For the Castle People

                                                                                     

   

                                                                                  

                                                                                             

                                                                                         

Go Vets!

Josie's class learned about Veteran's Day and when I told her that Grumpy was a vet, she decided to decorate for the holiday.

With thanks to all who chose to serve their country. I wish their country could manage to do better by them.

 

Talismans

                                                                               

Cleaning out a drawer of seldom used kitchen implements, I found a little trove of nostalgia--my maternal grandmother's biscuit cutters, hard-boiled egg slicer, green bean Frencher (I've actually used all of these now and then. Does anyone 'French" green beans anymore?)

Also, a serving spoon that I suspect may have belonged to my great-grandmother--which is why I've not been able to throw it out.

And two spatulas--both of which I remember her using.

It made me think of a meme that was going around--Ways to tell you're old: You have a favorite spatula. 

And I do. We have several but there's one, with a wooden handle partly burned off that just fits my hand and slides under pancakes et al effortlessly. 

It's the spatula to which Josie was referring, a few years back, when I whined to her that she wouldn't let me play with any of her stuff. 

"You can play with your spatula, Meema," she retorted.

I suspect my grandmother felt that way about this old beauty.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. In the pantry hangs a hemmed piece of feed sack material, just like it used to hang in my grandmother's pantry. It's material that her sister Mabel sent her from Alabama back in the Forties and it's right handy for wiping your hands. Next to it hangs a dainty little rick-rack trimmed apron that belonged to one of my neighbors.

Below are a pair of poultry shears and a god-knows-what that belonged to John's paternal grandfather. (There is also a rather naughty nutcracker that was his, but I don't want to get scolded bu Facebook for posting it.

So many memories would be overwhelming if not for the slow pace of this project. I'm constantly aware that these objects that are so imbued with memory for me won't have the same hold on others. So they can toss them--but not me.

                                                                                           

William Morris, Marie Kondo, and Swedish Death Cleaning

                                                

William Morris famously said, "Have nothing in your home that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful."

                                                            

That would be a good guideline but it's not working for me, as I inch through the kitchen and the numerous tchotchkes therein. I have plenty of time to think about this as I wash each item. Do I need three sugar and cream sets? When was the last time we used those rice bowls?

                                                     

This ashtray, for example, was a souvenir from a visit to a restaurant near Milan. Back when John had an outdoor power equipment store, BCS, one of his suppliers, took us and other dealers on a tour in northern Italy. The tavern was famous for serving all sorts of game and we worked our way through meaty course after meaty course. I would have sold my soul for a salad, but none was forthcoming. But it was a memorable evening. So how to throw out this silly thing?

                                                        

Or this chipped rice bowl, which I bought in the late Fifties at a newly opened import store? Back on the shelf with it.

                                                    

Neither beautiful nor useful is the old doorknob, discovered in one of our fields. But it's a reminder of folks who lived here before us, the inhabitants of a house that burned back in the Fifties . . .                                                       

                                                

My mother's teapot. My father sent it from Burma during WWII. I think it's Chinese--and a rather special type of pottery. It always made excellent tea--though as it's so small, I rarely use it. Still . . .

Maybe I need to go with Ms. Kondo's advice--Does it spark joy? -- for the memorabilia.

As for Swedish Death Cleaning--getting rid of every extraneous thing your heirs wouldn't value--no way! That would leave me with a mostly empty house. I'm trying to reduce the clutter--and have culled our books pretty thoroughly. But for now, anyway, these tchotchkes, dust free at the moment, stay. 

                                                          

 

Sixty Years? Dang!

 "I give this marriage five years," said my mother in a fit of pique shortly after our wedding on November 9, 1963.

Well, she was wrong. 

Today is our sixtieth anniversary--married for three-quarters of our lives. John had just turned twenty-one; I was twenty and my parents had to sign on our marriage license.

We've made a good team, all these years. Like the trees in the photo, we have grown together--while still giving each other space. 

Sixty years of marriage; almost fifty here on the farm. We're pretty good at keeping on. 

No, we don't have any special plans, aside from a rather extravagant meal (Maryland crab cakes, filet mignon, asparagus, baked potato, and salad) prepared here. When you're where you most like to be, doing what you most like to do, every day is special. Just another day in Paradise, as we often say.

The Dust of Ages in a Country Kitchen

                                                                              

Visitors to our house almost always love our funky kitchen, its baskets and pots hanging from the ceiling beams, the wood stove and cast-iron cookware, the Blue Willow items, and the profusion of things. Things under things, things on top of things, things hanging on the wall, things in the window. 

But the bad thing about all these things is that they are serious collectors of grease and dust.

It began with the window by the sink. Having just scoured the sink, I thought I should wash the window. Of course, that involved taking down ninety-'leven odds and ends--3 hippos, 3 rhinos and a little triceratops, as well as assorted prisms and jars and bottles--all of which were greasy and dusty. And that was the first day.

Once all that was done, I looked at the woodstove--another catchall.

                                                  

The stove itself was in need of a good wipe down--once I took the clutter from it. Greasy, dusty clutter, it goes without saying. And behind and under the stove was amazingly awful--withered bits of veg that had missed the compost bucket, lids to long departed pots, a mouse mummy were a few of the challenges I faced.  And that was the second day. (I'm slow because I have to go sit down whenever my back complains and it complains a lot.)

                                                     

On the third day I tackled the wood box, wherein was wood for the (rarely used) woodstove and assorted baskets and bits of woodware.  Everything out--including the logs which got dusted. At the bottom was a pile of newspapers dating to the late 90s and early 2000s. That's how bad it was. Embarrassing but true, (Note: all of these pictures are after cleaning.)

With a tiny bit of energy remaining, I tackled the mug storage and the wall beside it. Washed the blue and white stuff up top, as well as the things on the wall. Then I noticed how messy (and greasy and dusty) the hanging produce baskets were. And that the sheaf of recipe printouts in the top basket really needed to go elsewhere. 

 I really want to go through the whole kitchen this way--taking things out of cabinets, washing and re-arranging. At first, I thought it would be nice to have it done by Thanksgiving.  But realistically, maybe Christmas. And then there's the pantry . . .

And the rest of the house.                                     

                                                   

Josie After School

                                                                              

When Meema picked me up, I asked if we could go get ice cream. She said we only do that once a week and would I like to do it today or Wednesday. (There is no school Friday.)

What day do you think I chose?

                                                                                       

Back home, I helped with the laundry. I can take it out of the dryer and carry it up the steps from the basement. Also, I can put the wet clothes in the dryer, if Meema hands them to me out of the washer. We are a team.

I did a little painting

And cut some paper for a thing I was making. Meema fusses at me because I hold the scissors this way but this is the way I hold them.

Outside, I taped the thing I cut out to the bench, just like in the picture I painted. Then I wanted to go to The Room.

First I had to brush Dolly's hair.

I set up a tea party but the babies were acting up.

So I bounced. Meema says I am getting pretty big to jump on the bed and I might make it all fall down some day. 

I have bounced on this bed since I was very little and someone had to hold my hands.

But now I just bounce. And fall down. I hope I never get too big to bounce like this.

Good Morning

                                                                             

Just shots from my phone. The color fades so quickly that it was gone by the time I went and got my real camera.

                                                                                    

Gumbo YaYa

What a delicious Louisiana-flavored stew of friends and family, of Spanish moss-hung place, of loss and longing and redemption! I read these two books 25 years ago, long enough for them to seem new all over. And the distance in time from my own somewhat dysfunctional family of birth allowed me a bit more clarity in my emotional response.

Though Little Altars was published first, it was the Ya-Ya Sisterhood that was the number one bestseller and it was this I read first. It's the story, mainly, of Sidda who is struggling to escape the psychic wounds inflicted by her charming/crazy mother. It's also the mother's story and that of her life long friends, the Ya-Yas.

The tale is rich in remembrance--the good times (and they were many) and the bad times (and they were bad. It's a potent mix of booze and diet pills, kids running wild, rosaries and confession, Southern manners and Cajun music.

It's a terrific read and easy to get lost in. The characters are vividly painted, especially the mother--and I felt a real affection for them all. Wells never lets us lose sight of the fact that there's likely a reason people turn out the way they do.

Which brings me to Little Altars Everywhere. It's not a novel but a series of stories, told in the different voices of the characters from the novel. Each chapter answers questions and goes a long way toward explaining the motivations and mindsets of this fragile, flawed family. By the time I was done, I felt it was the stronger of the two books. And I was glad I'd read them in backwards order. 

It may be that these books resonated with me so strongly because they are set in times I remember--late Forties onward. And, as I said, the family dynamic was familiar--a charming, unpredictable mother, made volatile by a mix of diet pills and alcohol.

But the writing--the sense of place, the spot-on characterizations, the compassion for these characters--it all adds up to an amazing experience. Highly recommended.

                                                                                   

Josie Dances at the Grocery Store

Meema and me went to the grocery store after school. The grocery store is a great place to practice dancing.

My ballet teacher says we should practice at home and I do, but there is not as much room for leaping and twirling.

It feels good to dance after a day in school. Also, I got a chocolate chip muffin. After I ate it, I danced some more. (Meema paid for the muffin even though only the paper was left. We are not thieves.)

                                                                                         

Going to Water

 

Leaf Fall

The trees that have been so beautiful are shedding their finery and taking on their severe winter aspect. 

                                                         

                                                          

On Tuesday, the big mulberry in the pasture was a blaze of chrome yellow. Then the air got cold--into the twenties--and on Wednesday morning, there was a chrome yellow carpet at the base of the bare-branched tree.  

Roses still bloom in a sheltered spot, but the cold time is upon us. 

My mind turns to baking, to soups and stews, to reading by the fire, to painting in the sunny dining room.

 I love having four distinct seasons--even if the season we're entering is my least favorite. The bare trees let us see the shape of the land, and the barren aspect of that land is deceptive--not dead but awaiting a glorious resurrection.

Spring wouldn't be half so sweet if it didn't follow   bitter Winter. 

Rabbit, Rabbit