A Christmas Story House and Museum

A Christmas Story is my husband's all time favorite Christmas movie....maybe his favorite movie ever.  The outside scenes were all shot in a neighborhood in Cleveland, OH.  And, a fan of the movie bought the house, restored it to look like the rooms in the movie and created a museum and gift shop to go along with it.  Since we were nearby visiting Niagara Falls, we decided to stop by and see the place.  We had a lot of fun talking about the movie with the guide and learning all kinds of trivia about the making of the film. 

There is a leg lamp in the window and a Red Ryder BB gun under the Christmas tree, a "turkey" in the oven and the "Old Man's" car in the garage.

At the gift shop you can buy leg lamps of all sizes, a variety of movie memorabilia and even a bunny suit like Ralphie got from his aunt.

It's a great stop on your way through the Cleveland area!

The Wild Mustard is In Bloom

This is a picture of wild mustard:

It grows in empty lots and fields around here as a weed.  Dairy farmers hate it because if their cows eat too much of it their milk will have an odd taste.

I have a vivid memory related to this plant and except for this memory I probably wouldn't give it a second glance. As I was on my way to the hospital to give birth to son #1, (The birth of a first child truly changes the course of the rest of your life in ways you can never anticipate or imagine.) I remember a lot of wild mustard growing along the sides of the road and in empty lots.  So every year when I see the mustard come into bloom it reminds my of this special, special day....which happens to be today.

Happy Birthday, son #1!

Me and Santa

We're having a "snow day" here....one of those days when the weather changes your plans.  The "plans" were to have another go at Christmas shopping, but with the snow, sleet, ice and general "ick" outside it seemed wiser to just stay inside today.  I've been working on Christmas cards, Celtic Solstice clue #2, a bit of wrapping and organizing.  So with time to think and the white landscape outside for inspiration my thoughts have drifted back to Santa.

 

That picture above stood on my father's dresser for a long, long time.  I would guess that I'm about three in that picture. (The snow pants look a bit tight.  My mother's tactic was, "Buy them big, wear them for at least two years!)  The thing I remember most about Santa is that EVERY year when he left my presents he wrote me a letter!  He must have written it as he was eating the cookies and drinking the milk that I left for him in the kitchen.  I also left some water outside for his reindeer and a few carrots for them to eat.  Toys and gifts being left for me was always a nice surprise but just as amazing was the cookie plate, empty except for crumbs, and the empty glass of milk.  His letter usually told me that he was glad I had been and good girl and he hoped I would continue on that path for the next year, obeying my parents and helping around the house.

 

Eventually as I grew up I realized that Santa's handwriting was very similar to my father's.  I was in school by then and with the help of my peers I began to realize that Santa wasn't as real as my younger self thought.  But, I couldn't tell my parents.  I was afraid to ruin their Christmas! A little background might help me explain this:  I am the youngest of four by 11 years.  When I was born, my siblings were 15, 13 and 11.  So there were no slightly older siblings to burst my Santa bubble early on.  In fact it wasn't long before my siblings were out of the house and either married or in college. I somehow realized that once I admitted that I didn't believe in Santa, my parents would have no one left to "create Santa" for.  So I went along with it for 2 or 3 more years to keep from disappointing them.  They truly seemed to love making Christmas come alive for me and I didn't know what would happen to the holiday once I announced the truth.  But eventually my wise mother realized that it was time and casually, one early December asked me about Santa.  I had to admit that I realized who wrote the notes and ate the cookies and milk.

 

Amazingly my parents took it pretty well; Christmas went on, although the cookies, milk, reindeer food and letters didn't.  The spirit of Santa lived on in our house and there were soon grandchildren for them to share it with - but of course, Santa's visit for them occurred at their own house, not ours.  Hence, no need to resurrect the Santa letters and snacks. I still remember the magic, though.  And I'm glad to have lived the magic.

 

So, I'm curious.  Did you grow up believing in Santa?  How/when did things change?  I'd love to hear any Santa memories you'd like to share.  HO HO HO!!

 

Platform Rocker: The Next Generation

I have lots of great memories of my early life with my father, but few possessions of his.  Many, many  years ago my mother gave me the platform rocker: "his" chair.  You know, the one he sat in all the time to read the paper, nap, think.  It lived in the corner of our dining room when I was growing up.  During my lifetime my mother had recovered it in a brown fabric but by the time it got to me it was in need of a redo.  I brought it to an upholsterer and chose a utilitarian blue fabric.  It became a much loved chair in my house.  The boys watched TV in it, argued over who got to sit in it and generally abused it even breaking one of the legs at one time.  So, I found a furniture restorer who was able to repair the leg just about as good as new.  But eventually after 20+ years of love by three boys, it looked like this:

The stuffing was flattened, the seat dirty and not visible in this picture is the side that the cat decided was a nice scratching post long ago.  I love this chair because it reminds me of my Dad.  When he sat here after work decompressing from his day he was approachable and available for my childish questions or to read me my favorite comic strip in the newspaper. Although Son #2 has no memories of my Dad, he has his own fond memories of this chair developed over his own childhood.  So when I offered to have it recovered again for them to use in their nursery, he was very excited.

His wife and I had a bit of trouble picking out fabric.  Our first three choices were discontinued!  But after two trips to the upholsterer and browsing countless sample books we finally found a fabric we were happy with and would go with the rest of her nursery choices.  I picked up the chair a few days ago:

The picture doesn't do it justice...maybe because it is taken with my phone in the shop.  I like how the chair is quiet and unassuming.  It doesn't jump out at you. The softness of the fabric invites you to sit and be cozy and comfortable.  My father was a quiet, unassuming man who provided for our needs, our safety and our comfort.  So in a way the chair has become a representation of that. I love the worn spots on the arms developed over the years and most of all the idea that there will be a connection between my father and his great grandchild.  I know that I could have bought a brand new chair for less, but I could never buy that connection.  I hope our new grandchild loves the chair too and builds his/her own fond memories of it.  I've told son #2 and his wife that the chair is to be used and loved.  Don't "save it for good" or worry about spills or stains.  Just use it, rock the little one in it and know that it has been a source of comfort for several generations of our family through the years.
 

Staycation: Volume Three (Last One)

So, I know that this is the blogging equivalent of showing vacation pictures around the office, but when your brain gets old writing things down (or blogging about them) helps to cement the memory a bit.  And, if you still get brain cobwebs you can always go back and read what you wrote and remind yourself what a great time you had.  I totally understand if your yawning and want to skip on down the blogging road....but if not, indulge me for a moment.

My cousin and I had a great time comparing versions of family stories from our past.  Often we knew the same stories but the facts were a bit different.  The truth probably lies somewhere between each version.  Then we looked at old pictures and genealogy information compiled by my sister.  My cousin had never heard about our father's CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) experience.  She enjoys history from that period and it turned out that her visit coincided with a dedication ceremony at the CCC Legacy building for a memory wall.  There were a handful of CCC Boys at the ceremony from all over the country with their families. Their numbers are dwindling and most of them are in their mid 80's.  I wish I had opportunity to talk with some of them. Some day I'd like to sit down with the CCC Legacy historian and see if I can fill in some of the details of my father's service.

 

We followed this us with a trip to one of our favorite German restaurants where we were treated to some live accordion music of traditional German songs.

We stuffed ourselves with wiener schnitzel, red cabbage, spatezla, and apple crumb cake.  Both my cousin and my husband have spent time in Germany and really liked the atmosphere here.

Believe it or not, these three posts were just the highlights of our week.  We managed to do a lot, but we also left a lot undone.  Hopefully we'll have another chance to get together and explore some more. 

But now.....back to sewing.

The Clarinet: A Family Heirloom

Last weekend was our neighborhood yard sale.  My friend and I set out our wares and "played store" on Friday and Saturday and were amazed once again at the whole event.  For our last few sales she has tried to sell two trumpets that her children had used during their high school days.  As usual there were lots of lookers and many stories about band and instruments shared throughout the day.

All this talk reminded me of "The Tale of the Family Clarinet".  When I was in junior high we had the first opportunity to join band.  My mother encouraged all types of educational experiences and was very supportive of our interests.  I came home and announced that I wanted to join band and I would like to play the flute.  My mother was supportive, but also very practical minded and realistic about both money and the changing interests of children.  So she said, "We have a clarinet.  You can start there.  If you stick with it we will buy you a flute."  Well, she was right.  After a year I was done with music lessons.

Shortly after my mother died we were sitting around sharing stories.  By then the clarinet was back in my possession after being used by my niece and then my son #1.  My niece shared how she wanted to play the flute growing up, but her mother (my sister and the original clarinet owner) told her to start with the clarinet.  I answered that I also wanted to play the flute but had to start with the already purchased clarinet!  And.....when son #1 wanted to take lessons I told him, "We have a clarinet...."

We all sort of blamed my sister for thwarting our fluting dreams because she had started with that darn clarinet.  She was sitting quietly listening to the stories and surprised us all when she spoke up and said, "Wait a minute.  I wanted to play the FLUTE also!!"   So why didn't she?   Turns out that the band needed clarinets, but more importantly to our frugal mother.....there was a bargain of a sale on clarinets!

I've had the clarinet restored twice.  It still sits in it's original box, a bit lonely for company.  I have no intention of selling it.  Perhaps one of the grandchildren will want to play the flute and will join the family heritage of clarinet players with a heart for the flute.

To Those Who Stand on the Wall

Today is a holiday to honor those men and women who died while in service to our country.  My family had several members in the armed forces but to my knowledge only one died in service - my Uncle Louie.  I think no one felt his lose greater than my father. They were of like personalities, close in age and part of a large blended family (Their widowed father married a widowed woman with children of her own.) Uncle Louie died before I was born in the Pacific Theater during World War II and is known to me only through family stories.  But I think he would have probably become a favorite uncle if we had met.  

When I first met my husband and we began sharing stories of our past, we discovered how different our childhoods had been.  I lived in the same house until I left for college.  My father was home every night.  I remember only one trip he took for business which kept him away for about three nights during that entire 18 years at home.  As a child my husband moved at least every three years as his father's duty station changed.  His father was often away for long periods of time, sometimes to parts unknown.  Communication during those times was infrequent or impossible.  They had a silent, secret fear on the "notification" team when Dad was away.  I understood for the first time the truth in the saying, "They also serve who sit and wait."  How true.

During this comparison of our childhoods my husband paused and then said, "You were able to have that secure, consistent childhood because others chose to stand on the wall and keep watch.  And that's what my father and I chose to do.  We kept watch to assure that the freedom to live in peace, the ability for fathers to come home every night, the right to live as a family in a house that you owned would be possible for families like yours.  We stood on the wall."  Instantly we were connected in a new way.  All those years that I lived in the same house on the same street; all those nights that my father came home to dinner, watched TV with us and bought ice cream in the evenings - all that was possible because a man I didn't know was risking his life to keep us safe - a man I would only meet years later.  And he was not alone in his sacrifice.  There were many others also keeping watch.

And so with deep gratitude to all of those who have stood on the wall and to their families who supported them, worried about them and waited for them and with special remembrance to those who gave their lives for the protection of my life and my way of life:  Thank you. 

Steubenville Pottery: Do You Know It?

One of my weaknesses has always been dishes.  I don't go in for the fine china like Lennox or Mikasa.  I like the everyday stuff and particularly pieces from around 1940 or so.  And I'm rather fond of the potteries in the Ohio Valley.  Most of these are long gone but their wares are their legacy.  This is a dish from my mother's house that I've always loved:

It's a luncheon sized plate.  I've always liked the colors and the shape.  I have about 5 of these and perhaps six of a smaller, round size from the same pattern. I've looked and looked for more of them.  I know it's an old Steubenville Pottery pattern.  Here's the mark on the back:

I've searched antique malls, flea markets, yard sales, eBay, all without any luck.  I can't even find reference to the pattern name.  I've registered the picture with Replacements Limited....no luck. I made flyers with the above pictures and my contact information and handed them out at antiques malls from here to Columbus, Ohio.  No luck.   I've scoured the internet.  No luck.  I've considered that this may have been a pattern given out in boxes of detergent or some other product and perhaps that's why we always had so few.  I never remember an entire set of these being in our kitchen.  So, on my "bucket list" is a trip to Steubenville.  It isn't that far from Columbus (where son #3 attends school) but we have never seemed to take the time to make the little side trip up there.  I've spent time in other old pottery towns in the Ohio valley and I know that there are most likely people who worked their entire life in the pottery and could take one look at my picture and answer all my questions.  They may even have a few matching pieces.

So, my appeal is.....if any of you out there have ever seen this plate or other pieces that would match, please let me know.  And if anyone knows the pattern name or even a lead on information on older Steubenville products I would love to hear from you!

A Mother's Embroidery

Today is Mother's Day and since I've posted several times about my own mother, I thought I would write a post today about my mother-in-law.  My mother-in-law was known to me mostly by my husband's stories and my few short years of time with her.  She was truly an amazing woman who overcame quite a bit of adversity in her early life.  She was a dedicated military officer's wife and handled the uncertainty and mobility of that life with grace, loyalty and pride.  Somewhere along the line she taught herself to embroider.  I have a few pieces of her work hanging in my house.  Look at the incredible detail and perfection of the stitches.

Sadly, by the time I met her she had lost her eyesight and could no longer continue her hobby.  She faced her blindness with the same strength and grace that defined her life.  I didn't realize the depth of her needle skills until after she died and we were cleaning out her apartment and I realized just how very much the loss of her eyesight had taken away from her.  I'm glad these pieces remain.  Belongings are often a very temporary thing in the career military family with items being purged at every move.  These exemplify her elegance and grace.  Her story tells of her tenacity and strength.  I'm privileged to have known her even if only for such a short time

Remember When

A few days ago I shared pictures of some recently finished blocks including this one:

Notice the pink fabric in the pinwheel?  That piece of fabric has been in my stash for a long time.  Every time I considered using it, the color just didn't fit.  The pink is sort of pale and it didn't go with much.  But when I went to make this block, it was the perfect fit.  The red has some pink in it also which isn't visible in this picture.  Anyway, I opened up this fabric to find that it was way older than I realized.  Apparently it was bought by my mother and somehow ended up with me.  The fabric is only 36 inches wide. (I remember when that was the norm and we were glad to find 45 inch fabric to work with!)  But, best of all though, the price tag was still attached.

Can you believe that price?!?!  Wow.  And now it's vintage fabric. 

CCC: 80th Anniversary

This year marks the 80th anniversary of the Civilian Conservation Corps.  The CCC was started with a twofold purpose: to help with the rampant unemployment of the early 1930s and to provide assistance for our national forests.  The group provided labor for many tree planting and conservation programs and built countless parks and camps that are still in use today throughout the nation.  Many young men were able to work and send money home to their families.  Sometimes their  service took them many many miles away from home to parts of the country vastly unfamiliar to them.  And most of these young men were changed forever in ways small and large.   My father was one of these young men.

He served in Idaho protecting trees from blister rust.  He loved the opportunity to live in the woods - a drastically different environment from the Bronx.  And while he was there he sent home pictures like the one above with notes written on the back to his parents.  Most of the money went home with a small stipend going to the CCC boys for necessities.  He was never a stranger to hard work, but the opportunity to perform it in the midst of nature was a special treat.

I've read many accounts written by CCC boys.  I've never read a complaint about the conditions, the hard work or the compensation they earned.  Everyone always expresses gratitude at the opportunity to participate and the chance to help their families. It is so different from the entitlement attitudes we hear so much of today.

We have spent a few weekends in cabins built by the CCC in nearby state parks.  The simple fact that they still stand strong after 80 years is testament to the quality of the construction.  Each cabin is made of hand felled and hewn logs with huge stone fireplaces and cozy front porches.

I've never been to Idaho to see where my Dad worked, but it is an item on my "bucket list".  There are no structures there to visit but it would still be nice to see the forests in that area and experience the scenes that so affected him.  His love of the outdoors led to family vacations in the mountains which in turn led to my own love for the outdoors.   Such a simple program with such long reaching benefits.  I wish our social programs today produced results of this magnitude.

My Yarn-ly Heritage

Yesterday you got to see the exciting product of my vast knitting skill.  It doesn't really do justice to the rich knitting/crocheting heritage passed down to me from my mother.  So I thought one more post was in order.
My mother was the best seamstress on the block.  She enjoyed every aspect of sewing.  But much of it was a necessity.  There was mending and alterations and the need for "fancy" clothes which, in years gone by were much less expensive to make than to buy.  But she also liked to crochet and knit and reupholster and embroider and do needlepoint.  The crafts other than sewing were all recreational.  While she often knitted hats and sweaters, mostly she did them for the challenge or the beauty - not to save money or provide warmth.  So in a way, these were hobbies she did for herself.

Many of the items she made are still around the houses of various family members. Each of my sons has a "Nana afghan".  None of the boys  men are sentimental, but they all treasure their Nana afghan dearly.  There are hats, a baby sweater, balaclavas, a rug  sprinkled throughout the family that all stand testament to her talents.

When I got back into knitting my sister gave me a bag filled with our mother's knitting needles.  The bag itself is amazing.  I wish I knew the story behind it.  It's handmade and rather worn.  But I always remember it being worn so it must have been in her possession for a long time.  I washed carefully.  I have no idea what the fabric originally looked like.  And I don't know if what I washed off was dirt, dye or more likely, a combination:

Here's what was inside:

They weren't organized like that.  I tried to group them by size hoping that I could use some of them.  There are wooden needles, plastic needles, aluminum.....even a few marked "made in Czechoslovakia".  There are double sided needles and stitch holders for doing cable stitching, several rulers and some instructions.  The plastic needles are pretty fragile.  Sadly, I broke one trying to use it during my recent knitting revival.  Some had been used so much that the color was worn off the tips.

They will continue to live in that bag as they have for my entire life, and probably for years before that,  as a tribute to my favorite crafter of all time.

My Childhood BFF

First, let me apologize to any quilters out there for my lack of quilting/sewing related posts lately.  I've been sewing, but I have little to show for it.  Some projects aren't going as planned with frustrations of many types: I've broken needles, sewed things together backwards or upside down, chosen fabric poorly, had thread break, nest and just plain look awful and lots of other errors that I thought I would never make again - all resulting in a lot of un-sewing (again, such a kinder word than "ripping out").  Perhaps next week I'll have a finished project to share.

Anyway, today I was thinking about a friend from my early childhood.  When I was about three or four, my best friend was named Mary Lou.  We liked all the same things, we played well together and had lots of fun.  But here's the thing: only I could see Mary Lou because she was invisible to everyone else.   She was a small brunette with shoulder length hair and light eyes. We entertained each other for days.  My mother, bless her heart, went along with the entire invisible friend thing.  My sister's introduction to Mary Lou was a bit dramatic.  She came home from school one day and let the screen door slam behind her only to hear me shriek, "You shut the door on Mary Lou!!"  She became a bit confused when she looked behind her and saw nothing.  My mother quickly explained, in a very uncritical way about my special friend.  And my sister just rolled with it, too.

And, since one thing that all kids like is a birthday party, I decided that Mary Lou needed to have one.  My mother baked a cake and helped me prepare the party.  Of course Mary Lou's seat was "empty" but the others had stuffed animals in them.  I also recruited my family members to help sing.  About this time my practical father was a bit concerned that his youngest child was...well....crazy.  I remember my parents talking in hushed tones about weather I needed to see the doctor.  My mother assured him that this was a normal phase and that it would go away.  He didn't look too reassured.

But Mary Lou did go away.  I don't remember when or why so it mustn't have been particularly traumatic.  We just stopped playing together and I guess I moved on to other interests or perhaps some real relationships with other children.  I still remember her well, but she has never changed or grown up in my mind.  I guess that's a good thing, or we would be saying "schizophrenia" instead of "childhood phase".  Hmm....maybe she sews?

Sewing Machines I've Known

I've been wanting to write a post about the different sewing machines that I've used over the years and the present machine blog hop was just the inspiration I needed.

The first machine that my mother had during my years in the family was a Domestic brand model 153.  It was a straight stitch only with reverse.  She had a cam driven button hole maker attachment for it that she loved.  Instead of a foot peddle, the machine was powered by a knee control.  It looked like this:

Here's the button hole attachment:

It lived in front of a window in our dining room in a cabinet like this:

Sadly, while I still own the cabinet, the machine no longer lives with any family members.
One day in the late 1960's my father came home with a new machine.  (There's a rather colorful story about how this machine was acquired, but that's perhaps better kept quiet).  It was a Visetti brand model 965 and it did zig zag stitching!  We thought we were hot stuff now!  Zig zag stitching!  Imagine?!!  The old machine didn't go away though and my mother still used it for button holes. I think perhaps it was a favorite.

This is the machine I did most of my early sewing on and after awhile it was given to me.  I bought a small cabinet and installed it into the cabinet.  But several moves ago I let it go to live with a stranger.

Then, when I was in high school, my mother began to do alterations for a local dry cleaner.  She needed a machine that could handle the newer knit fabrics of the day.  So she invested in a Sears Kenmore model 1914.  It had lots of stitches and a collection of cams and monogram plates to do decorative stitching.  My Dad installed it into the cabinet that the Domestic machine used and the Domestic went into retirement in a closet. I was allowed to play on this machine when she wasn't busy letting someone's pants in or out (often the same someone who apparently kept changing sizes) or replacing a zipper or shortening a dress.  The first Christmas after she got it I made monogrammed cloth napkins for everyone in the family.

I still have this machine.  It still lives in the cabinet from the Domestic but it also is living the retired life in a closet.  Perhaps one day I'll take her out and see how she runs.  I've been curious about comparing the stitching with the mechanical cams to the decorative stitching on my new computerized machines.

If you want to follow along on the machine blog hop this week, you can start here and follow the links to the other blogs.  Happy hopping.

Valentine's Day Memories

My most special Valentine's Day memory is about my Dad.  He treated Valentine's Day as his very special holiday  to celebrate his love for us.  Every year his present for my Mom and me was the same: red heart shaped boxes of chocolate.  Her box was always the larger of the two and each year he would explain to me that she got the biggest box because she was the Mommy....she was his special, lifelong love.  And somehow the way he explained it made perfect sense to me.  I didn't feel that he loved me any less, just that they had something very special that created a strong foundation for our family.  And the sameness and predictability of the gift was a perfect symbol of his love and care for that family: rock solid, unwavering, permanent, secure.

Often there was also a card along with the candy.  One year when I was a young teen he signed the card: From your first valentine, Daddy.  I didn't have a boyfriend at that time but he knew that I stood on the brink of dating and all the potential heartache associated with that stage of life.  He wanted me to know that no matter what other valentine's would come and go, he was there always.

One year was extra special in a bittersweet way.   Dad was physically weak from months of illness and medical treatment, but he wanted to maintain his Valentine's Day tradition.  Although he shouldn't have been driving, one day he managed to sneak out of the house without anyone knowing and drive to a local department store.  He went to the candy department, but was amazed that he didn't see any candy hearts for sale.  He found a helpful clerk and asked  what had happened to the Valentine's Day candy.  She kindly asked him if he was late for the current year or early for the next. In the confusion of his illness and medical appointments he had miscalculated and was a week too late for the holiday!  He was deeply disappointed.  Time had become his enemy and I think he knew in his heart of hearts that he wouldn't have another Valentine's Day to correct his error. The kind woman must have seen the despair on his face and told him that if he could wait a few minutes she would check in the back to see if any of the Valentine's Day stock remained.  She came back with two heart shaped boxes of chocolate!  Dad expressed his gratitude and headed home.  Needless to say, we were surprised!

And that was the last valentine from my first valentine.

Strufoli

Strufoli (often pronounced "strew-fulls" by my family)  was a special treat from my childhood.  My mother made these every Christmas.  In fact, it was a group project.  It's an Italian sweet made with an egg rich dough that is cut into small balls, fried and then coated in honey and decorated with sprinkles.  When she could, my mother bought the honey from an old lady in town who kept some hives in her back yard.  Believe it or not, I found a picture online (Isn't the internet a remarkable thing?):

I've never made them myself, but was starting to wish I could taste them again and was considered trying to recreate this memory.  Imagine my delight when son #1 showed up at Thanksgiving with some!!  He had found them in an Italian bakery and remembered them from his childhood visits to his Nana.  I was SO excited.  In fact, I may have eaten the entire package over several days. 

The Beach: Once More in 2012

I've been busy having fun for the past week.  We returned to our favorite beach in Duck, North Carolina and were joined this time by my brother and his wife.  The weather was near perfect and it seemed like we were trying to squeeze in all the activities that we haven't been able to do during our last few beach trips.  Here are a few pictures:

The sea oats were beautiful:

As were the sunrises:

We flew the pig flag (which is a great way to tell which house is yours when you are walking on the beach):

did a little puzzling....this one turned out to be super difficult.  The pieces were so similar that we spent a lot of time reworking areas we had already done.  We never did get it finished.  It didn't help that the box contained pieces from some other puzzle and a few pieces were missing completely.

and discovered the beauty of the sound side of the island....

It was nice to spend extended time with my brother and sister-in-law talking about old times and making new memories.  We love the little house that we rent and the area. And it was nice to introduce others to a place we enjoy so much.  So, we bid the beach a warm farewell.......until next year.



Buttons Tell a Lot About A Woman

I've been working on several small projects lately and one of them needs a few buttons.  It so happens that I have inherited the button collections of two great women:  my mother and my mother-in-law.  I also have a small button collection of my own.  I was looking through the collections for a compatible button and noticed that in a small way each collection tells a story and brings to mind a different set of memories.

For instance, this is my mother's button collection in the original container.  The collection has been around for my entire life.  I remember looking through it when I was growing up.  I remember that she kept it in the dining room hutch behind the bottom left side door.  Occasionally I would try to"organize" the buttons for her, but with this group the task was nearly impossible.

I remember a lot of these buttons, too.  Some of them were from clothing she wore, some just were always there.  And the collection speaks to my mothers practical nature.  She saved every button.  If a garment wore out and became a rag, she harvested the buttons first. There were a few fancy ones, but most of them were very practical buttons.  The drawers also contains some stray items - medals, coins, upholstery and hat pins.  I've kept them there just because it seems like that's where they should be.  About 8 years ago I made a set of tab valances for my kitchen and used these buttons as decoration at each tab - a practical use for the buttons of a practical sewer.

Next I have my mother-in-laws buttons.  These were stored in two plastic containers inside her sewing box.  I put them into this jar.  She did a lot of embroidery, but I don't believe she ever did garment sewing or quilting.  She was a very elegant woman whose dress was impecible.  She was tall and thin and looked good in most fashions.  She favored Pendelton, Neiman Marcus and Lord and Taylor for her clothing.  And most of these buttons came from the extras that are attached to each dress or suit.  What strikes me most about her collection is that when I open the jar, I smell her perfume!  And I'm immediately transported back to the little bit of time that I was privileged to spend with her before she died.

And lastly there are my buttons.  My collection is a mixture of leftovers from projects, extras from clothing and those buttons that fall off but you never get to sew them on and then one day you realize that you no longer own the garment anyway.  They tend to be practical but not as plentiful as my mother's and there are very few "extras" mixed in with the buttons.  Some represent garments made for me in the past or favorite items and several are from the husbands shirts or coats.

On occasion the practical me thinks that I should just combine all the buttons in a more practical container, but then the sentimental me wins out and I decide to keep it all as is.  I like to open the squeeky draws of my mother's collection and think of her searching for the correct number of identical buttons to complete her project.  I like to open my mother-in-laws jar of buttons and smell the faint wiffs of her perfume and I like to see my button collection grow through the different seasons of my life adding to it now and again with different projects.

I think I may be the last "keeper of the buttons".  I have no daughters.  My sons would think the whole thing silly.  Perhaps a daughter-in-law will pick up the baton and carry on the button collection or perhaps I will be blessed with a grand daughter and live long enough to share the button stories with her.  But for now I will remain the "keeper of the buttons" using a few here and there as I need them.  It's not a collection for the sake of a collection.  It's a practical, working collection - because that's the way a button collection is most appreciated by all - when you find that one special button that gives just the right look for your project, or just the right closure for your pants!

Trash and Treasure

Twice a year my neighborhood has a community wide yard sale and Saturday is "the" day.  So we've been busily cleaning out closets and creating a "store" in the garage.  I have a friend who joins me in this craziness and this year my sister will also be participating in the fun in preparation for her upcoming move.  Usually the husband finds a reason to be away, but this year I've recruited him to be support staff for those of us on the front lines.  Saturday is usually chaotic and fast paced starting at first light and finishing by early afternoon.  This year we've decided to start on Friday to get a "jump on the action."  Truth be told, there is so much work to get ready that it seems to make more sense to offer our treasures for two days and increase our odds of not having to handle these items again.

You might be thinking, "Why not just donate this stuff?"  And you would have a valid point.  And often we do just make a trip to one of the many charities in town.  But sometimes the yard sale venue offers a bit of satisfaction that a donation doesn't.  When I have a "treasure" that I'm finally ready to part with and someones trades me some money for it (even if it's just 25 cents) it makes me think that they want and value my "treasure".  Maybe they don't value it too much - especially those who will offer me 10 cents for an item I've priced at 25 - but they've made the effort to take it home, so they must see something in that old album or coffee pot or jigsaw puzzle.

And I'm always amused by the choices people make.  Sometimes we try to guess what items will sell first.  Our track record is about perfect....we are most always wrong.  Occasionally the item that I almost threw in the trash is the first one sold!  And the item that seems like a wonderful treasure to me remains unsold at the end.  We have one fairly firm rule, though:  nothing returns to the house.  If it doesn't sell, it goes directly into the car to be taken to a local charity.  I will admit that there are occasional exceptions to that rule, but for the most part we determine to let go of our "treasures" one way or another.

The real reward is the space in the closets and the empty shelves in the garage rather than the money.  I'm one of those people who feels calmer and uncluttered of mind when my surroundings are also uncluttered.  It's just hard to balance that with some of the memories that I tie to various objects.  But, as I said from the start, life is a balancing act. 

Letters: A Gift that Keeps on Giving

I wrote last year about unexpectedly being reunited with some old letters from my mother.  Well, recently I've been doing some cleaning out and "purging".  I came across a collection of letters that I've saved over the recent past.  Many were some from my sons.  It was SO nice to re-read them and think about them at younger ages.  I could imagine them looking for a card or trying to make a card for me for a particular occasion.  In some of the longer letters son #1 talks about his plans at that time in his life.  Things didn't quite follow that plan but he seems to have dealt well with the twists and turns of life. Those same little boys still live within the men they've become - just buried a bit under their adult lives, responsibilities and concerns.  I'm glad to have those letters to re-read just as I'm glad to have the letters from my parents.  They're truly a gift that gives over and over and over.