had both turned the heat on upon arising. And then we talked about Junes gone by, and the weather. We didn't remember any hot weather in June, and in fact, every June event we recalled was marked by cool temperatures.

We used to always go to the Peterson Farm in Dighton for either a Memorial Day or Flag Day cookout. And this farm was a real, working farm, not a romanticized, gentrified farm, like mine. The Petersons had chickens, cattle, pigs and a large garden.  They slaughtered and ate the poultry and animals and sold the meat, too. My folks sometimes would buy a side of beef, cut into steaks and roasts, and freeze it. I think they bought their first freezer just for this purpose. Anyway, when we went there for the annual barbecue, it would invariably be windy, cool and damp and we always be outside, sitting at picnic tables. No matter how cold it was, there were always flies. After a few years of uncomfortable chilliness forcing us to leave early, we would make sure we had sweaters, winter coats and hats in the car.

One of my memories of June involved swimming lessons when I was in grade school. I was a timid child, and didn't like to get my face wet in the water or swim over my head. Because we lived on the Taunton River, my parents were adamant that all their children would know how to swim and be able to save ourselves should some mishap occur. Swimming lessons started as soon as school ended, always on a Saturday morning at the town beach and I remember my teeth chattering and my lips turning blue. I don't think it was ever above 60 degrees outside and it didn't even matter if it was raining -- no cancellations unless there was a thunderstorm.

My family used to go on vacation in June, too. Usually the last week of June, before the Cape Cod rentals got more expensive for the high summer season, we would go for a week of camping at Nickerson State Park in Brewster. Actually, as I recall, we usually rented a very rustic "cottage", and sometimes my aunt, uncle and cousins would be there, too. We have some old photographs, probably circa 1960, of us older girls in flannel nightgowns, roasting marshmallows over a roaring fire in the massive stone fireplace.

We probably got a little spoiled this year with the May heat wave. Now June is what June should be, the Junes of my childhood. Cool enough to grow some lettuce and peas and to shut the windows before bed, and sunny enough at mid day to warm the earth. Maybe not warm enough for swimming, though.

The Obituary

And there was his photograph, a rather uncharacteristic beatific smile on a face I hadn't seen in over thirty years, gracing the obituaries. The text waxed eloquently, albeit briefly, about his hobbies and accomplishments, and I'm sure someone left behind wrote it with the goal of putting a positive flourish on a less than happy existence.

This was the man who taught me the shocking and bitter lesson that all men are not like my father; that some men control, abuse, consider it their right to treat their women with less respect than their dog. No one had ever warned me. We weren't taught about domestic violence in high school, or college. I didn't know anyone who was beaten by a boyfriend. It became apparent that it was a familial habit; his brother was no better to his wife. Somehow they had learned along the way that it was alright.

I was close with my family, but never told them anything about what was happening in my life. I knew, of course, that they would be worried. Ironically, he never met my family, either, not even at Christmas, because I knew I deserved better but I was also afraid. 

Mercifully, the relationship didn't last long, maybe about nine months. During that time, he had moved into my apartment. By the time I left, fleeing to an out-of-town friend's house to hide, the bathroom and bedroom doors were splintered from his fists and my neighbors told me that they were petrified of him, and for me. That did it. 

About ten years ago or so, I am quite sure I saw him, standing outside a small shopping plaza close to my home, in a nearby state. He was obviously waiting for someone to pick him up. I was terrified, although he did not see me. I knew my fear was irrational, that he wasn't at that place to find my house, or cause me harm, that he was there for some other reason unknown to me, but I had trouble sleeping for weeks.

Can abusers stop? Perhaps. I would certainly like to think so and I think that when violence is alcohol fueled, it can stop if the alcohol is gone. That wasn't the case here, though; this was perpetrated stone cold sober.

A post mortem social media review revealed that little had changed. Facebook posts were laced with vicious accusations and threats, directed at estranged friends and relatives. And after his death, a few others posted what a great guy he was. I am sure they were never cringing with terror behind the locked doors being broken down, hearing the screamed threats.

Rest in peace. I know I will.