Stories, Yarns & Tales of Olde

If These Walls Could Talk

2012-02-26T11:20:00.001-05:00

After having lived in our 140-year-old house for over 20 years, I was under the impression that we had discovered just about all the house's secrets that were meant to be discovered. We know exactly how cold it has to get before we need to put a heat lamp under the kitchen sink to keep the pipes from freezing. We know to check for leaks in the spare room upstairs when the driving rain comes from the west. We know that too much rain or snowmelt in March will cause flooding in our cellar. We know when someone starts the dryer because the kitchen light dims.

You get the idea.

But while all those quirks give an old house character (and the homeowner some frustration), it's the history and anecdotes and stories from previous owners which, added together, give a house personality.

I've seen maps and photographs of the house through the years, proving that it's led an interesting life. But all of the former owners have moved away or passed on, as have many of the old neighbors, and so I have no collected stories about my house, save my own. At least, I didn't until the November meeting of my local historical society. The presentation that night was entitled, "Murder in Oakville," and I'd attended with anticipation, eager for a good tale about my little village and expecting the crime to have been committed in one of the houses across the street, which is purported to be haunted.

You can see where this is going, can't you?

Yup. My house. Yellow crime scene tape, detectives in long overcoats chewing pen caps. All right ... not really. They didn't have yellow crime scene tape in 1885. But there was lust and jealousy and, in my opinion, a bit of set-up for the man who was killed. Let's start with the actual crime itself.

Daniel Clever, aged 42, and his brother William lived about four miles from Oakville on adjoining farms. William Martin, aged 20, was a farmhand for both farmers, but was currently living with his younger sister, Ida, on the William Clever farm. On May 2, 1885, Daniel sent his wife, Annie, about aged 25, and their infant daughter, Dora, along with his sister to visit a friend, Sarah Varner, who lived in Oakville. When it was time for the evening meal, Annie went up the street and retrieved Elizabeth Varner, Sarah's grandmother, so she might dine with them. When the meal was finished, Annie insisted on returning to Granny Varner's house to spend the night. The old woman argued with her, asking Annie to remain with her granddaughter and her husband's sister, as she had been ill for some time and wasn't up to keeping overnight company. But Annie refused to be persuaded and left her sister-in-law to bed at one end of the block, while she and her daughter set off to retire at the other end with Granny. Before leaving, she asked Sarah to send for her in the event her husband should arrive in the morning before she returned.

Meanwhile, back on the farm, the evening meal commenced. For whatever reason, Daniel was at the store and not present at table, so his brother, who knew that his sister-in-law and the farmhand had been secretly talking and flirting with each other for some time, first asked young William Martin if her knew that Annie had traveled to Oakville, and then told him that he need not finish the plowing that evening if he had somewhere to go. Set free, young William immediately went to Oakville, where Annie had asked him to meet her.

Having sent the young man off, William Clever set the upcoming tragic events in motion. Seeking out his brother, he was observed having a long, animated conversation with him. Daniel then sent a lad into the church which Martin attended. Upon finding out he was not there, Daniel proceeded to ride to a nearby farm under the pretense of finding out if Martin was visiting a girl there. When the answer was again negative, Daniel rode, not to Sarah Varner's house, where he had sent his wife to visit, but straight to Granny Varner's house.

In the meantime, things had gotten interesting at Granny's house. After having forced the old woman to take her in, Annie had Granny make up a bed for the child while she opened the kitchen window and the shutters so she could keep watch. After a few minutes, she told Granny that there was someone at her door, and when the elderly woman opened the door, she was surprised to find William Martin. She didn't say anything at first, for fear that something had happened at the farm and Martin had been sent to retrieve the young wife. But when Annie next told the old woman to take Dora and go to bed, Granny realized the couple's intention and she refused to leave them alone. Annie wouldn't be deterred, however, and in an incredibly selfish move, took the lamp from Granny and led Martin into the adjoining room, shutting the door behind them and leaving Granny and the infant in the dark.

Granny spent the next few minutes struggling to find a fat lamp and light it. No sooner did she have that accomplished then there was yet another knock on the door. This time, it was Daniel Clever seeking his wife. When he learned that not only was Annie there, but behind closed doors with Martin, he pulled out a pistol and, in a blind rage, kicked at the door until it gave way. He then shot three times into the room. Young Martin ran out the back door and collapsed in the neighbor's yard, where he was found by several neighbors and taken first to the DeWalt workshop and then to the warehouse office owned by Mr. Manning.

Inside the house, Annie chastised her husband for shooting at the boy. Daniel said little, but instead set to work repairing the door that he'd damaged. Annie insisted that she liked Martin and he liked her, and Granny scolded her for her foolishness. Daniel said he should have shot her instead and threatened to take the child and leave her, but in the end he took both his wife and his child home, without seeing Martin again or checking to see if the farmhand still lived. Once home, Daniel sent his wife into the house to retrieve his overcoat, then left her and the child there and roused his brother, William. They rode to the neighboring Justice of the Peace, where Daniel confessed to having shot William Martin and transferred his property to his brother in preparation for his flight to Canada. The JP tried to talk Daniel into turning himself in, but Daniel refused.

Back in Oakville, the physician was sent for, but Dr. Israel Betz refused to treat the young man until he confessed who shot him and why. It would appear that Dr. Betz held out little hope for the gunshot victim's survival anyway, and told him as much. Ida Martin was sent for, and she returned her brother to her parents' home, where he died two days later, May 4, 1885. Daniel Clever consulted a lawyer and turned himself in to authorities three weeks later.

In a trial that began August 27, 1885, the jury found the defendant, Daniel Clever, not guilty of murder by reason of insanity.

If you're interested, the transcription of the trial is part of the Harvard Law Library's Studies in Scarlet Virtual Collection, and can be found at http://vc.lib.harvard.edu/vc/deliver/~scarlet/004031139. Just click on the URL link marked Digital Object. The Studies in Scarlet Collection contains over 420 individual trial narratives for cases involving domestic violence, bigamy, seduction, breach of promise to marry, child custody, rape and murder from 1815 through 1914.

The transcription makes for fascinating reading because you get a real taste of century-old court drama. And it is drama! The prosecution took approximately thirty pages to make their case. It's very straightforward and factual. Daniel Clever killed a man, he admitted he killed a man. Hang him. The end. But the defense takes over one hundred and fifty pages to paint the portrait of a man who had complete faith and trust in home and hearth, a church-going man who suspected no hint of wrong-doing on the part of his deceptive wife and who, once shown the reality of the situation, went mad with grief and anger. Her betrayal drove him to the edge of insanity. I haven't made it the whole way through the transcription yet, but the defense's opening statements are impassioned and emotional, designed to tug on the jury's heartstrings in a way that mere facts alone cannot do. And according to the speaker who gave the presentation, the defense went on to show that others in Daniel's family exhibited that genetic predisposition towards less mainstream behavior. In other words, they were all crazy!

And I'd love to know exactly what role the brother, William Clever, played in all this. I still think it was a set-up, I just don't know why. Was he trying to protect Daniel? Or was there some other, more sinister reason he betrayed the young couple's affections? More research is needed, definitely.

So now I have a fun story to tell about my house! I wonder what else these walls could tell me, if only they could talk.

The Acquisitions Department Strikes Again!

2012-02-25T15:45:00.011-05:00

As a neophyte antiques collector, I don't often have the disposable income to purchase those wonderful items which catch my eye. But I also consider myself a bargain hunter, and I'm proud to say that my most recent additions didn't cost me a dime, just a bit of labor on the part of my Dear Hub to wrestle them out of their former home.

This is my favorite new item:

Looks pretty grungy, doesn't it? Taken from the basement of the financial institution where I currently work, this piece is actually two separate sections. The bottom cabinet has shelves and some large cubbyholes for storage. But what really made me fall in love with it was ...

... the top section, which opens to reveal dozens of little cubbies!! The individual slots themselves actually have dates on them, and this was used to organize bank documents, etc. There's a twin to this upper section in the original bank vault which is in the basement of the building, but that twin is anchored to the wall of the vault and has extensive mold and insect damage. This one was free standing and kept in a separate, drier part of the basement. The dates are in the 1930s, so it's entirely possible that this part was in use up until the original financial institution was bought out after being in business for almost a hundred years. The cabinet does need a good bit of TLC:

There's some places where the wood needs repaired, too, but I think once we're finished, this will be an exciting piece to own! I can't wait to get started on it!!

Also from the depths of the old bank vault:

A step stool for reaching the higher shelves. This also needs some sprucing up, but it, too, will be a really nice piece once it's repaired.

There were dozens and dozens of old ledgers both in the vault and just stacked in the basement, some dating as far back as the bank's inception in the 1860s. Everything paper found inside the vault will be shredded, as it has mildew throughout. But some of the old books in other parts of the basement were salvageable:

This small one serves a dual purpose. The front section, as indicated by the front flyleaf, is a list of who owns stock in the bank and how many shares they have. I've searched for the word "apepment" in both regular and financial dictionaries, to no avail. I'm assuming it means distribution or ownership, but I'll keep looking for an actual definition. Notice the date -- July 28, 1863.

The back section of that ledger is an accounting of bank notes issued and destroyed, including dates and denominations.

The medium-sized ledger is a book of transient deposits, beginning with the date 1867.

Love the fancy pensmanship!

The biggest ledger is in the best shape, probably because it's the newest. The first date is April 15, 1943.

It's a receipt book of stock sales. Again, I love the signature!

He could have taught his successor how to write. Things got a bit sloppy in 1950!

There was also a very large, very heavy leather and corduroy binder:

The leather needs cleaned, but the embossing on the side is still crisp and really nice.

The rings of the binder open with a key. No, unfortunately we don't have it.

I also picked up an old empty coin box. They don't ship coin like this anymore!

So, those are all my new "finds." It looks like I have some work to do, but I'll definitely post photos of the cubbyhole cabinet once I get it finished.

And I must report that Yazzer, while impressed with the wealth of bank antiques brought into his home, was nonetheless disappointed none of them were edible. Poor puppy!

Sepia Saturday #97

2011-10-23T04:56:00.004-04:00

THERE'S ONE IN EVERY CROWD

Happy Sepia Saturday! ... er ... Sunday! ... uh ... Saturunday!!

Alan's prompt this week was a wonderful photo of some Irish schoolchildren being adorably candid and child-like, with quite a few of them looking everywhere BUT at the camera.

It immediately brought to mind this photo:
This charming group of clowns is part of a May Day celebration in my hometown, dated 1956. Notice some of the clowns are smiling, some have their arms crossed in a tough guy stance, almost all of them are looking at the camera, and all the little clowns have their faces painted. Well, all except one, back row, second from right. Yes, one lone clown apparently defied conformity and decided she wasn't going to participate like all her classmates. Like I said, there's one in every crowd.

Because it's turning cold here, I'll veer off away from children and follow the path to a warmer theme ...

The celebration of May Day on or close to May 1 was a tradition in my home school district for many years. There was a theme each year, with events for elementary, junior high and high school students. There was even a May Day Queen, chosen from the junior class, and her court. This photo is from our high school's 1939 yearbook, and the queen was a classmate of my mother's. In later years, the girls had male escorts, decked out in tuxedos, selected by the teachers.

And what would a May Day celebration be without a May Pole? I have no idea what you had to do to be selected for this ritual. Note the bare feet, although I don't see any Beltane fires burning in the school gym. While the celebration of May Day is an ancient tradition in many parts of the world (May 1 was actually considered the first day of summer, which made the summer solstice, June 21, mid-summer) the practice died out in the 1960s here where I live.

Now I'm off to check out the rest of the Sepia Saturunday participants. Come join me by clicking HERE!

Oh, one more thing ... that defiant little clown, the one who didn't want her face painted? That's my sister! And yes, she still acts that way. Shhhh ... don't tell her I said that.

Sepia Saturday #95

2011-10-09T09:49:00.001-04:00

(I guess I'm going to have to start calling these "Sepia Sundays" since I keep posting a day too late!)

A BANNER TOPIC

Alan's photo prompt for this week's Sepia Saturday was reminiscent of suffragettes and parades, and we were invited to select a theme. I chose the theme of "banners," and in so doing I offer the following:

The Chamberlin Building in Lewisburg, PA circa 1910. The banners and other patriotic decorations are to celebrate an I.O.O.F. convention. Two different stores occupied the commercial space in the "Iron Front Building" as pictured here, a general store on the left and a shoe store on the right. Built in 1855, the building, with a cast iron over brick facade, was also home to the Independent Order of Oddfellows, the Red Cross, county welfare, a hardware store and an electrical supply store. The building still stands today and is on the National Register.

In the next block, more buildings are decorated in a similar fashion, although the photo is undated. From the left: a grocery store, hardware store, pharmacy, and a dry goods store.

This is the Saturday News newspaper office, circa 1918, decorated to celebrate the end of WWI. The paper was owned by Benjamin Focht, who served as both a PA State legislator and as a US Representative. Given the relative size of his banner, it would seem politicians were ostentatious back then, too!

And finally ...
The Banner Store! Built in 1835, it housed, in its lifetime, the above dry goods store, a jewelry store and a drug store, among others. I remember it being a men's clothing store where my father often purchased clothing and accessories, long before the advent of mega-huge shopping malls and the internet.

For more variations on a Sepia Saturday theme, clicky ==>> HERE!!

**Photo of the Chamberlin Building is part of a private collection. Photo of Market Street buildings is in the Packwood House Museum collection. The Saturday News and the Banner Store photos are from the Union County Historical Society collection. Information about the buildings is from the book "Lewisburg" by Marion Lois Huffines and Richard A Sauers, part of the Images of America series by Arcadia Publishing. Buy the book here. It's fabulous, as are other books in the Images of America series.

Sepia Saturday #94

2011-10-02T06:14:00.000-04:00

"Willing Hands to Save"

Grabbing onto the theme of 'horses' from Alan's photo prompt, I decided to share the story of William Cameron's Silsby Steamer.

William Cameron was born in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania in 1795, the oldest of eight children. The family moved to Lewisburg, PA in 1810. During his lifetime, William served in the War of 1812, was Justice of the Peace, had a dry goods business, and then started the Lewisburg Savings Institution, which eventually became the Lewisburg National Bank. The bank was run out of William's home for 34 years before acquiring its own building. While William was well-known locally in his own right, his brother, Simon, had a claim to national fame, as he had served as a Pennsylvania Senator, as Lincoln's Secretary of War from 1861-1862, and then as Ambassador to Russia from 1862-1865.

Needless to say, William was a very wealthy man. In February 1874, he gifted the town of Lewisburg with a much-needed piece of fire equipment -- the Silsby Steamer.

Purchased from the Silsby Manufacturing Company of Seneca Falls, NY, the horse-drawn Steamer was a coal-fired water pump able to build enough pressure to shoot water 175 feet over the spire of the Baptist Church, and was delivered along with 2,500 feet of hose and three hose carriages for the then-impressive sum of $10,000. A parade was formed the day of delivery which started at the firehouse and included the Lewisburg Silver Cornet Band (I wish I had a photo of that!), the newly appointed Chief Engineer Samuel D. Bates, the Steamer itself and all its accoutrements, and "Little Valiant," the old hand-cranked pump which tried its best to serve the community but was now a broken relic. The parade, with over 1,000 spectators and participants, ended up at Squire Cameron's house, where he made the following speech:

Gentlemen of the town council of the borough of Lewisburg - I am happy to present to you for the citizens of Lewisburg the steam fire engine, hose carriages and hose now before you. And let me say to you, this is not the first time I have thought of making some gift to the Boro of Lewisburg. I had intended making an entirely different one; but when I saw the steam fire engine exhibited here a few weeks ago, and found the people were so strongly in favor of council purchasing one like it, the idea struck my mind that here was an opportunity to make a gift which would give more real pleasure or lasting benefit than a steam fire engine and the necessary accompaniments.

From the large outpouring of the people on this occasion and the very many expressions of kindness, I believe the people are satisfied, and my heart is rejoiced to feel that this is the case.

If in the future I am the humble means, through this gift of saving a single tenement of a poor family in or about Lewisburg, I will feel extremely thankful. I now turn over the steam engine and the accompanying apparatus to the town council to keep as the property of the citizens of Lewisburg.

In return, the town renamed the fire company the William Cameron Engine Company. William died three years later, in September 1877.

Although not uncommon to see horses on the streets of Lewisburg well into the 1930s, the Silsby Steamer was finally retired from service in 1932, a 58-year veteran of the fire company. Pictured above is the next generation of fire equipment to serve the community. Notice the double doors on the front of the building have been replaced with a single, wider door to accommodate the larger engines, and the original wooden floor was replaced with poured concrete. This firehouse was eventually torn down in the 1960s along with the residence beside it, and a newer, larger firehouse was built at the engine company's present location. The old property is now a municipal parking lot. (On a personal side note, the church to the very right of the picture was where I was married in 1988.)

The current building, Company 2:

Both the Silsby Steamer and its predecessor, Little Valiant, are currently on display at the WCEC's Liddick-Stephens Museum.

NOTE: The title of today's post, "Willing Hands to Save," is the motto of the William Cameron Engine Company.

**All black-and-white photos in today's post are part of the collection of the Union County Historical Society. Color photos are courtesy of the William Cameron Engine Company. William Cameron's speech along with other historical tidbits can be found on the William Cameron Engine Company's website.

For more of this week's Sepia Saturday fun, clicky RIGHT HERE!

Magpie Tales #84

2011-09-28T23:40:00.000-04:00

A beautiful prompt. As always, many thanks to Tess for feeding our Muses. She is a gem!

A CLEANSING RAIN

You just don't get it, do you? The most important people in my life are in that room!

The most important people in my life ...

The most important people ...

The most important people ...

His words echoed in my mind, drowning out all other thoughts, save one -- GET OUT! The rising bile in my throat made the decision for me, and I fled, desperate for fresh air and a clear, quiet head. I vaguely heard the valet ask if I wanted him to call a cab as he held the door for me, but I didn't stop to acknowledge him. I wasn't stopping for anything; not for a cab, not for my wrap, not even for Geoff. Not that he tried to stop me.

The light mist that had accompanied us to the party had changed into a driving rain, but I didn't care. It certainly wouldn't be the first time I'd walked in the rain -- or danced, or splashed in puddles -- and I hoped it wouldn't be my last. Like Cinderella, I paused on the front steps of the mansion to kick off my uncomfortable strappy shoes, leaving them behind for one of those wretched partygoers to find and wonder about, then walked on tiptoe until I reached the cool, wet grass. With a sigh of relief, I took off across the lawn, relishing my freedom from the suffocating evening while at the same time trying desperately not to cry.

Damn him! Damn him and his stuffed shirts and his rigid agendas and his making me fall in love with him against my better judgment. I'd given him a year of my life, twelve months devoted to him, at the expense of others whom I held dear, time unable to be reclaimed. 365 days, give or take, of getting to know each other and changing and adapting our lifestyles to the other person's. Only it seems that I had been the one doing all the changing. I could kick myself for being so short-sighted, for allowing him to slowly but surely take little pieces of me that he didn't find suitable and banish them as if they -- the real Me -- never existed.

I reached the edge of the woods which bordered the Woolsey's property and hesitated, then noticed the well-worn trail, took a deep breath and set off under the dark, leafy canopy. There certainly couldn't be anything scarier living in the trees than that which lived in the resplendent house I'd left behind. Adam Woolsey was a formidable attorney and head of the largest law firm in the four-county region. According to rumor, it was expected that he would ask Geoff to be a partner this evening. If I hadn't spoiled it for him, that is. I walked faster. What did I care if his evening was ruined? My life was ruined because of him.

A bit melodramatic, yes. But, I argued with myself, he used me! And what angered me even more is that I allowed it to happen. Against all reason (because opposites really do attract), against the polite warnings of my friends, even against my own niggling feelings of doubt, I allowed myself to be manipulated and used; I willingly surrendered myself to be sacrificed on the alter of Geoff's Agenda. I had no one else to blame but me.

I slowed my walk, winded, my anger suddenly dissolved. The rain had gentled, and I undid the complicated, salon-crafted updo for which I'd spent hours being combed, teased, curled, pinned, twisted, gelled and sprayed. At the time, I'd been appalled at the extravagance, but now the wasted money was irrelevant. It felt good to let my hair down, to feel the soft raindrops tickle my scalp and wash away all the product which transformed me into someone I'm not. The tears which had threatened their own escape along with mine now fell freely, mingling with the rivulets of rain on my cheeks.

Oh, Geoff.

I'd met him almost exactly a year ago when he'd come into the bookstore where I worked part-time; a tall, handsome man in a polo shirt and jeans so new they still had a crease in them. I'd been setting up a display of new arrivals and he'd been looking for a thank you gift for a former professor of his. We'd hit it off immediately. He'd found me quirky and irreverent and refreshingly unlike any woman he'd ever met. I'd thought he was charming and intelligent and ... sturdy. There was something incredibly appealing about a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had set about systematically striving toward his goal. Besides, there had been a decided lack of sturdiness in my life. What I hadn't realized at the time, though, was that while he had liked and maybe even envied my free-spirited attitude, there was no room for 'quirky' and 'irreverent' on his sturdy agenda.

We'd begun dating with my friends, going out for pizza and indie movies and very bad late-night bowling. He didn't exactly fit in, but my friends had been welcoming and non-judgmental, if not a little surprised. Over time, however, we'd seen less and less of them, and had spent more time with his friends, meeting them for drinks or going for dinner at any number of trendy dining spots around the city. At first, his friends had included me in their conversations, but they'd seemed more amused than impressed by me, and their tone when addressing me had been patronizing more often than not. I'd chalked it up to the newness of our relationship, but as time had gone on things didn't improve. Geoff's friends may have included me, but they'd never accepted me, while mine no longer bothered to call.

This should have served as enough of a warning, but I'd been too far gone to listen. Ignored, too, were the red flags when he'd started buying me clothes and encouraging me to get rid of my thrift store apparel. I prided myself on my low-budget shopping skills and on being able to have fun with fashion. I really didn't care what was 'in' so long as I was comfortable and I liked it. But Geoff had seemed a bit embarrassed when some of my clothes had drawn attention to me -- to us. So he'd started dressing me, revamping my wardrobe like I was his own personal Barbie doll.

He'd also found me a job at an art gallery. I'd balked at first, but it paid almost three times what I was making at the bookstore, so I could hardly refuse. He had actually used the word 'respectable' in reference to the gallery job. Perhaps that's why I'd resisted so; to me, nothing was more satisfying than working with a book. But I had a student loan to pay, and a broken down car, so I had reluctantly taken the job, grateful that at least he cared enough to look out for my best interests.

And here we were, a year later. Some days, I barely recognized myself, but I'd convinced myself that Geoff and I were happy and that we belonged together. Sure, I missed my old life, my friends, the bookstore. I missed laughing -- it seemed I didn't do a lot of that anymore -- and pizza and bowling. People in his crowd didn't bowl.

When Geoff had asked me to accompany him tonight for what would undoubtedly be a defining moment in his career, he'd handed me his credit card and told me to buy something spectacular. I'd taken it to heart. But instead of visiting one of those upscale boutiques he seemed so eager for me to frequent, I'd returned to my old haunts: the thrift stores and consignment shops on my side of town. I'd been thrilled to find a vintage gown with matching opera gloves in a blue so blue it was almost black. It fit me beautifully, and I'd spent only a fraction of what Geoff was expecting. A year ago, I'd have considered wearing my red Chuck Jones with it, but I decided to behave and bought a pair of matching navy sandals instead.

I could hear the rush of water as I entered a clearing in the woods. Moonglow filtered through the thinning clouds revealing a stream, its banks swollen to overflowing with many days' worth of rain. I was tired, exhausted physically and emotionally, and I wiped the water from my face only to have the tears surge again as I recalled what a fool I'd been.

The party had been very prim and very proper, the attendees very fashionable and polished, and although I'd felt woefully out of place, I'd been proud to be his escort. He was a rising star and this was to be his night. He'd not commented on the dress, had never even glanced up from his Blackberry when I'd gotten in the firm's limo, but I hadn't really expected him to. He'd stopped telling me I was beautiful when the laughter and the spontaneity had faded away, but I'd gotten used to his emotional distance. This had merely been more of the same.

I'd known he'd been under enormous pressure during the weeks leading up to this party, and it had been obvious that he had other things -- other than me, that is -- on his mind tonight: shaking the right hands, saying the right things, making the right impression. He'd forgotten to introduce me as we'd mixed and mingled, but I'd forgiven him; I wouldn't have remembered all the names anyway. When we finally had a moment alone, he'd sighed deeply and I decided that I desperately wanted to see him smile, just once, just for me.

Of course, that's when the evening fell apart.

It was a game we'd played when we'd first met, where we'd pick a stranger out of a crowd and try to guess things about them, each of us trying to top the other with our outlandish suppositions. I moved to stand directly behind him, leaning into his back so that I could whisper in his ear in a voice that he, and only he, could hear.

"Adam Woolsey wears pink ruffled boxers."

He froze, his glass half way to his lips. But when he turned around to look at me, the smile I'd been hoping for was instead a murderous glare. He placed his glass on the nearest table and grabbed me by the upper arm, dragging me into an unoccupied hallway.

"Ouch! Geoff, you're hurting me!"

"Keep your voice down!" He released me with a shove. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I was stunned. "What are you so upset about?"

"You know this night could make or break my future."

"I was just trying to make you smile."

"By insulting my boss?" He spit his accusation out through gritted teeth and his eyes were so cold that I shivered involuntarily.

"It was just the Stranger Game, Geoff, that's all. I wasn't trying to insult anyone. You seemed so tense, I wanted ..."

He cut me off. "This isn't a game, Lydia. When are you going to grow up, huh? When are you going to stop acting like the world is one big playground and you can just say whatever comes to mind whenever you feel like it, without consequence?"

"I'm sorry! It was a joke!"

"A joke? I don't need a joke. I need you to be serious. Can't you ever be serious?"

"Don't be stupid! Of course, I can be serious!"

"I'm being stupid??" He was practically yelling now, drawing some unwanted attention from the other room. "I'm not the one making inappropriate comments!"

"Fine. I ... I'm sorry! "

He didn't acknowledge my apology as he ran his hand back through his hair in exasperation. "Unbelievable. You just don't get it, do you?" Geoff pointed behind him. "The most important people in my life are in that room!"

And just like that, my universe was shattered. He hadn't told me anything I didn't already know, or at least suspect. But with that one sentence, Geoff made me fully aware, in no uncertain terms, of who was important and who wasn't, and exactly where I stood in his life. Humiliation made my cheeks burn, and I felt like a traitor -- to myself, to my friends, and to everything I'd given up in the name of love.

That's when I ran.

My tears were spent. On a whim, I carefully climbed up onto a large rock overlooking the stream and spread my arms wide, my face lifted skyward. I lost track of time as I stood there, allowing the rain to wash away the hurt and the shame and the anger, feeling it cleanse my soul. A raven had been circling overheard as I'd walked and I heard it alight nearby. My superstitious grandmother had always told me that ravens were the harbingers of death and that seeing one meant that someone close to you was going to die. In a way, I guess she was right; the person I had become died tonight, along with my relationship with Geoff.

But out of the ashes of death arises new life. The rain slowly lightened to a drizzle, and I lowered my arms and opened my eyes with a new resolve. In the morning, I would call around to all the bookstores and see if there were any openings, then I would call the art gallery and resign regardless. Next I planned to call all my friends, one by one, to seek their forgiveness. If I was lucky, they would let me back into their lives. Finally, I would dig out the box with my old clothes, my thrift store treasures which, unbeknownst to Geoff, I never quite got around to throwing out. Instead, I would fill the box with all the clothes he bought me to make me respectable and donate it to Goodwill.

My gown wouldn't be going in the box; it was ruined, but I didn't care. I peeled the gloves off my arms and tossed them into the swiftly flowing water, startling the raven into flight. I watched the gloves float away downstream and then, with a heavy sigh, I climbed back down off the rock and headed down the path toward the main road and home. My broken heart wouldn't mend overnight, but tonight taught me a valuable lesson, and I had taken the first step toward healing.

It was good to be me again.

For more delicious Magpie Tales, point your curser ==>>HERE and click!

A Letter to the Folks ... Ten Years Later

2011-09-24T00:56:00.005-04:00

September 24, 2011

Dear Mom & Dad ~

It's hard to believe that ten years have passed since I last saw you, since I last touched your hands or watched the evening news with you or told you I loved you. Ten years ... that's a whole decade! People write songs about decades. They give them names and assign them attributes, like time has a personality and the collective memories of those years in some way defines those of us who lived through those decades. Ten years is a long time, especially when you're talking about time spent in the absence of someone -- or two someones -- whom you hold very dear.

And yet in so many ways, it seems like only yesterday. I wasn't ready to let go of you then, and now, ten years later, I find I still haven't really let go. Oh, the tears come less frequently than they did when the pain was still fresh. I don't reach for the phone to dial your number and share my news quite as often as I used to, when the reality was momentarily forgotten. I no longer hold objects that once belonged to you and cling to them as if they are the last tangible proof that you existed.

I am tangible proof that you existed.

In the last ten years, the world has changed drastically. I often wonder how you would react to the world today, if you would be overwhelmed by technology and the speed of change. 160 cable channels, debit cards, cell phones and Facebook -- I can't begin to imagine. You saw enough war and enough hatred to last a lifetime, and still it continues. Your town has changed; the business you devoted 30+ years to no longer exists. Old friends are gone, the neighbors are no longer familiar. Even your final resting place is being encroached upon by a growing college campus and noise pollution from the traffic on an increasingly busy highway.

In the last ten years, your grandchildren grew up. They drive cars, they have jobs, they date, they go to college, they got married, they have beautiful children of their own. They are doctors and engineers, they hold MBAs and PhDs, they want to publish books and teach history and build airplanes. They hunt, they fish, they play musical instruments, they act. Yes, it is undoubtedly genetic. And you'd be proud of all of them, I'm certain.

In the last ten years, I've gotten older and (I'd like to think) a little bit wiser. My hair is starting to whiten here and there, I've lost a few inches in height, my eyesight isn't what it used to be, and I've found myself uttering phrases that I swore I would never use just because you used them all those years ago. I look at old photos of aged family members from days gone by and I see myself, and you, in their faces. Sadly, in these ten years I've not become wealthy, independently or otherwise, and I'm not really even successful, at least not by conventional definition. But I'm content and that's good enough for now.

And yes, in case you were wondering, I still sing.

In closing, if I had one wish it would be that I could hug you both one more time and tell you again how much I love you. I may have spent the last ten years without you in my life, but you will always -- always -- be in my heart.

John Felmy Shaffer
October 1, 1922 - September 24, 2001

Helen Mae Royer Shaffer
May 22, 1922 - October 3, 2001

Sepia Saturday #86

2011-08-06T18:51:00.008-04:00

UNDIES FOR EVERY OCCASION

This week's Sepia Saturday theme is ... well ... open to interpretation. I've decided to interpret it as "Attractions on the Water," and in light of that, I give you:

As stated in the caption, this is the Newville Knitting Mill, circa 1912. I recently purchased this photo from my local historical society for three reasons: first, as an effort to lend financial support; second, because it depicted a part of my little town of which I was ignorant (and trust me, my ignorance of local history far outweighs my knowledge, so anything I can do to tip the scale is a good thing!); and third, it really caught my attention because there's something inherently and romantically tragic about a building which no longer exists -- which means that my imagination was engaged and my curiosity wouldn't rest until I knew more.

The property had originally been the location of the McFarland Flour Mill, built in 1765, along the banks of the Big Spring. Over the years, the mill changed hands and changed production focus -- sometime in the 1800s it became a paper mill, and then was sold in 1898 to eventually become the knitting mill.

Gilbert Ernest Swope (pictured below) was one of the original owners and the treasurer of the Newville Knitting Company, which opened for business in March 1907. It had 35 knitting machines and 75 sewing machines, employed 80-100 girls and made ladies underwear and "half hose." Sadly, like most of the industry in small towns across the country, the company went out of business and the mill was dismantled in the 1950s.

What I find really interesting about Gilbert Swope is that he seems to be more than just the average businessman of the times. He started out as a pharmacist and had his own druggist business in town, then helped found the knitting mill. But his passion, like so many of us, was genealogy. He authored several books of local history, including A History of the Swope Family and Their Connections 1678 - 1896 and A History of the Big Spring Presbyterian Church 1737-1898.

I wonder if the historical society has any of those knickers in their collection?

Thanks to Tattered and Lost for reminding me about this great commercial. It says it all:

For more Sepia Saturday thematic interpretations, clicky ==>> HERE!

Magpie Tales #75

2011-07-28T17:22:00.008-04:00

As always, much admiration and many thanks to Tess for willingly tempting our Muses with such lovelies.

No Options

The plush carpet in the hallway absorbs the sounds of your footfalls, adding credence to the surreal impression that you aren't actually here. In truth, you wish you weren't. This building has always intimidated you, with its stylishly suited attorneys and judges speaking in hushed tones, their law clerks scurrying along behind as they rush about in corridors of polished wood and shiny brass. The carefully controlled climate is just this side of chill and goosebumps rise on your arms under the sleeves of the jacket you only ever wear to weddings and funerals, even as the sweat starts to gather under your collar. No matter how well you dress, no matter if you've just had your hair done or your nails polished or if you've just finished reading the latest bestseller, you always feel like a lesser version of yourself when you're in this place. Less attractive, less smart, less relevant. Less.

You're early, a trait you've always prided yourself on. Conference Room 4B is ahead and you look around, hoping to find a bench upon which you can sit and wait. There is none, but you're not really disappointed; it's unlikely you would have sat still for long, anyway, as you're too nervous, too tense. Instead, you pace the hallway, studying the artwork that graces the walls. Most of the frames contain uninspiring landscapes or portraits of long-dead partners. Until you reach the end of the corridor, that is, for there by the stairwell is a simple framed poster. "Cycles Sirius." Despite the gravity of the situation and the day, the poster makes you smile.

It reminds you of the posters that used to hang on the side of the boarded-up warehouse which sat just across the railroad tracks separating your childhood neighborhood from the seedier side of town. The posters were faded from years of weather and the edges were ripped and curling, but they provided infinite fodder for your overactive imagination.

Many an evening was spent sitting cross-legged on the dry, patchy grass staring at the posters. The circus ones were your favorites, with lions and elephants and pretty girls with feathers in their hair riding horses barebacked. The circus hadn't come to your town for years, not since The Trouble which your parents refused to discuss in front of you, but which Jimmy Rooney said involved his cousin Trudy and one of the circus hands and a baby. You didn't care about that, anyway; you were too busy imagining yourself in a sequined leotard and a feather boa performing stunts high up on the back of an elephant. You wanted to travel and see the world -- Barcelona and Tunis and Istanbul -- just like the circus posters advertised: "Straight from the Halls of Royalty!" You knew that, given the chance, someday you would be as famous as Miss Esmerelda the Gypsy Fortuneteller, or Mervin and Irvin the Lion Taming Twins. You would be friends to dukes and maharajahs, and be gifted with jewels and furs. People would shout your name as the circus paraded through the streets of far-off lands, then stand in line for tickets to eat roasted peanuts out of red-and-white-striped paper bags while they ooohed and aaahed at your performance.

Several times you threatened to leave, to run away and join the circus and wouldn't everyone be sorry then? But your parents ignored you, just as thoroughly as they ignored each other, and your little brother cried because you refused to take him with you. Jimmy Rooney only laughed at you, knowing you'd never really do it because you were too chicken.

Your hand reaches out, tentatively, to touch the poster, but stops mid-air. Running away wasn't really an option then, and isn't really an option now, despite its appeal. You have very few options, now. Oh, to be so young and naive and innocent, to think that joining the traveling show would solve all your problems and make you the happiest and most loved person in the world. Your smile fades slowly as you sigh and drop your hand. If only it were that easy.

You feel his presence and smell his cheap after shave before his voice tickles your ear. "There you are. You ready?"

Your solitude broken, you turn to your attorney and nod silently. You're as ready as you can be, all things considered. He smiles at you, and you marvel that his tie is straight, for once, and it looks like he's wearing a new shirt. He must realize the import of the day. Over his shoulder, you see more attorneys in expensive pinstripe suits, a whole team assembled and paid for just to make your life a living hell. They shield their client with expertise, so well that you can barely see the very top of his head. But you don't really want to see him. You've seen enough of him to last a lifetime.

The door to Conference Room 4B opens and a secretary with pinched lips and a pencil-thin skirt glides out. She turns your way and you wonder if she was born with that look of haughty disdain or if it was something she learned in the steno pool. "Mr. Rooney, Mrs. Eastman."

Jimmy cups your elbow. You give the poster one more furtive, fleeting look before dropping your eyes to the plush carpet and allowing him to guide you reluctantly through the door to your metaphorical doom.

For more Magpie Tales, clicky ==> HERE!

A Lack of Modern Conveniences

2011-07-26T19:06:00.013-04:00

Like many places across the US, it was hot here last week. Incredibly hot. Brutally hot. The kind of heat that clings to you relentlessly, suffocatingly, like a too-tight turtleneck sweater. 120 degrees Fahrenheit on the blistered, molten pavement makes the phrase "hot enough to fry an egg" more reality than hyperbole. We didn't have the worst of it, either, as there were others who suffered far hotter temperatures than we did. And (joy!) there's more hot weather to come.

Living in an old log home has many advantages, one of which being the cooler environment the logs maintain. Until the dreaded Dog Days of Summer, that is, when day after day of the Three Hs (hazy, hot and humid) make this old house more like an oven. Since we also live without the modern convenience of air conditioning, each new day is an exercise in creative cooling techniques. Lots of ice, lots of outdoor grilling and lots of fans are what keep us sane as we slog through the heart and the heat of the summer.

My favorite cooling appliance:

This is my trusty desk fan. It's in surprisingly good shape given its advanced age, the specifics of which are anybody's guess. True, it no longer oscillates and sometimes it makes an odd creaking sound when it's first turned on, but it hasn't failed me yet. As I write this, the quietly whirring blades are pulling the evening air off the cooling grass through the single window of my office, making me comfortable, at least from the waist up.

I once read an article on similar antique fans in a past issue of Country Living magazine. I never realized these old appliances had heirloom value or appeal, nor had I ever considered my little blue friend a vintage collectible, but I do know that it has worth to me above and beyond any value derived on the antique market. This fan originally belonged to my parents, (again, the details are long forgotten) and it came into my possession because, sentimental sap that I am, nobody else wanted it and I couldn't bring myself to banish it to the auction pile or worse, the trash bin. I had an unexplained fondness for the old dear. It had been a constant summer fixture in our house for as long as I can remember. So to me, this fan symbolizes the lost summers of my youth, and oftentimes using it brings back snippets of summers past which I'd long forgotten:

~~ The timelessness of summer days, when the three months between the end of one school year and the beginning of another seemed to stretch on indefinitely;

~~ The scrape of the bricks on the back of my legs as I sat on the porch steps watching the column of ants march from their hills between the cracks of the sidewalk to the edge of the grass while the fudgesicle dripped through my fingers;

~~ The prickly jabs of the grass as I lay under the giant sugar maple in the side yard and watched the birds in the branches above me;

~~ The sun slowly shifting to the front of the house as the day progressed, leaving my bedroom cool and quiet in its wake. My mother would lay down to rest in the heat of the afternoon, and I would have a tea party or play with my doll house or, when I became older, listen to record albums and write in my journal;

~~ The reverberating crescendo and decrescendo of the locusts' song in the neighborhood trees, indicating the Dog Days of summer had indeed arrived;

~~ The special treat of just brewed mint iced tea, served in tall glasses with little "sweaters" and matching plastic coasters, the taste of which I've never been able to duplicate, even though I use the exact same ingredients;

~~ The smell of the freshly mowed grass and the staccato buzz of the bees in the spirea hedge as I waited impatiently for dusk so that I could catch fireflies in a jelly jar.

And accompanying all of this ... the gentle whirr of that little blue fan.

I don't think I'll ever part company with the fan. I'm sure some day the blades will cease to rotate as the motor dies and my husband will throw his hands in the air with a final, "I'm sorry. I can't fix it." Then I will give it pride of place on my shelf, a well-deserved rest for a faithful companion which brought so much comfort for so many years.

Thank you, my little blue friend. You're pretty cool.

Sepia Saturday #84

2011-07-22T18:32:00.007-04:00

You've Got A Friend ...

Today's post is on the enduring bond of friendship.

Pictured (l to r): Cameron Orner (hubby's grandfather), W* W* (Cameron's best friend), and Emory Orner (hub's great grandfather).

Hub thinks the photo was taken sometime around 1928. Cameron was born in 1903, so that would make him about 25 in the photo and Emory about 60. To me, they look younger than that, but I'm working on getting some confirmation from W*'s family, which is where this photo originated. Hub also thought the motor car was a White, but White ceased producing private cars in 1918. Finding out that piece of information may help to date the photo, too.

What I really love about this photo, and the reason I based my post today on it, is that it captures forever the start of a multi-generational friendship. Cameron and W* were friends, their children were friends (still are) and their grandchildren are friends. As a matter of fact, one of W*'s grandsons was just at our house for a visit a few nights ago. That such a tried-and-true friendship has spanned three generations and close to century is phenomenal in today's age of transient families. Sadly, it's highly unlikely that the friendship will continue into a fourth generation, as the grandchildren are scattered and the great grandchildren range in age from 22 to 2. But wherever any of us, young or old, may venture in the future, we can take comfort in knowing that somewhere we have a good friend.

For more Sepia Saturday #84, place your cursor HERE and click!

Sepia Saturday #82

2011-07-09T07:03:00.004-04:00

For the past six days, I have had my SS #82 post planned and plotted out in my head. Spurred on by a successful genealogical endeavor last weekend, I was going to share the photos which sparked my motivation to attack the family tree with a renewed vengeance and elaborate, in vivid detail, how the brick wall which had surrounded the lineage of my great great grandmother, Emaline Bowersox Smith, had come crashing down in one fell swoop.

And then I saw Alan's SS #82 archival photo -- Union Station, Chicago, 1943.

My plans fell by the wayside. When I realized what day today was, coupled with the year of that photo, I knew what my Sepia Saturday post had to be about.

On this day, July 9, in the year 1943, my parents were celebrating their first wedding anniversary. And sadly, they were celebrating like many young couples were that year -- they were celebrating away from home. My father had enlisted in the army the previous December and, as a member of the 474th AAA AW Battalion (SP), he was now moving from army camp to army camp, learning how to be a soldier and preparing for war in Europe.
(l to r) Dick Barcomb, Johnny Shaffer (my dad), Charlie "Hoffie" Hoffman and Joe Swaim
The army wives left their families behind to follow them, renting apartments and finding jobs wherever the boys camped, only to uproot themselves a few months later and do it all over again.
Helen Shaffer (my mom) and Elizabeth Barcomb at the window
On June 23, 1943, the 474th had left New Bedford, MA and headed south to Tennessee. My father never had too much to say about the experience, but when my mother recalled the "camp years," she always complained about that particular move. It was her least favorite of all the places they camped. Tennessee in the summer was hot (still is) and sticky humid (still is). The train ride was long and crowded and poorly ventilated. There was no air conditioning and the girls lived on a shoestring budget. But the wives were young and had each other, which made it a bearable adventure.
(l to r) Helen Shaffer, Lucy Swaim, Janet Hoffman and Elizabeth Barcomb
I have no idea if my father got leave in order to celebrate the day, that first anniversary, with my mother. But on this day, what would have been their 69th wedding anniversary, I like to think they're honoring their union together in a better place, one that isn't subject to the foibles of unpredictable summer weather or underfunded public transportation systems.

Happy anniversary! I miss you both.

For more strolls through the past, clicky right there ==>> Sepia Saturday #82

Sepia Saturday #80

2011-06-25T07:59:00.009-04:00

"There's a mill in our town ..."

That was the phrase that immediately danced through my mind as a college freshman upon my initial visit to the small rural community which I would eventually come to call home. The year was 1983. Thornton Wilder's "Our Town" had been the university drama offering that fall, and I was on my way to my future sister-in-law's house for a home-cooked Sunday dinner when we passed by the little town's oldest and most well-known landmark: a gristmill.

Laughlin's Mill circa 1900

William Laughlin built the gristmill on the banks of the Big Spring around 1763. At that time, Cumberland County, Pennsylvania was on the extreme edge of the colonial frontier and the settlers' relations with the natives were strained, at best. The early colonists hadn't been overly fond of the corn flour which the Native Americans ground, so they'd chosen to bring wheat, rye and other cereal grains with them when they came to the New World. Mr. Laughlin provided a much-needed service for an agrarian population, building his mill with a dam which had a six-and-a-half foot head. This provided power equivalent to fifteen horses to turn the waterwheel and operate the grindstone.

Laughlin's Mill sometime after 1916

It wasn't long before Laughlin had competition. By 1770, there were three gristmills on the Big Spring; by 1784, there were five. A century later, two of those competitors were refitted with rollers which milled flour faster and more efficiently. Nonetheless, Laughlin's Mill continued to be operated by the next three generations of family, until 1896.

Laughlin's Mill circa 1950

In 1896, the Laughlin family sold the mill to the town's water company, which removed the internal milling machinery and replaced it with a water-driven turbine. The power generated from the turbine was used to drive the hydraulic pumps which fed the town's water mains.

Laughlin's Mill today

In 1916 the original look of the mill was restored by private funding. More recently, the water wheel was restored with the help of high school faculty and students.

For more Sepia Saturday #80 fun, click ==> HERE!

Passing into History

2011-03-02T08:58:00.009-05:00

I was both surprised and saddened to see this headline in the NY Times this week:

Frank Buckles, Last World War I Doughboy, Is Dead at 110.

In all honesty, I wasn't even aware that there were any WWI veterans alive. But Frank was not only alive and well, he even had his own website, Frank W. Buckles: America's Last Survivor of the First World War. It's very nicely done and well worth the visit.

It also serves as a wonderful reminder of how valuable oral history and memoirs can be. Each of us holds within us a lifetime of memories that are uniquely ours, and the only way anyone else can learn from our experiences is if we share those memories. I can't tell you how many times I've kicked myself for not asking questions, either because I didn't think to, or because I didn't want to pry. Trying to piece together my father's WWII experiences based on the snippets he shared and the memories of others is frustrating and extremely incomplete. How much more would I have known had I simply asked a few gentle questions?

The charming anecdotes, the funny stories and the horrific tragedies that make up the fabric of our lives are the very things that make us real to those who come after us. The serious lady in the faded photograph suddenly becomes the young girl who got in trouble with her father because she liked to race the horse home from church on Sunday, and the cocky lad in the varsity letter sweater has a reason to be smug because he was the fastest corn husker in the county, earning a nickel for every hundred ears he husked.

I have a customer who moves me to tears. He used to work for the railroad, but he's retired now due to severe health issues. We used to chat about this great place he likes to take his grandson fishing and how the fish are biting, but in the last year he's lost his voice to esophageal cancer and communication is difficult. I'm a poor lip reader, and his handwriting is barely legible, but he still manages to make himself understood. One day he asked me to make some copies for him, and one of those items copied was a commendation for bravery under fire in Vietnam. I confessed to having read the commendation, and he told me he served two tours in Vietnam and was shot three times, once in the posterior. I asked him which hurt worse, his pride or his backside. He laughed and pointed to his back pocket. The next day he brought in a box and slid it across the counter to me along with a note: "This isn't even half of what I have." The box was filled with medals, including his Purple Heart.

I cried, right there in the bank. Then I hugged him and thanked him for what he did.

To meet this unassuming man on the street, one would never suspect him capable of those things for which he was honored. But he has a story, an amazing story, which needs to be preserved. As do you and I, our parents and grandparents, and others of their generations.

As did Frank Buckles.

The roll has been called up yonder: All present and accounted for. At ease, Corporal. Rest in peace.

A View from the Left

2011-02-27T12:01:00.001-05:00

I read a tidbit the other day which highlighted some unusual and little-known facts about our Presidents past, and this one in particular caught my eye:

President James Garfield could write in Greek with one hand and in Latin with the other ... simultaneously.

He must have been very entertaining at State Dinners. Aside from the fact that, unless you were a Classical scholar, you undoubtedly couldn't read what he was writing anyway, just the ability to perform such multi-tasking is admirable. (I tried it -- I couldn't even write my name!) The article also went on to reveal that four of our last seven presidents were left-handed, including our current Commander-in-Chief.

The question of handedness is one I find interesting. I am actually cross dominant, which means I perform certain tasks with one hand and certain tasks with the other. But since I write with my left hand, I have always considered myself a southpaw. I'm even drinking my morning coffee out of a Boynton mug declaring my allegiance:

Left-handedness has long carried with it negative connotations. The word "sinister" comes from the Latin "sinistra," which means left. We've all heard the tales of American teachers in the past correcting the left-handedness of their pupils. In India and Indonesia, it is considered extremely impolite to use your left hand for anything but "toilet duties." And how many times have you heard someone reference a left-handed compliment, which is poor excuse for praise?

I've even had customers mention my left-handedness. Several have pointed out that I write with the wrong hand. Others marvel that I can write without twisting my hand around above what I'm writing. But my favorite so far was the businessman who came in and handed me a deposit. The checks and cash were mixed up together, requiring me to sort them out. His apology? "Sorry about that. She [his secretary] is left-handed."

Uh...

Right.

Anyway, I felt the need to spotlight some of my favorite famous lefties. (Oh, by the way, it's a myth that lefties are more creative than "normal" people. Creativity requires both sides of the brain.)

Jimi Hendrix:

Sergey Rachmaninov:

Albert King:

Judy Garland:

Sepia Saturday #63

2011-02-26T07:44:00.005-05:00

Today's post was going to be on the deceptiveness of age in photos and how I am such a very bad judge of it. (Please don't ever ask me to guess how old you are -- you will be disturbingly disappointed.) I was almost completed with the post, actually, when I happened to see another photo which not only made my "How old is this photo really?" post unnecessary, but also gave me a "Hey, would you look at that!" moment.

Make sense? Doesn't have to. I haven't had my morning coffee yet and I'm just rambling. On to the photos:

This (I believe) is my uncle, William Shaffer, born 1920. It's a wonder the poor boy doesn't slide off that chair, but then he's so strait-jacketed in that outfit I doubt he can move. In my original post, I questioned the true age and identity of the photo. There is another William Shaffer in the family tree, my great grandfather, born 1861. Simply armed with that information alone, and being somewhat ignorant of infant clothing styles of the various periods, I wondered which William this really was.

And then I ran across this photo:

If I'm not mistaken, these young ladies are my grandmother's two little sisters -- Mary, born 1907, and Ida, born 1911 -- which would make this photo circa 1912. What caught my eye about it was that chair ... and the I-Wanna-Be-A-Bearskin-Rug covering on it ... and the sheet hanging behind the children, with the stripes in exactly the same place.

Logic dictates that it's more conceivable the same background/setting would be used within eight years of each other as opposed to fifty years of each other, which means the first photo is more likely my uncle than my great grandfather.

That's part of the appeal of genealogical research for me ... it's a lot like solving a mystery.

To see what the rest of the Sepia Saturdayers have discovered, hop on over to the Sepia Saturday blog by clicking right ==> HERE!

Sepia Saturday #62

2011-02-19T07:31:00.007-05:00

Happy Saturday, all! I have something exciting to share, but first:

My apologies. I have no bike photos! Will other wheels do? Here's my parents, and I think they're on their honeymoon:

No clue where they went, although Washington D.C. sticks in my mind as a possibility. Maybe they rode bikes while they were there. I love Dad's shoes ... very stylish! They almost match Mom's perfectly. I'm fairly positive the car was my grandfather's. Mom and Dad were married five months before Dad was inducted, and I don't think they owned a car.

UPDATE ON SEPIA SATURDAY #61: Nothing. I have never run into a more effective dead end in my life. The family member who owns the photograph reassured me that Emaline Bowersox Smith was indeed the name on the back of the photo and that it was written in my Grandmother's handwriting, along with the words, "Grandma Felmy's mother." At least I know I was on the right side of the family tree. There is one reference to an Emaline Bowersox in the 1860 census. She's 16 at the time, which would be about right, but nothing else can I find on her.

However, there is an upside to this rather frustrating search. As I was combing the postings from cemeteries in Snyder County, PA, I ran across this exciting little gem:

"Felmy, Harrie M., s/o Franklin & Mary M., May 27, 1885-Oct. 5, 1886; 1 y., 4 m., 9 d. II Kings 4:31."

It would appear that my grandmother had an older brother, a firstborn, who died in infancy. I never knew of him, and I have to wonder if my father did. Sad, but very, very interesting, huh?

For more yummy Sepia Saturday goodness, put your cursor ==>HERE<== and press the button.

Sepia Saturday #61: Trying to Unravel the Mystery

2011-02-12T12:19:00.005-05:00

On this Sepia Saturday, I've decided to spend some time using my Ancestry.com membership in an attempt to find any information I can about this woman:

I believe her name is Emaline Bowersox Smith, and I think she would be my great great grandmother. I don't have the original photo in my possession; this is a scan I made about six years ago from another family member's collection. I can't remember if the name was on the photograph, or whether this is merely an assumption on my part. The original photo was extremely faded and yellowed with age, which makes it difficult to see her facial features clearly.

What I find fascinating about her is her clothing style. It seems unusual, at least in my very limited experience, to see a formal portrait this old taken with a young woman in short sleeves. Even more fascinating is her jewelry, especially the matching cuff bracelets. My mother and a few other family members thought she was of Native American descent, but I have no evidence to suggest that. Honestly, I'm not even certain I'm searching on the right side of the family tree!

Wish me luck!

To plumb the depths of history further, clicky ==> HERE for more Sepia Saturday posts.

Sepia Saturday #57

2011-01-15T12:42:00.004-05:00

This week, my little town in Central Pennsylvania finally got some measurable snowfall. While I personally would have preferred a bit of the white fluffy stuff around Christmas, it nonetheless made for a pretty landscape and infinite traffic problems. Snow-covered roads are a hassle for modern society, as most people have to drive many miles just to accomplish their daily tasks. Which reminded me of an old photo ...

This is my grandfather, John Samuel Shaffer, with his dad's horse and buggy, circa 1915. I have to wonder if this was a more efficient, safer mode of transportation in the snow. Did the buggy slip and slide behind the horse? Did it have decent traction? Did they clear roads of snow back then?

For more photographic forays into the past, click ==>HERE!

Culinary Success in the New Year

2011-01-09T15:30:00.006-05:00

It is my fervent desire that, when my hubby and I finally move out of this money-sucking cosmetic eyesore in which we live --(Ever see "The Money Pit" with Shelley Long and Tom Hanks? Yeah, that's us.)-- that our new house has a large kitchen with oodles of workspace and room to move about. Yes, "oodles" is a legitimate design term. I heard Christopher Lowell use it years ago. While I have more usable counter space than some of my friends and family who also live in old homes, it just never seems like quite enough when there's more than one person working in the kitchen.

Nonetheless, this week we still managed to produce some credible culinary creations. Amy made her first batch of Orange Drop Cookies, a Christmas favorite that my mother-in-law has been making since my husband was a child. She didn't particularly enjoy zesting her own oranges, but the results were fabulous. Her biggest complaint, though, was the fact that they didn't last long!

Of course, Yaz patiently waited his turn for a taste ...

... which he eventually got. Persistence does pay off!

I also tried my hand at something new from the oven ... soft pretzels! Becky and I made both plain and pizza-stuffed versions.

While I really like the idea of stuffing the pretzels, and the method for doing so was fairly easy, I didn't really like the dough recipe. (Sorry, Guy!) It called for using a kitchen appliance I don't own, plus ingredients I don't have ready access to in my rural community. It didn't adapt well to my alterations, so I'll be looking for an older, more reliable recipe to play with in the near future. But they definitely made the kitchen smell good!

ORANGE DROP COOKIES
1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar
1 cup butter, softened
2 eggs
1 Tbsp grated orange peel
1 tsp vanilla
3 cups flour
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
3/4 cup buttermilk
Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs, orange peel and vanilla. Beat until fluffy. Sift together dry ingredients; add to creamed mixture,alternating with buttermilk. Beat well after each addition. Drop on greased cookie sheets. Bake at 350 degrees for 10 - 12 minutes. Ice while still warm.

Icing:
1 Tbsp orange peel
3 Tbsp orange juice
3 Tbsp butter, softened
3 cups confectioner's sugar
Combine all ingredients until smooth and spreadable.

Sepia Saturday #51

2010-11-27T07:20:00.005-05:00

GOLD: Aurum - "Shining Dawn"

Last month, my hubby and his brothers hosted a party commemorating my in-laws' 50th wedding anniversary. We managed to organize the celebration in a little over two weeks, and right up until the very last minute, due to some unexpected health concerns, we were unsure if the party would really happen or not. But the guests of honor were both healthy enough to attend and a good time was had by all!

In addition, it's my privilege to scan all of my mother-in-law's photographs so that the children and grandchildren can have digital copies. So today, I give you ...

THE WEDDING

The happy couple, Norma Jeanette Schreiber Orner and Ray Alvin Orner, October 8, 1960. (It was also Ray's 22nd birthday.) They met while square dancing at a place called Ranchland.

The wedding party. First row (l to r): Mother of the bride, Mabel Engle Schreiber; Norma Schreiber Orner; Ray Orner; mother of the groom, Caroline Bistline Orner; and father of the groom, Cameron Emory Orner. Back row (l to r): unknown man, perhaps husband to the matron of honor; matron of honor, Martha (Marty) Schreiber ____; best man, name unknown.

Cutting the cake ...

... and yes, he did ...

For more great Sepia Saturday journeys through the past, clicky ==>HERE!

Sepia Saturday #41

2010-09-18T07:55:00.004-04:00

50TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY

My husband and I, along with his brothers and their wives, are in the midst of planning a party in celebration of his parent's 50th wedding anniversary, which is on October 8. In honor of such an outstanding milestone, I thought I'd share the following photo:

The only family member I recognize in the photo is my maternal grandmother, Susie Kleckner Royer, seated at the far right in the dark dress. Obviously the stalwart bride is behind her cake, with her well-turned-out groom to her right, but I have no idea who anyone is. From the dress styles and my grandmother's apparent age, I'd place this photo in the early 1940s, if for no other reason than there's a decided lack of young people present. In 1943, my parents were traveling around the country while my father was being trained in the art of war. So I'm assuming that any cousins, grandchildren, etc. are doing the same and were unable to attend this important event.

I think every house in this era had a print of Da Vinci's Last Supper behind the dining table. I love the old-style telephone, too. Most likely a party line.

For more Sepia Saturday fun, put your cursor ==> RIGHT HERE <== and clicky!

Sepia Saturday #40

2010-09-11T10:27:00.008-04:00

SCHOOL DAYS

Here in the US, Labor Day (the last holiday of the summer) is over and school is in full swing. In honor of the new school year, today's Sepia Saturday post contains photos of family members when they were young and in school.

My mother, Helen Royer Shaffer, circa 1930 (?) on what I assume is a pony belonging to a roving photographer. From what I've read, these traveling photographers roamed neighborhoods well into the 1960s, taking photos of children. In later decades the photographers apparently provided cowboy costumes for the children to wear. Into the 1930s, the photographers made tintypes, which were faster to produce and made available for parents to purchase right on the spot. I'm not sure that's the case here -- my mother had many copies of this photo, all with their own stand-up cardboard frame. Is it possible to produce copies like that from a tintype? Did the photographers visit schools to take these photos as well?

I adore the expression on my father's face! Little Johnny looks like he's trying to be serious, but it's all he can do not to laugh. I saw this expression many times throughout my life, most often when Dad was caught being "naughty." I'm guessing that he was probably seven years old in this picture, and it's the only time I've ever seen a photo taken at a school desk. Makes me wonder if it wasn't something the teacher had done, rather than the school. Nonetheless, it's a darling photo and one I cherish.

Here's one of my grandmother, Sarah Felmy Shaffer, with her schoolmates. (She's on the far left, second row from the bottom, in the white pinafore.) She looks to be about nine years old in the photo, which would date it somewhere around 1906. I'm not sure if the little girl in the first row with the white pinafore is a relative or not. I know it's not her sister, Mary; if Sarah is nine in this photo then Mary would have only been three. Plus, my grandmother's name is the only one on the back of the photo, written in my great grandmother's hand, which leads me to believe Sarah is the only one in the picture. The photo was taken by U.N. Eisenhauer in Millmont, PA.

Finally, just because it's only fair ...

Me -- first grade, 1971. The photographer made me say "pickles." I whistled when I said it.

For more great Sepia Saturday posts, clicky clicky => HERE!

Sepia Saturday #39

2010-09-04T07:35:00.004-04:00

THE FELMYS

Last week, my post centered around my great grandmother, Mary Minerva Smith Felmy, and her sister, Elizabeth Smith Benfer. This week, I'd like to focus on my great grandmother just a bit more. Although my information on her is pitifully scant, I do have a few splendid photos of her.

I have no idea exactly when this photo was taken, but based on the dress style and an estimate of her age, I'd say it was sometime in the mid to late 1880s.

This is the Felmy clan that Mary and her husband, Frank, produced. Based on the hairstyles and my grandmother's age, I'd say this was taken in the 1920s. Top row, left to right: Mary Felmy Fisher, Verna Felmy Miller, Sarah Felmy Shaffer (my grandmother). Bottom row, left to right: Franklin Felmy, Ida Felmy Herman, Mary Minerva Smith Felmy.

And finally, we return to the garden, just down the path from where Mary and Lizzie had their photo snapped. Great Grandma is wearing the same dress; perhaps that was her favorite "going to town" dress. Again, I wish I knew what year this was taken.

Another of my great grandmother's "interesting" recipes:

TEA LEAF WINE
2 quarts of leaves
1 gallon boiling water
Let stand for three days. Strain and add:
3 1/2 pounds of sugar
2 oranges
1 tablespoon yeast
white of one egg
Let stand three more days, then put in a jug

Personally, I think I'll stick with a nice pinot grigio.

For more Sepia Saturday posts, clicky => HERE

Magpie Tales #29

2010-08-29T15:25:00.002-04:00

As always, thanks to Willow for her fabulous prompt and for catering to our muses. You're wonderful!

The Anniversary Cottage

Summer was declining. Marian clutched her mug of strong coffee, the aromatic steam wafting up to tickle her nose as it mingled with the early morning scent of fading roses and loamy earth. While the first frost was still weeks away, she could already feel the change in the air; the oppressive humidity had given way almost instantly to the pleasantly warm days and need-a-sweater nights that served as a harbinger for the coming autumnal season. Not that she minded. While she enjoyed the pleasures of the summer garden, she was truly a cold weather lover. Perhaps it was the hopeless romantic in her, preferring to sit curled by the fire with a fuzzy throw and a good book. Slathering on sunscreen and brushing sand out of every place imaginable held far less appeal.

Marian smiled to herself as she propped her forearms on the wrought iron railing. She’d arrived at the small cottage the day before, to open it up, air it out, and prepare for her husband’s anticipated arrival. By the time the crunch of automobile tires on gravel reached her ears at six o’clock, there would be steaks marinating for the grill, potatoes with sweet onion gravy and fresh corn-on-the-cob from the farmer’s market. Bill would climb the steps wearily, but with eyes only for her, his duffle bag in one hand and a bottle of Allegrini Palazzo della Torre clutched in the other.

“Happy anniversary, love,” he’d greet her, and she’d watch contentedly as the worry lines on his forehead would soften, his sagging shoulders would straighten, and he’d reclaim a bit of his forgotten youth.

She could see it all in her mind’s eye. Twenty-six times they’d put aside their everyday cares and responsibilities to spend a week in each other’s arms, to become reacquainted and to reaffirm the commitment they’d made all those years ago. No one knew exactly where they went on their annual holiday. Oh, she’d described the cottage in detail to her children many times when they’d begged for a “story,” or a reminiscence of how the couple had met and eloped, but its whereabouts were a secret shared only by husband and wife.

The cottage had been a happy accident, stumbled upon after becoming lost on their honeymoon. Traveling spontaneously, with no planned route or destination, they’d found themselves on roads not detailed on the map, taking pleasure in the adventure of the unknown. As the day’s shadows lengthened, they’d eventually grown tired of driving, but since they’d left the last motel miles behind, they’d motored on. It hadn’t been until the unpaved road had led them through the trees to the picturesque dwelling and Marian had clutched Bill’s forearm in wonder that they’d considered stopping and begging shelter for the night.

It had been love at first sight.

The elderly widow who’d lived in the cottage, eager for company, had been kind enough to offer them a hot meal and a clean bed, and they’d lain awake after retiring, plotting their future and sharing the dream of owning such a charming house someday.

In payment for her warm hospitality, Bill had kept in touch with the lonely widow, and then with her daughter when the elderly woman had been moved to a nursing home after a bad fall. The cottage had been put up for sale and Bill, seized with romantic urgency, had immediately bargained to buy it, wishing to present it to Marian as a first anniversary gift.

Now on the eve of their twenty-seventh anniversary, Marian thought of the elderly widow, and of all the intervening years since their fateful meeting: more weddings, funerals, births, first days of school and Little League and job loss, boyfriends and first cars, college and hair color and anti-hypertensives. And they were still together, she and her Bill, against the odds and despite the myriad joys and sorrows encountered on their journey through life together.

A yellow butterfly flitted past, playmate in tow as the gentle hum of a bee rose from the flower bed below. She smiled again and drained the last drop of coffee from her mug before reaching for the door. It was a glorious day, and there was much to do before her husband arrived. This year, as part of their week’s activities, they had additional arrangements to make. Their daughter and her husband would be celebrating their first anniversary a few weeks hence and, as a special gift, Marian and Bill planned to offer a share in the cottage with the newlyweds in hopes that this wondrous retreat, which they dearly cherished, would continue to be a place of comfort and renewal for the next generation.

For more great Magpie Tales, click => HERE!

Sepia Saturday #38

2010-08-28T09:36:00.005-04:00

This is my great grandmother, Mary Minerva Smith Felmy, born in March 1866 in Snyder County, PA, died sometime before the 1950s. All our photographs of her suggest she was a rather severe woman, although photographs, especially older professional portraits, can be deceptive. Keepsakes and mementos from her are rare, but I consider myself fortunate that I have in my possession some of her recipes, written in her own hand.

DANDELION CORDIAL
1 quart dandelion blossoms
2 quart boiling water
3 cups sugar sirupe
2 oranges
2 lemons

Pick dandelion close to blossoms. Pour boiling water over them. Set aside until cold then strain and add sirupe, the orange and lemon, thinly sliced. Let set for at least 3 days before serving. If kept longer strain again, bottle and cork tightly.

Not sure that I'm brave enough to try this one. Maybe one of the cake recipes, baked in a "moderate" oven instead.

This is my great great aunt, Elizabeth Smith Benfer. You can definitely tell they're sisters, although I don't know how far apart in age they are. I'm also unsure if there were other siblings; this pair of sisters are the only ones I've been able to find record of so far.

Even later in life, it seems that Mary and Lizzie remained close. I believe this photo was taken in my great-grandmother's garden.

For other great Sepia Saturday posts, click => HERE

Making Memorial Day Personal

2010-05-31T15:45:00.000-04:00

Today, we Americans are celebrating Memorial Day, a holiday set aside in remembrance of those who have given their lives in service to our country. Some of us will watch parades or attend special memorial services to honor the fallen. Others will gather with family and friends for picnics and backyard barbeques. I have been extremely blessed in that all of my family and friends who served in the armed forces -- my father and three uncles, who served in WWII; my brother-in-law, who served in Vietnam; a cousin, who served in the Navy; and several friends who served and continue to serve in the Marines, the Army and the Coast Guard -- returned from duty to their homes and their civilian lives.

But that doesn't mean I feel no kinship with those who have lost loved ones to armed conflict or other duties. In fact, every year when Memorial Day rolls around, I think of this man:

Sargeant Allgeier served side-by-side with my father in the 474th AAA as they pushed across Europe, liberating France and Belgium, and sending the Germans into retreat. My father sometimes mentioned "Radio Algiers," even though talk of war memories was a rare occurrance. I think his comrade's death affected him profoundly, for his voice, when he said his name, was always wistful and longing. I have no idea how close they were; my father wasn't very forthcoming about his experiences in the war until late in his life, when I was no longer with him every day. But I do know that he carried those experiences with him all his life, and that they shaped who he was and who he would become.

In their book, The Maverick Outfit: A History of the 474th Anti-Aircraft Battalion (1966), Joseph P. Barrett and Frank Spalletti describe it thus:

"But the war was not over yet, for ... the next day the outfit lost three men. Captain Gordon Potter; Sergeant Albert G. Allgeier, of Erie, Pa., who was kiddingly called "Radio Station Algiers"; and PFC William J. Ousley, of Philadelphia, the artist who painted pictures and names on the half-tracks ... were on a scouting mission when they were ambushed by a German machine gun crew."

What I don't know about Sargeant Allgeier far outweighs what I do know. I know that he hailed from Erie, PA and left behind a wife and, if I recall correctly, and infant son whom he had never seen. I know that he was missing for several days before they found his body and were able to declare him KIA. I know he received a Purple Heart. I know that he is buried in the Margraten Netherlands American Cemetary, Plot H, Row 1, Grave 13. Some day, I hope to pay my respects in person.

I wish I knew more. I wish I knew if he played sports, if he enjoyed going to the movies, what his favorite foods were, how he proposed to his wife, what he dreamed of doing when he got out of the army, what treasures he carried to remind him of home. So many questions that I will never know the answers to ... but my imagination supplies the missing pieces and I allow myself to make Albert more than just a name on a cross, or a picture in the newspaper. For me, Sargeant Albert Allgeier is real, and today I weep for him and thank him for his sacrifice.

I ask that all of you reading this, no matter your nationality or the country you call home, no matter your faith or beliefs, no matter your political views, please take a moment today to say a silent Thank You to all those who willingly served and died to help make the life you live today possible.

I leave you with a poem by Lt. Col. John McCrae:

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

in Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Sepia Saturday

2010-03-20T14:10:00.007-04:00

This week, I head back to the paternal side of the family, with William H. and Anna J. Wehr Shaffer:

William and Anna were my great great grandparents. Unfortunately, all I know about William so far is that he was born in 1861. Anna was born in 1868 and was, from what I've discovered, the great great great granddaughter of Simon Wehr, who came from Heidelberg, Germany to the colonies in November 1740. (After a comment left for my post last week, I've discovered the addictive joys of genealogical research. Thanks Meri!!)

Here's the Shaffers with their family:

From left to right, Grandmother Caroline Wehr, daughter Nora, Anna, son William Luther, William and son John Samuel (my grandfather).

Nora and John Samuel as children:

And although it's a rather poor quality photo, here's Grandma Anna with John Samuel's sons, my father John Felmy and my uncle William Franklin:

Sadly, I have no interesting anecdotes, no fun stories, but I love the photos and wanted to share them. I did not have the pleasure of ever meeting anyone here except for my father and uncle, but my search for information about them continues.

For more Sepia Saturday pics and stories, click -->HERE!

Sepia Saturday

2010-03-13T09:34:00.006-05:00

Today's episode of Sepia Saturday: The Other Side of the Family

I've spent the last few weeks introducing my father's side of the family. Today I'm going to venture into the maternal end of the gene pool.

This is my maternal grandfather, Joseph Raymond Royer:

I'm not certain when the photo was taken, but he looks fairly young. He was born October 15, 1898 to Adam and Louise Diffenderfer Royer, and it's possible that this may be a graduation photo. He married my grandmother, Susie Elizabeth Kleckner, sometime around 1917 and their first child, my Uncle Dayton, was born in October 1918:

My mother, Helen, was born in 1922. I'm guessing that this photo of Dayton, my Aunt Bernice and my mother was taken in 1923:

Eventually, there were five Royer children in all:

Helen (b 1922), Robert (b 1924), Dayton (b 1918), Betty (b. 1926) and Bernice (b. 1920)

I never knew my grandfather. As you can tell from the clothing in the above photos, my grandparents were not poor. I have no idea what my grandfather did for a living, but his family was fairly well off. All that changed when the stock market crashed in 1929. From what I understand from other family members, my grandparents lost everything. Grandpa took to drinking and eventually abandoned his wife and five children in 1931. Rumor has it that he left town with another woman, but her conscience got the best of her and she returned. Grandpa supposedly traveled west to Chicago. My Uncle Dayton looked him up when he was in Chicago while in the navy during the war, but he couldn't bring himself to actually go see him. His anger and hurt was too great.

My grandmother never divorced her estranged husband. She struggled on alone, working hard to raise her five children during the Great Depression. Sadly, she passed away from cancer in 1972. I remember very little about her, except for her hands. They were thin and very bony, with thick blue veins running along the backs of them just under the surface of the skin. They were worker's hands, yet when they held mine they were cool and soft and gentle.

I have no idea when my grandfather may have died or if he ever found happiness again. His abandonment left many unanswered questions and affected lives in ways he undoubtedly never realized and most likely never cared about. My mother once told me that when she was a girl, she'd often go to the movies and sit through the end crawl, scanning the credits to see if her father's name was there, hoping that perhaps he'd left them to go to Hollywood and work in the movies. Unsurprisingly, his name was never listed.

I wonder if she ever really stopped looking.

You can find more Sepia Saturday photos and stories by going clicky --> HERE!

Magpie Tales Tuesday

2010-03-08T23:23:00.007-05:00

As always, thanks to
Willow for her wonderful prompt and for catering to our muses.

Rememberance

If someone had told me that I would one day be sitting in a hotel restaurant in Mumbai, India, waiting to meet the first man that my grandmother had ever loved, I’d have told them they were insane.

Yet here I am.

“Can I get you something else to drink?”

The waiter has been exceedingly patient, as I’ve been sitting here for well over three quarters of an hour, awaiting the arrival of my guest. I came down from my room early for fear I would miss him, but my table has an excellent view of the entrance from the lobby. I decline the offer for a beverage and return my gaze to the doorway, holding my breath every time a shadow approaches.

I’m rather nervous.

Actually, I’m not sure nervous even begins to cover my current state. I’ve never traveled this far from home alone, and have certainly never been given such a bittersweet task. I drum my fingers on the lid of the shoebox I have hidden on my lap, the secrets contained within placing a heavy burden on my heart.

My Gran, my mother’s mother, had been in failing health for several years, but her mind and her spirit remained strong. She was by far my favorite relative and I loved visiting her because she always shared such lively stories of her childhood in India. My great-grandfather had been appointed to serve in India at the personal request of Lord Irwin, and was, until the transfer of power in 1947, one of the Governor-in-Council of Bombay’s most trusted aides.

My Gran was born in 1931 in Bombay, and lived there until she was fifteen. She often talked about growing up in the city; about her ayah who took care of her and in whom she confided far more than her mother; about spending months at the sprawling house in the hill country because the heat in the city was so oppressive; about the fun she and her brother had playing with the Indian children and how mortified her mother would be every time she spoke Hindustani.

It was two months ago when Gran reintroduced me to the shoebox which housed her few treasures from her life in India: some letters tied with a piece of sky blue silk, a beautiful gold bangle bracelet, a veil, a carved ivory elephant, and a photograph. I remembered wearing the jewelry and dancing with the veil as a little girl, while Indian music played on the stereo. As an adult, I was more fascinated by the intricacy of the elephant, and by the clarity of the faces staring back at me from the photo.

Gran had taken the photo from my hands. “This slip of a girl is me, just before my father was told he was being recalled to England. The boy standing with me is Sajiva. I called him my Saji. He was supposed to be a companion for my brother, but Georgie didn’t like hunting salamanders or catching snakes, so Saji and I spent most of our time together. Of course, as I got older I no longer wanted to play with snakes, but Saji and I would go for walks or play card games. We were tutored together, so I’d help him with his lessons. Right around the time I turned fifteen, I came to the rather startling realization that my Saji was a truly beautiful boy. He had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, with long, black lashes that kissed his cheeks when he blinked. God help me, but I was in love, or as in love as a fifteen-year-old can be.” She smiled at the photo, lost in thought.

“Did he love you, too?” I asked, curious that my Gran had experienced such passionate stirrings long before she’d every met my grandfather.

She shrugged her shoulders. “We’d held hands on several occasions, so I’d like to think he did, although we never spoke of it. Oh, my own father was rather progressive, a bit ahead of his time. He wouldn’t have minded if I cared for a Hindu, but Saji’s parents would likely have disowned him had they known.” Her voice grew soft as she sank further into her memories. “My last full day in Bombay, Saji brought me a gift, that little ivory elephant. He said he never wanted me to forget him, as he would never forget me. And then I did something impossibly bold.”

“You kissed him.”

She chuckled heartily. “However did you guess? Yes, child, I kissed him. It was clumsy and quick and took us both completely by surprise. Of course, once he recovered he didn’t mind kissing me good and proper.” Her smile faded. “And in that moment I realized I didn’t want to leave him. But he couldn’t ask me to stay.” I noticed a tear trickling down her cheek and reached over to take her hand.

She gave my hand a squeeze, then suddenly became all-business. “Elizabeth, I must impose on you. I have a wretched favor to ask you, and if you agree, I will make adequate financial provision for you to complete the task …”

Gran lived another three weeks before succumbing to pneumonia, and in those three weeks she found time to ring her solicitor and alter her will to include this trip to India, where I will spread her ashes over the hills she loved.

But first, I have a message to deliver.

As I glance at the doorway once again, I see a white-haired man, stooped with age, shuffling slowly towards my table, with a cane in one hand and being supported tenderly on the other side by much younger man. He’s wearing a finely embroidered red kurta and white yoga pants, but it’s his eyes, peering at me from behind round John Lennon glasses, which affirm what everyone has always told me: I look very much like my Gran.

The elderly man places his hands together and bows before me. I stand and repeat the gesture. “Namaste, Mr. Dubashi. I am honored to meet you.”

“Namaste. Please, call me Saji. This is my grandson, Jaival.”

The young man looks up and I’m startled to see the same eyes, the same cheekbones, the same chin as the young Saji in the photograph. Jaival smiles at me and I’m captivated by his deep blue eyes. I have immediate empathy for my Gran’s youthful plight and it’s all I can do to force myself to focus on the elder Dubashi.

After we have made ourselves comfortable, I slide the photograph across the table to Saji and spend the next hour telling him of my Gran, of her family, and of her limitless passion for life. He speaks of his life, as well, and I see Jaival’s eyebrows raise several times over the course of the conversation as he learns new things about his grandfather. As we reminisce, Saji and I laugh, we damn near cry, and then we toast someone we both loved.

“To Sophie.”

As I lower my glass, I remember there’s one more thing I have to do. “Saji, Gran asked me to deliver a message to you.” I lift the elephant out of the box. “She wanted you to know that she never forgot you.” As I hand it across the table to him, I see his eyes fill with tears.

He takes the elephant, smoothing his fingertips along its back and drawing his thumbnail down the ridges of its trunk. “Did she tell you she kissed me when I gave this to her?”

I laugh and nod.

“It was the first time I had ever kissed a girl. How I wished she could have stayed.” After a moment, he hands the elephant back to me. “You keep it, Elizabeth. In that way, may you never forget your Gran. A remarkable woman. I only wish I could have said goodbye.”

I can easily see why my Gran fell in love with him. I clear my throat. “I’m travelling tomorrow to the lake, to scatter Gran’s ashes. It’s what she wanted.”

Saji shakes his head sadly. “The estate house is no longer there. It was purchased by a developer years ago and is now a golf course and resort.”

“That’s all right. Gran understood progress.”

Jaival has said nothing while Saji and I shared our memories. Now he leans closer and asks, “Would you like Nana and I to accompany you?”

His gaze holds mine, and something inside me desperately wants to agree. “I can’t ask you to …”

Jaival interrupts. His accent is elegant, his English is cultured and nearly perfect. “You’re not asking. We’re offering.” He glances at Saji, who nods his agreement. “You need not do this alone, And we would consider it a privilege to join you in sending your dadi on her journey to her next life.”

“Thank you.”

We rise and I follow them to the lobby where we arrange to meet early in the morning. As I watch Jaival guide Saji outside to a waiting car, I consider myself extremely fortunate to have known my Gran and to have inherited some of her uninhibited tendencies. I only hope that, when I ask Jaival to show me around Mumbai, it will be an experience neither of us will ever forget.

You can read more Magpie Tales stories and poems -->**HERE**

Sepia Saturday

2010-03-06T08:00:00.004-05:00

Last Saturday, I introduced my father and his love of dogs. This week, I'd like to focus on something else that my father had a mad passion for -- sports!

In high school, Johnnie was the all-around athlete:

soccer ...

baseball ...

and basketball.

He even played baseball outside of school and after he graduated:

Dad wanted to go to college so he could be a physical education teacher, but unfortunately he wasn't able to do so. Instead he went off to war (where he still managed to find time for sports):

then came home, went to business school and settled for playing with his kids and watching sports on television. Some of my fondest childhood memories include throwing a frisbee with him, playing badminton and tennis with him, and having the poor man try to teach me how to throw a baseball sidearm. (Sorry, Daddy! I can't help it I throw like a girl!) And once we finally got cable, he was in heaven! He watched every sporting event ever televised, including cricket and Australian Rules football! He was a hard-core Penn State fan, as well as a fan of the Phillies, the Steelers, and the Celtics. He occasionally played tennis at a local tennis club with his boss until he retired and then had to have his hips replaced.

Now I rarely watch sports, mostly because it just isn't the same without him.

For more Sepia Saturday participants, click -->
HERE!

A Dissertation on Food

2010-03-03T13:43:00.003-05:00

I'm not much of a television watcher; the news and occasional documentary (with an episode of Mythbusters thrown in now and again) is about all I ever watch. Unless I have a day off in the middle of the week, that is, when I'm home alone. And then I indulge in my guilty pleasure ... ssshhh! ... The Food Network.

I enjoy cooking and love to try new dishes. Back before we had children, my poor hubby was the willing guinea pig for my culinary experiments. He was completely honest with me, too, which I appreciated. If a dish was a keeper, he'd tell me. If it did little to please his palate, he'd ask me not to make that particular dish again. It made for an excellent learning experience for both of us.

My mother, bless her heart, was not a creative cook. She had a few stellar dishes -- her meatloaf was nothing short of yummy and I use her recipe today to rave reviews -- but for the most part she was caught somewhere between the plain cooking of her Pennsylvania German mother-in-law, with whom she felt a keen competition, and the 1950s housewife whose "convenient" ingredients came out of a can. (Please, don't ever mention Spam in my presence unless it's in reference to Monty Python.) But she tried and, with the exception of her roast beef which I could chew for hours, she succeeded in making most meals satisfying. My own mother-in-law, a farm wife, is also a plain cook, as well, who rarely seasons anything beyond salt and pepper, has never tasted Mongolian beef, thinks Mexican food is just tacos, and thinks Italian meals consist of spaghetti and lasagna. Sigh. She has resisted enlightenment over the years, prefering her tired tried-and-trues, which makes me doubly grateful that her son is so accommodating.

Please believe me, I'm not knocking traditional Pennsylvania German cooking. There's something to be said for a good potato soup, or chicken pot pie with homemade noodles, or beef stew (which is on our menu this evening). Just not every day. I tend to look at food as more than a tasty way to satisfy hunger. For me, food is a way to travel and experience other regions and cultures without having to actually purchase the plane ticket. And given the fact that I am chief cook and bottlewasher to three teenagers (Sam will be 13 next week), traveling isn't in the budget right now. Of course, neither are exotic dishes where the ingredients are difficult to find in a rural area and cost a small fortune once found. Many times, plain dishes stretch further and fill teenaged stomachs faster and better.

Back to the Food Network. Today was my day off, and I was tickled to have a few moments with my sandwich, my knitting and the remote. Now, I have definite likes and dislikes with regards to the personalities on the Food Network. Rachel Ray, as popular as she is, annoys me. Although she has some fantastic party ideas. I love to watch Bobbie Flay in anything, especially in Throwdown. That's how I learned about Liege waffles. I also love the show Chopped, although sometimes the judges can be a bit harsh. It's fascinating to me to watch chefs attempt to prepare something wonderful out of three mystery ingredients. I need to learn how to do that with my refrigerator!

One person I do not normally watch is Paula Deen, not because she bothers me -- she's actually very personable -- but because I'm just not fond of southern American cooking. I'm not a huge fan of fried foods and a lot of her dishes seen 'heavy' to me. (I'm sorry. Fried macaroni and cheese?!?!) And the very idea of using lard makes me cringe.

So who's on Food Network when I take my break?

Yup ... Paula.

Yes, I watched anyway, and I must confess, her first recipe had me captivated: Smoky Portobello Soup. I'm going to have to try it (I'll let you know how it turns out.) The rest of the show was chicken-fried steak with biscuits and gravy and then oyster shooters. No thanks. I will try the soup, though.

And since I mentioned it, my mother's meatloaf recipe:

1 pound ground beef
1 pound ham loaf mixture
1 egg
1 envelope onion soup mix
1 cup ketchup
1/4 cup mustard
1 cup oatmeal
Salt & pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray loaf pan or oblong baking dish with cooking spray.

Mix all ingredients together. Since it's best if you use your hands to mix, I recomend allowing the ingredients to come to room temperature before mixing.

NOTE: The measurements for the ketchup, mustard and oatmeal are estimates. You may need to adjust amounts -- too dry a mixture (will not hold shape and will fall apart in your hands) may require more ketchup and/or mustard. Too wet a mixture (sticks to your hands and won't hold shape) may require more oatmeal.

Shape mixture into one large two pound loaf or divide into two small one pound loaves. Place in baking dish and cover. Single loaf, bake for one hour, then remove cover and bake 15 minutes more. Two smaller loaves, bake for 45 minutes, then uncover and bake for another 10 minutes. Also makes great meatballs.

Sepia Saturday

2010-02-27T08:28:00.005-05:00

My father, John Felmy Shaffer, was a WWII veteran. He enlisted in the army and left for boot camp on December 26, 1942, then trained for a year before he was sent to England in February 1944, in preparation for D-Day. He served as a half-track driver in the 474th AAA AW Bn (Battery B) and chose that because "it was easier to ride through the war than walk." While in England, he stayed with a woman and her daughter, Betty, at 7A Bath Road, Bridgewater, Somerset. As a young man, my father was very personable and must have made quite an impression -- letters continued to be exchanged between the women and both my mother, who was on the home front with my infant sister, and "Johnnie," who was somewhere in Europe.

This is one of my favorite photos of my father, taken sometime during his stay in Bridgewater. Dad was a compassionate man and always had a soft spot for dogs, especially little black Cocker Spaniels.

Verse for a Certain Dog
Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
You look about, and all you see is fair;
This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)'

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;
High in young pride you hold your noble head;
Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuits on the bed?)
Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,
YOurs the white rapture of a winged soul,
Yours is a spirit like a May-day song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

"Whatever is, is good," your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you -- put that kitten down!)
You are God's kindliest gift of all -- a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,
You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)
-- Dorothy Parker (Enough Rope, 1926)

For more Sepia Saturday posts, click ---> HERE!

Magpie Tales Tuesday

2010-02-23T05:57:00.005-05:00

My apologies ... I got a bit wordy this time. When I was a teenager, some of my favorite authors included Ian Fleming (James Bond), Leslie Charteris (Simon Templar),
Robert Ludlum (Jason Bourne) and Martin Cruz Smith (Arkady Renko). I was a spy junkie, and continue to be so as an adult. So, having said that, I give you ...

Laying Ghosts to Rest
Calvin Mourant had vowed a lifetime ago never to return to Bratislava.

Yet here he sat, warming a cognac between the palms of his hands and staring out the lounge windows at the Presidential Palace. A piano played softly, somewhere over his left shoulder, and he tried to let the music soothe his frazzled nerves. He knew when he’d agreed to take this job that it could easily be a mistake, yet something inside him felt compelled, as if he had something to prove.

He had nothing to prove to anyone … except maybe himself.

Calvin took a sip of cognac. The alcohol was smooth and it warmed his throat as he swallowed. He never used to drink on the job for fear it would dull his senses. Now? Well, now his senses were dulling naturally, with age and weariness. He could only pray that his next mistake – and there would be a next one – wouldn’t prove fatal.

It was a young man’s game, and he had too many years behind him. He scratched his chin, the prickly stubble rasping against the rough pads of his fingers. When had he shaved last? He couldn't remember. Sometime before he got on the plane in Tel Aviv ...

He’d only agreed to come to Bratislava after a very persuasive old acquaintance had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. In truth, he was burned out. According to the plans he’d made years ago, by now he’d be retired and living a life of luxury in a small coastal Mediterranean town, his bank account full and his worries over. No more looking over his shoulder. No more taking orders. No more lies.

Of course, that future had included Elise.

Elise. Fresh pain tightened Calvin’s jaw and he took another sip of his cognac. What would she think of him now? Would she shake her head, gently chastising him for missing her so much that it immobilized him emotionally? Would she call him a fool for submerging himself in his work so completely that some mornings he didn’t recognize the face staring back at him in the mirror?

My sweet Cal, the past is nothing but a teacher from which you learn. Each disappointment brings knowledge.

Calvin watched as a young woman perched on the edge of the fountain in front of the palace while her companion took her picture. She tilted her head, laughing. If he squinted, he could almost see Elise’s face in hers, could almost hear Elise’s laughter in his mind.

He’d met Elise in May 1985, two months after he’d been assigned to deep cover at Comenius University, infiltrating the institution as a professor in the department of nuclear chemistry. On one glorious spring day, he’d taken his lunch to a nearby park, as was often his routine. He hadn’t planned on sharing it with the blue-eyed beauty who introduced herself as a fourth-year medical student. He hadn’t planned on being swept off his feet. He hadn’t planned on being consumed by her, spending the next three years having his apartment invaded, first by her belongings and her artwork, then by random family members who occasionally needed a place to crash, and then by her student friends and their revolutionary ideas.

He certainly hadn’t planned on falling in love.

As their lives became more intertwined, his lies became reality and his reality became a lie. He found it harder to stay focused on his objective, and harder still to separate himself from the potential risk that she and her friends posed. He was in too deep, completely taken by her exuberance and her charm, her obvious joy in life, and her heartfelt desire to serve humanity for the good.

He knew that some of Elise’s friends were being watched, that some of their late night comings and goings were seen as suspicious. But he couldn’t convince her of the danger without compromising his position … and without revealing that everything she believed about him was predicated on a deception.

Looking back, he wished he’d taken the risk. On the night of March 25, 1988, Elise and five of her friends entered Hviezdoslav Square with three thousand other souls in what history would call the Candlelight Demonstration, a protest against the communist regime. Calvin had been working late that night, so he hadn’t known she’d been persuaded to go, hadn’t known how passionately she supported the revolutionary cause, hadn’t known that her petite body would be in the direct line of fire when the police opened up with water cannons.

When the first reports of the unrest made their way to the university in the late evening hours, Calvin’s instincts told him that he needed to find her. He’d fled his office and ran home, only the apartment was empty. It was adrenaline that propelled him to the square, and fear that made him desperately search for her for hours.

He finally found her, propped against the wall of a bakery on a side street, abandoned by her friends. Several of her ribs were broken and she had a concussion from an angered policeman’s baton. He’d carefully gathered her in his arms and debated the wisdom of calling for help. Deciding it was best not to draw attention to themselves, he’d picked her up and carried her to the university-affiliated hospital. A rib had punctured her lung, but there was limited space available, even for one of their own. As he brushed the matted wisps of hair from her forehead, he told her how much he loved her, then watched the life fade in her eyes as he cried for the first time since he’d been a child.

It was in that moment that Calvin vowed he’d leave Bratislava and never return.

In reality, it was another eight months before he was recalled and reassigned, but he returned to the United States a changed man. He never challenged authority, but his methods were risky, his reputation daring. He never crossed the line to rogue agent, but when the agency decided it was time for him to come in from the cold he’d quit, seeking work privately. For twenty-five years it was the only life he’d known.

The hair on the back of Calvin’s head stood up, a warning sign that something wasn’t right. He turned slightly, allowing his peripheral vision to sweep the end of the bar and the lobby beyond. There. Up in the mezzanine overlooking the lobby. He’d noticed the man standing watching him, his reflection captured in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Careless. Nonchalantly, he tipped his head back and took another swallow of cognac. Dark green golf shirt, tan trousers. He suppressed a chuckle. A young man’s game indeed. If only youth possessed the wisdom of experience. With a satisfied sigh, he placed his snifter on the bar and leaned back on the barstool, waiting.

It was only a matter of moments before Mr. Green Golf Shirt strolled into the bar area, his hands deep in his pockets, looking for all the world like a bored traveler. Calvin slipped a pack from his inside jacket pocket and shook a cigarette out. He took his time replacing the pack, then patted his all his pockets until Green Golf Shirt was within hearing distance. “Hey, barkeep,” Calvin called in a cognac-warmed voice, “got a light?”

Green Golf Shirt waved the bartender off. “Here. You can keep them,” he said, his Slavic accent thick, as he tossed a box of matches on the bar in Calvin’s direction. Calvin deftly caught them and nodded his thanks before removing a match from the box, being careful not to expose the rest of the contents, and lighting his cigarette. The smoke was bitter as it burned his lungs, and he watched Green Golf Shirt order a beer from the bartender and take a seat at the other side of the lounge.

Calvin took another deep draw off the cigarette. He wasn’t sure if he was violating any non-smoking rules in the hotel, but he didn’t really care. He had what he’d come for. The matchbox contained a key to a safe deposit box behind the hotel desk. In that box he expected to find copies of plans for an experimental energy source. Industrial espionage wasn’t nearly as exciting as working for the government, but it paid better. A few more jobs like this one and he could give retirement serious consideration.

He rose from the barstool and slipped a generous tip under his glass, then walked back through the lobby and out into the early afternoon sunshine. Taking a final drag on his cigarette, he dropped the butt and crushed it with his heel. The safe deposit box could wait a few hours. He had something more important to do.

With a wave of his hand, he hailed a departing taxi cab. “Hviezdoslav Square,” he said as he slid in the back seat. “And take the scenic route.”

You can read other Magpie Tales participants --> HERE!

Sepia Saturday

2010-02-20T13:11:00.005-05:00

It seems that my grandfather Sam was a bit of a romantic. This comes as a surprise to me, knowing the rather no-nonsense Lutheran stock from which he hails. And yet, at the same time, it doesn't surprise me because my father exhibited some of that romanticism with my mother, on occasion. Sam met my grandmother Sarah, a sweet Pennsylvania German farmgirl, and started dating her sometime around 1912. They dated for four years before they wed, and each year, Sam gave Sarah a piece of matching jewelry. The first year it was a gold cuff bracelet. The second, a locket. The third, a watch on a pin. And the fourth was, of course, an engagement ring. In their engagement photo here, Sarah is wearing all four pieces of jewelry.

They were wed January 11, 1917 and began their lives together running a grist mill. (pictured above, year unknown)

They produced my Uncle Bill in 1919, then moved to another mill where my father, John, was born in 1922. Eventually they moved into "town" where Sam became a salesman. Unfortunately, Sam and Sarah only got to spend 35 years together before a heart attack took him from her when he was only 56. Sarah continued on, living to see 87 birthdays before she died doing what she loved to do best -- gardening.

For other Sepia Saturday participants, clicky ---> HERE

Magpie Tales Tuesday

2010-02-16T05:05:00.004-05:00

Today begins a new venture by that consummate blogger, Willow, called Magpie Tales. In Willow's own words, it is "dedicated to the enjoyment of writers, for the purpose of honing their craft, sharing it with like minded bloggers, and keeping their muses alive and well." She gives us a prompt every Thursday, and we write a piece of short fiction or poetry inspired by the prompt for posting the following Tuesday.

So, without further ado ...

A Piece of the Past
Lacy sneezed as she brushed the dust from her hands and stood to stretch. She’d been crawling around in her parents’ attic for hours and she was dirty, tired and hungry. She glanced at the floor around her, littered with the effluvia of a forty-eight year marriage, and three large boxes labeled “KEEP,” “SELL” and “TRASH.” There was a matching set of boxes in each room on each floor of the house. As was the case in all the other rooms, the attic’s “TRASH” box was nearly full and the “SELL” box was overflowing, but the “KEEP” box was pitifully empty. Lacy felt more than a twinge of guilt for that, but wasn’t about to second guess her decisions in order to ease her conscience.

Her mother’s sudden death only eight months after her father’s equally unexpected passing had left her the sole heir to a renovated childhood home full of stylish modern furnishings. Considering Lacy, a history professor, and her husband, Rob, a museum curator, had recently purchased a 1760s stone farmhouse, there was very little in her parents’ house which would fit with her colonial décor. They were working hard to get the home placed on the National Register of Historic Places and they had little use for contemporary pieces.

Lacy picked up the “KEEP” box and turned for the attic door. The auctioneer would be coming in the morning to begin appraising the items for sale, some of which were indeed antiques, just not antique enough to suit Lacy. She’d been truly amazed at all her parents had kept, secreted away in closets, in bureaus and under beds. Many of the hidden treasures brought back fond memories, which made it all the harder for her to place them in the boxes for auction.

Just as Lacy reached for the pull chain to turn out the light, she spied another box tucked in a dark corner behind the chimney. Placing the “KEEP” box on the floor, she pulled the flashlight out of her back pocket and shined the light into the shadows. “RCA” was the first thing she saw on the side of the box, and the second was “Oberholtzer/Stein,” her maternal grandmother’s maiden and married names.

Curiosity chased hunger and fatigue from her thoughts as Lacy dragged the heavy box to the center of the attic floor. She vaguely remembered her mother bringing home some things after her grandmother’s funeral, but she’d never questioned what her mother had done with them and had never given them another thought until this moment.

In the harsh light of the bare bulb, Lacy lifted out a well-worn patchwork quilt, the edges frayed with use. The initials “C.L.S.” and “1897” were embroidered in one of the corners. Catherine Louise Schauer, she thought to herself. That was her great-grandmother’s name, and she knew Catherine and William Oberholtzer were married in 1897, so perhaps Catherine had made it for her trousseau. It smelled musty, yet Lacy caught a whiff of something familiar, something spicy. Cinnamon, perhaps. Laying the quilt aside, she next pulled out a long, thin wooden box. Flipping the catch, she lifted the lid carefully, mindful of the delicacy of the hinges, to find an assortment of fountain pens and nibs nestled in the red velvet lining. Lacy smiled. Rob would enjoy displaying those on the rolltop desk they’d just refinished.

Lacy dug deeper in the box. Several photo albums, an old map, a family bible, a christening gown, a set of brass candlesticks and a bundle of old letters all found their way out of the box into her eager hands. Scattered around her lay remnants of her family history, most of which, much to her chagrin, she knew nothing about. How sad, she realized, that she knew so very much about Colonial and Revolutionary American history, yet her own personal origins remained a mystery.

One last item remained in the box. Wrapped in an old gingham-checked curtain Lacy found a pewter creamer. She marveled at its cool weight in her hand before tracing her finger over the delicate wreath pattern which graced its side. Turning the creamer over, Lacy was surprised to find a small strip of paper taped to the bottom of the creamer, right above the touchmark. The tape was browned with age, as was the paper, but Lacy was still able to read her grandmother’s writing:

Wedding gift from Josiah Weldon to Elizabeth Smith
June 18, 1762
Phila. Penna.

Lacy stared at the treasure in her hands, her mind racing. Perhaps the family bible held clues to their identities, or maybe one of her uncles or her aunt would be able to tell her more. Anxious to share her discoveries with her husband and even more anxious to begin piecing together her past, Lacy hurriedly placed everything back in the box, except for the creamer, which she rewrapped in the curtain and carried by itself. She would give the creamer -- that small, tantalizing piece of her past – pride of place on the mantle over the fireplace in her kitchen and share its special significance with every guest who crossed her threshold.

A Belated Valentine's Day Post

2010-02-15T11:18:00.005-05:00

US
Your lips brush mine
In a familiar lover's kiss,
A gentle promise
of forever.
Your eyes meet mine
And reveal your heart to me,
An open window
To your soul.
Your hand clasps mine
An anchor formed of warm fingers,
With silent strength
To keep me grounded.
Your body enfolds mine
In a comfortable embrace,
Communicating to me
Your undying devotion.
Your life intertwines with mine
In a never-ending dance,
A constant reminder
Of steadfast love.

(Patricia Felmy 2/1/2002)

Snow!

2010-02-06T13:28:00.007-05:00

Folks around here are calling it the Blizzard of 2010, but I'm not certain it qualifies as that. To me, it's just a heck of a lot of snow! I declared today a Jammie Day for all those interested, although the declaration only applies to those in my immediate household ... I'm having fun watching my niece next door slog through what is easily waist-high snow to her.

The Passivist Guard Dog decided plowing snow with her nose wasn't for her:

At least 18" in the backyard:

The view down the street:

Sam trying to wade through the snow:

Sam struggling to get up (yes, he was mercilessly subjected to "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" jokes):

The snow has stopped here, but the wind is picking up and the NWS is telling us that all this pretty whiteness will begin to drift as the day goes on, causing more problems. I personally am choosing to remain house-bound, in my jammies and slippers, with a warm cup of something beside me and the vicious Passivist Guard Dog curled at my feet.

Happy Saturday!

Finally finished!

2009-12-22T13:33:00.002-05:00

The co-worker Christmas presents for 2009 are finally finished ... with two hours to spare! I'm off to shower and meet them for a late lunch, but I thought I'd share the gifties, in their favorite colors:

OMG! I did it!

2009-10-08T21:36:00.003-04:00

I can't believe it, but I actually signed up ...

50,000 words in 30 days. I must be insane. You can find me HERE. But I'm not in this alone ... Becca Thornhill is joining me. She's actually the one who influenced me in this decision. But don't worry ... I'll get even with her somehow.

In other writing news, I'm currently working on a story for the Writer's Digest Short Short Story Contest. 1500 words or less by December 1. I'm also considering the 79th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition. 4,000 words in a genre short story by May 14. Totally doable. Also in the running is the Central PA Magazine's writing contest. 1500 words or less by January 16.

All this on top of NaNoWriMo.

I'm certifiable.

The Vacation from Hell (aka The Long Rant)

2009-07-05T12:13:00.013-04:00

Summer in the United States: hamburgers on the grill, baseball games, swimming, fishing, catching fireflies in a jar. And invariably for a lot of people, this also means a family vacation.

I'm mandated in my Bank employee handbook to take five of my vacation days in a row at some point during the calendar year. And since my children, now teenagers, won't be children much longer, I thought a few days away from the humble abode, especially since we'd just painted kitchen cupboards, would be a fun-filled and refreshing change.

Never again.

My husband belongs to a hunting camp in the northern tier of the state, and it was his suggestion that, finances being what they are, we should consider reserving the cabin for a few days and get away to the peace and quiet of the great outdoors. Now, given that my idea of "vacation" includes the availability of room service and clean sheets on daily basis, I was a bit skeptical. I had seen the cabin before ... these men are not roughing it by any stretch of the imagination while they pretend to gather game to feed their families. (To illustrate the point, their microwave scrolls a message after the ding, hoping you enjoy your meal. I've known waiters in exclusive restaurants to offer less.) Nonetheless, I always like to center our getaways around something memorable (and educational) for the kids. I was thinking Monticello, with a stop at Mount Vernon on the way home. But hubby persevered, and I finally agreed to spend three days "up north."

I must admit, I was acting a bit selfishly in agreeing to the proposal. I had visions of hubby taking the kids fishing or hiking through the woods while I ... I would sequester myself on the back deck of the cabin and write. I've been finding it devilishly difficult to find a block of time in which I can sit down and focus enough to begin my novel. But I saw this as an opportunity, convincing myself it would serve as my own private writer's retreat.

If you find it in your heart to do so, please ... pity the delusional.

My personal Walden:

Anyway, we got a late start on Thursday, leaving three hours later than we'd intended. We'd borrowed the brother-in-law's Jeep Cherokee, added a Hitch-Haul to the rear, settled the dog in the hatch and off we went. Three-and-a-half hours, two headaches, and one restroom stop later, we arrived at camp, windblown (no air conditioning) and hungry. Within ten minutes of unloading the Jeep, a huge thunderstorm slammed us, knocking the power out. Hubby and I decided to go to the local WalMart and get groceries, but found the mountain road blocked by trees felled during the storm. He called to caretaker to come cut a path through with his chain saw while I backed the Jeep (yes, in reverse) up the road to the cabin.

We finally ate around 9:30 pm and then played a few board games before going to bed. During the night, Amy was bitten by a spider on the lower leg, the dog paced the living room because none of the chairs in the room were "her" chair, and the dew was so heavy in the morning that my hubby, who was sleeping by the open window, was soaked.

He also woke up with a bad case of Montezuma's Revenge.

We had planned to go to the Corning Museum of Glass, my meager attempt at an educational foray, on Friday, but by the time I woke up, it was pouring down rain, and continued to do so for most of the day. The kids and I ventured back to WalMart to get hubby some Imodium, got caught in a thunderstorm with hail the size of golf balls and vowed we were getting out of there the minute the rain let up!

We managed to escape at 4:00. The Corning Museum of Glass was actually pretty cool, according to my kids. We watched a gentleman named Eric make a glass strawberry, then toured the museum. I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised. I was expecting to be bored, but they have items from ancient Rome, the middle ages, the industrial age, all the way up to contemporary art. My favorite pieces:

From the Heineman Collection:

A chess set ... Jewish religious figures versus Catholic religious figures, both in caricature.

Sam figuring out the mechanics of a telescope:

As part of the wonderful museum experience, we had the privilege of participating n a fire drill! Alarms so shrill they set your teeth on edge. Did I mention that only moments before, it had looked like a hurricane outside, with rain sheeting in the wind? Add a couple of palm trees and we could have been on the Gulf Coast. Fortunately, the rain had ceased by the time the alarm went off, so we congregated under a canopy across the parking lot from the museum, shivering because the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees while museum workers in flourescent orange vests milled about with walkie-talkies trying to look like they knew what was going on. Luckily we were only outdoors for five minutes before they let us back in the building. Emergency Management was on the job!

The ride back to PA was uneventful and the drive was beautiful: (ignore the date stamp ... Amy's camera somehow reset itself and she doesn't know how to change the calendar.)

This was, of course, after an impromptu tour of Painted Post, NY, where we had difficulty finding the onramp after my children couldn't decide where to dine. We ended up returning to the cabin, snatching hubby from the bowels of boredom, and going to Subway. The highlight of the day? Sam had gotten a glass chess set at the museum gift shop and the kids taught me how to play.

Saturday dawned wet and gloomy, but I arose early in hopes of snatching my coveted Writing Time. I situated myself on the back deck, coffee and breakfast in hand (and a blanket because it was 60F!) and prepared to write.

I managed one page, front and back, before I was invaded. Hubby, kids, dog ... all wanted to join me. My nirvana lasted a grand total of 93 minutes.

Did I mention there was a pile of bear poo in the back yard? A little too close for my comfort.

Hubby was in a hurry to get packed and on the road again, so we cleaned the cabin, erasing all evidence of our presence and set off down the road. The tarp he'd brought along to cover the gear on the Hitch-Haul was about the size of a bath towel, so we kept a wary eye on the storm clouds. We'd gone perhaps 25 miles south when hubby banged his fist on the steering wheels and said, "Oh, --expletive deleted--! I forgot to turn the water off."

Uh ...

Needless to say, we turned around and went back. Stretched our legs, grabbed some food in town ... and noticed a mysterious ticking noise. (**thinks of Potter Puppet Pals**) Hubby pulled over and checked out the Jeep. He couldn't see anything amiss so we took off again. We noticed that the ticking got faster when he accelerated, so he pulled off the road again and checked under the hood. Good thing he's a mechanic because when he said, "I can't find anything wrong," it carried far more weight than if the average joe had said it and I began to really worry. He reassured me that we'd get home fine.

Famous last words.

It was a long ride home. I slept, daughter #1 slept. Just past the last exit on the interstate before ours, the Jeep ...

SHUT OFF!

IN THE PASSING LANE!

Hubby yelled "--more expletives deleted--" and managed to get us onto the right berm of the road (since the left is full of orange construction cones) and we called his brother for assistance. They came to pick us up in their van just in the nick of time, because hubby and son had been "walking the dog" in the field beside where we'd parked, which used to be a golf course, and they'd collected an entire bag of golf balls.

Why??

**mumbles ** Freakin' packrats, that's what they are.

Anyway, the Jeep needed to be towed, so brother took the kids and I home. I had no housekey and hubby stayed with the Jeep, so Sam climbed through the living room window to let us in. At 10:30 pm, Amy and I drank some caffeine and ventured to WalMart, the only store still open, to get things for hubby's lunch since he had to work the next day.

Well, he would have, that is, IF he'd gotten up in time. See, he's supposed to be at work at 5:00 am, and I woke up at 5:20, used more expletives, found him on the sofa and woke him up so that he could use more expetives, and he ended up calling off.

Does the fabulous weekend end there?

Oh, no, gentle reader ... there's more. On Sunday afternoon, hubby left to pick up #1 from a birthday party and he stopped to put gas in his truck first. Imagine his surprise when the truck refused to start again! He thought it was the battery, so he found someone to give him a jump start then picked up #1 and headed for AutoZone. Of course, he didn't ask them to test the old battery until after they'd put the new one in and, lo and behold, it wasn't the battery but the alternator instead.

**raises eyebrows**

He kept the battery anyway.

The dog laid on her chair for three days and refused to eat, drink or acknowledge our presence, even when we petted her. She'd just stare off into space, glassy-eyed, or glare at us, if it's possible for dogs to glare. She was either really, really p***ed off at us, or highly traumatized.

Memorable? Monticello would have lost by a landslide.

Wet Wednesday

2009-06-17T21:55:00.006-04:00

Today's forgotten word from The Word Museum:

peppering shower -- One in which the rain descends like hail, or like the pepper from the peppering-box. Also known as falling-weather.

Indeed it is.

Hard to believe that it's the middle of June ... chilly, rainy ... the temperature right now is 61F/16C and everything is damp, damp, damp. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'd much rather have this than scorching heat and unbearable humidity. It's just mind-boggling how much the weather has changed since I was a kid. Weather was predictable then. The Dog Days of Summer encompassed the last two weeks in July and the first two weeks of August. Last year those Dog Days were in June. This year ... who knows? I guess I'll just take it as it comes, one day at a time, and be thankful I didn't choose meteorology as a profession.

Most of my time today, when I wasn't waiting on customers, was spent clipping coupons. Not just any coupons, but coupons for Coupons To Troops, a program which gets manufacturer's coupons to service personnel and their families overseas. Post commissaries and exchanges allow the use of coupons up to six months past their expiration date, so the "girls" at the bank got together and donated their unwanted and expired coupons to this worthy cause.

Amy and I finished up this evening.

It doesn't look like much, but there's a lot of coupons in that basket!

Then we sorted them into piles ...

Food, health & beauty, pets, baby and miscellaneous non-food.

This one was our favorite Isn't it adorable??

Timber supervised.

Check out the Coupons to Troops website and consider giving your unused coupons a second life.

And in tribute to our "falling-weather" ...

Photo Sunday

2009-06-14T14:18:00.008-04:00

Today's forgotten word from The Word Museum:

teemful -- Pregnant, heavy, fruitful, brimful.

And for those of you who need a visual:

Sadly, this is what happens when one chooses to wear 15-year-old seersucker pants made fragile by having spent several years in the extreme temperatures of one's attic and taken beyond their endurance by a bottom which sits slightly broader than the last time it resided in their confines.

What makes this even more tragic is that I was at the supermarket at the time of the rending. Fortunately, it's a store I visit infrequently and I'm sure that if I return any time in the near future, it won't be my face that the guys in the meat room remember.

Sigh.

Since it's Photo Sunday, I've decided to post some pictures from my great outdoors ... specifically my front porch, which has become the haven where I decompress after a long day, and my daughter's garden, which is an experiment of sorts, but of which she is most proud.

Let's start with the porch:

The photos don't really do the flowers justice, nor do they convey the wonderful scent when you step outside. (Beats the "fresh country air" that drifts over from the dairy farm down the road!)

The porch even comes complete with its own vicious guard dog ... well ... don't come between her and anything dropped from the grill.

It looks like Amy's cherry tomato plant needs a bigger stake! (I only had 2 chopsticks to tape together!)

Tiny green blueberries!

Let's head out back ...

The strawberry bed

Amy's garden, based on an idea from Mother Earth News. Tomatoes, peppers, beans, watermelon and zucchini.

Kentucky Wonders, just like Grandma used to grow.

Sam and Amy's sunflower patch

The spearmint that took over the world ...

Even vicious guard dogs need a break in the shade!

Braggable Moment

2009-05-02T13:49:00.002-04:00

We interrupt this blog to bring you this special announcement ...

12-year-old Sam has just competed in his first track meet, wowing parents and sisters alike with a superb performance. Master Sam received a 1st Place ribbon for the 100 meter dash, clocking in at 17.8 seconds. His relay team took 1st Place in the 400 meter relay. He also claimed a 2nd place award for shotput, throwing 50 feet 7 inches. And finally, he longjumped his way to a 3rd Place honor with an 8 foot 7 inch jump.

The action news team has the day off, but we caught up with the junior athlete after the awards ceremony and he had this to say ...

"Aw, Mom!"

And now back to our regularly scheduled posting.

My To-Do List ...

2009-04-29T00:31:00.001-04:00

... is now shorter. Yay!

Created new LJ to parallel new blog ... check.

Have all links linked to all journals/blogs/web pages ... check.

Revamped original fiction outline so I'm more pleased with the plot and actually have a pretty good idea where the story is going ... check.

Made progress on Michelle's baby blanket ... check.

Polished off the strawberry shortcake ... check.

It's raining now and, in light of that, I bring you a tribute to "heavy dew."

Hoppy Easter!

2009-04-12T09:34:00.003-04:00

The sun is shining, but there's a stiff, chilly breeze reminding those of us in Pennsylvania that the troll of Winter is still guarding the bridge and Spring hasn't answered the riddle yet.

It's been a long, long week, the second consecutive week of working six days. By Friday evening, I found myself frustrated and frazzled, and practically weeping for a vacation. When you're in that state of mind, you tend to become careless and do things that you might otherwise be able to ... avoid. For example:

Honestly, I didn't see the white panel truck against the white brick wall just over my left shoulder, in my blind spot! Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately, I haven't decided yet) the driver is a bank customer and didn't seem too concerned with the minimal damage I inflicted on his truck. I drove home sobbing, "I broke my taillight! I broke my taillight!"

Are there any cheap flights to Cancun???

Anyway, Timber and I hope you have a blessed Easter!

The End ...

2009-03-29T18:53:00.007-04:00

... of a rainy, gloomy weekend is here all too soon. The sun has finally come out just in time to sink below the horizon, and I don't have a camera handy to take a photo of the colorful sky beyond the lingering dark rain clouds.

Instead, I offer some spectacular pictures here: Extreme Ice Survey. (Thanks to Al Gore's Twitter page!) The photo gallery has some phenomenal shots of glaciers and calves. There's also something very compelling in James Balog's statement that landscapes are changing and disappearing, and the photos he's taking will be the only record that they existed. There's also a one-hour NOVA special Extreme Ice. Our world is rapidly changing, not often for the better, and I can't help wondering what life -- and this planet -- will be like for my grandchildren.

Weighty ponderings for a Sunday night. On that note, I'll leave you with a little trip back to the late 70s.

Dining Room Renovation, Day 5

2009-03-19T11:59:00.004-04:00

Hard to believe that it's taken five days, but the wallpaper is off the main wall.

As you can see, the paper took a good bit of drywall along with it. (Yes, it was the wallpaper, not the person removing the wallpaper!) One more wall to go, but that won't happen until the weekend, at least.

Where's Bob Villa When You Need Him?

2009-03-14T18:58:00.012-04:00

This past September 29, we celebrated our 17th anniversary in our home. I like our house ... I really do. It has character. Yes, this means it's old and drafty and could, in all honesty, be labeled a "fixer-upper." It's estimated that the original log part of our home was built in or before 1870. That was as far back as the previous owner was able to trace the deed. It's had several additions in the last century -- one in the 1920s, when This Old House was introduced to indoor plumbing, and one in the 1980s, when the previous owners did a massive renovation, including adding several rooms and exposing the original logs.

If they were here right now, I'd slap 'em around and ask what in the world they were thinking!!

In the last 17 years, we have fought with the logs (the logs won), replaced the siding, rebuilt the foundation (who in their right mind buries a wooden foundation in dirt??? **sigh**), fought with the septic system, and numerous other headaches. We had hoped to be into a house of our own design by the time our youngest child entered junior high. That was this year.

We're still here.

We're not going anywhere anytime soon.

For a long time -- years, actually -- I've talked about doing cosmetic work to the house, things like painting, removing carpeting, etc. It's mostly been just talk, since I've not had the time nor the physical endurance to take on a major project. But I also came to the conclusion that we shouldn't wait until we want to sell the house before taking steps to fix it up. Why not enjoy the fruits of our labor? So, I've taken some time off this week and I will be taking the ugly, disgusting wallpaper off my dining room wall.

I'm almost embarrassed to post the last one. The dirt from little hands really shows up in the picture, both on the wall and on the stair railing. The paint on the banister is worn off clear down to the bare wood, and that's saying something given that there's decades and decades of paint on it ... various layers and colors that all tell a story.

I'm going to remove the wallpaper and paint the wall light green. The railing will be a dark green. I started peeling at the archway into the kitchen, but as you can see below, the process is going to be long and laborious. The paper is heavy and old, and the previous owners, bless their hearts, didn't prime the wallboard before applying the wallpaper. My only recourse is to score the wallpaper and soak it. Someone at the bank recommended a warm water and white vinegar solution, which seems to work so-so. The top layer of paper peels off, leaving the backing layer behind. But it's cheaper than renting a steamer, and I decided against purchasing one since, once I remove all the paper in the house, I won't be papering again.

In this last one, which is a view of one of the beams in our ceiling, you can see how the previous owner "patched" everything. Beautiful handiwork, eh? I can't wait to see what we find when all the wallpaper is off.

I feel like Shelly Long in "The Money Pit." Home ownership is indeed an adventure.

Inaugural Post ...

2009-03-08T13:56:00.004-04:00

... in yet another forum. While I've had a Live Journal for years, I decided to take my mental wanderings to a new venue. This will be a far more personal blog than anything I've done previously. While I've made some wonderful friends on LJ, of whom some have translated into the real life variety, the focus of that journal was my fan fiction writing. Yes, I wrote fan fiction. No, I'm not going to go into detail. Suffice it to say that my experiences in those fandoms were enlightening and served as a proving ground for my craft. I honed my skills playing with well-known and well-loved characters, and I proofread (a.k.a. beta-read) for some of the best writers those fandoms had to offer. I learned a great deal -- about writing and about myself -- and now feel the need to move on to writing something original; something that I can call my very own.

Scary stuff.

Anyway, in the interest of this recent determination to write original fiction, I did something I didn't think I'd ever do. No, I didn't shoplift. No, I didn't get caught making out in the back of a car. No, I didn't consume an entire package of Oreos in one sitting.

I purchased writing software.

While this may not seem like a "big thing" to the uninitiated, to a purist such as myself it was a hu-u-u-u-ge step. Trust me. And yes, I am a purist, at least where the art of writing is concerned. I've been a diehard favorite-pen-and-yellow-legal-pad kind of gal for so long, it seems like sacrilege to advance to a more modern convenience such as writing software. I've always been afraid that the software itself would be a distraction; that the process of creating would be more compelling than the actual creation. For that reason alone, I've avoided even considering software.

But upon the recommendation of my dear friend L, I sampled The Writer's Cafe by Anthemion Software, Ltd. What a wonderful application! I played with the demo for over an hour, and when the "Sorry, no more" sign flashed on the screen, I pouted in disappointment. It has virtual index cards which can be maneuvered on parallel story lines, scrapbooks for organizing photos or making flowcharts, pin boards for scraps of ideas or items you want to keep handy. It utilizes Open Office, which, with a simple plug-in download from Microsoft, can be integrated with Word. The best part, and the feature which ultimately sold me, is that the entire application is completely portable! I placed said entire application on my Cruzer and can take my writing anywhere there's an accessible PC.

Do I still have my idea notebooks? Yes. My research notebooks? Yes. I think I shall always have an inherent need to physically write things down. But I no longer have to shuffle index cards, or wade through pages of notes trying to formulate a logical outline only to cross things out or crumble wads of paper in frustration. I have advanced into the 21st century.

Now if I could only figure out how to program my universal remote.