Autumn's Treasures

Autumn has been taking me on a treasure hunt. I’m lured by jewel-like colors and fleeting scents to find the moment’s gem. Brief, and timed just for this season, the little gifts invite me to slow down to savor them. 

In my yard, heads of rosy sedum have changed from the green of August to the pale pink of early September, and now to rich rose. Tall clusters of them draw me, and the butterflies, out to the flower beds. 

Like purple BBs, the fruit of the beauty berry bush lies in clusters along the arching stems. 

Red berries grow now in the wild dogwood trees, and a swarm of thirty or so little chattering birds whoosh into the tree to eat, and then down to the ground. They lift in a tight group, swirl and return.  Their gathering reminds me that soon I will hear huge flocks of them filling a group of trees with their babble, and then they'll lift off-- sometimes creating a sky path that covers a quarter of a mile. 

Out my front door the holly I have trained into a tree showers me with a floral fragrance from its small white blossoms. The first fall it happened I stopped on the porch and had to follow the scent to the source. I never knew holly could smell like a tropical flower. Now I look forward to its annual arrival.

My neighbors celebrate with lawn decorations. My favorites aren’t the spooks and haints (Appalachian for ghost). I like the scarecrows who are welcoming in their go-to-meetin’ clothes, with straw bales, mums and pumpkins as symbols of the changing season. 

In commemoration of love ones passed, the flowers on the headstones change from pastels to oranges and yellows and reds.  And while out walking though the cemetery I smell the first wood smoke of the season promising comfort and coziness.

May autumn's pleasures capture you today. 

Thank You, Danke, Gracias

What do brides hate and grandmothers love?  Thank you notes.

I was raised to show respect with my manners. I responded to adult questions and instructions with “yes ma’am”  and “no sir.”  I wore white gloves to church and my cotillion dance lessons. My hankies were clean and pressed, tucked into a pocket for any emergency. I wrote thank you notes for gifts received. 

In the culture wars of the 1960’s in San Francisco the old manners were dropped like a hot plate without an oven mitt.  Buses had to hang signs reminding us that the front seats were for the infirm and elderly. I remember a young mom toting her baby in one arm and hanging onto the overhead bar on the bus with the other. A business man sat on the aisle and ignored her difficulty - until the baby, jolted with every bump, spit up on him. 

Living as a young adult in the unstarched West, people my senior told me to call them by their first names. People only wore gloves for cold weather. And I seldom sent thank yous.

Then I moved to North Carolina, officially part of the fabled American South.  I noted two major differences in good manners. First, my fellow teachers called me Mrs. Glover instead of Pam.  Young teachers answered me with “yes ma’am”. And second, everybody wrote thank you notes--for everything!

It took a while but I learned to write them too. The first big hint was when I got monogramed note paper for a gift. Of course, I wrote a thank you back on it.  Once I took dinner to a young mom who was bedridden and got the thank you note so quickly I thought she must have had it written before I delivered the meal.  

When invited to a luncheon I took flowers as a hostess gift.  A couple of days later, I got a note from my hostess. I was agog to receive a thank you for my thank you! 

I’m doing my part to pass along this good habit.  My grandson, husband and I recently went kayaking with friends. Later I told Sam he’d have to write a thank you. He was mystified. “I never had to write a note for going to somebody’s house before!” My son-in-law explained that he’d write one if he wanted to get invited back. So he did. And this week, Sam got a thank you note from our hostess for his note. 

It’s taken some getting used to, but I see this little ritual as a gentle reminder that every act of kindness deserves attention--and it's worth every word you put on paper. 

Aprons - beyond the kitchen

I’m not much of a collector. I don’t have oodles of purses like some women or tiny blown-glass animals like my great Aunt Clara. But I am fond of aprons and have many than I can use. They have much to commend them; they don’t have to be dusted or displayed in expensive cabinets.  They don’t cost so much I feel guilty. 

A Aprons are artifacts of culture, whether home-made or manufactured. I love the ones sewn by creative housewives during the 1940s and ‘50s.  Some aprons are pleated, many have clever pockets, while others are gathered and full as a dance skirts.  I value them as bits of beauty.

P       Usually they're practical and sturdy for wiping messy hands or catching a last minute spill. I use many of mine, but some are too fancy. One is made of sheer net, with satin ribbon ties. It must have been for party wear. 

 





I love to display them. For example, here I used them as place mats. My back door window displays three in a column to keep the sun out.  I have hung them on blank walls as textile art pieces, or draped them four and five at a time on folding rack. 

R      They remind me of people and places.

In Guatemala I bought an apron woven and sewn at a women’s collective. The fabric is heavy and dark, shot through with subtle variations in the threads that create designs within the design. This type of apron was traditionally a gift from mother-in-law to her son’s new bride to symbolize the change in kitchen leadership! 

 Later at the market one of the weavers recognized me and helped me buy an every day apron, a gingham skirt of pleats and rick-rack with a concealed zipper pocket to safeguard the shopping cash. 

My grandmothers wore aprons all of the time. I have one I took apart for a pattern and remade in vintage fabric. My great-grandmother hand-stitched a plain white apron of lightweight fine cotton with beautiful lace and a tiny gathered pocket. I can’t imagine she’d ever wear it to cook in. 

     A friend gave me her grandmother's tiny, tiny crocheted apron. It has a bib which she pinned to her dress while serving at church potlucks.

O Sure, they're old fashioned but not obsolete. There’s a web community of apron collectors. And there’s a resurgence in hand-made aprons. My grandkids and their momma received matching aprons last Christmas. (Not from me.)  Window-shopping at the airport recently I drooled over a colorful bibbed apron which would have been a guilty pleasure had I bought it. 

N I have to wear an apron to stay neat and clean when I cook. Otherwise, I’m like a kid who wipes her hands on her clothes.

S     For so many reasons aprons are special. When I open my apron drawer, or look in the bags that keep my collection color-coded and dust-free, I see a metaphor for a synapse. Each one makes a connection between me and some woman I will never met--but wondered about while I handle her apron.

Can painted plates or salt and pepper shakers do that? 

Leave a comment about your favorite apron!  

  http://tipnut.com/free-apron-patterns-tutorials/

Traveling Mercies

I usually pray for safety when I travel.  But I’ve heard others ask for traveling mercies. I finally understand that means  unexpected goodness in the middle of unfavorable circumstances.

The night before a recent trip I discovered that the route took me into La Guardia in NYC, and out of Newark, NJ.  In a panic I called the booking company. Sorry, they couldn’t do anything about it. I called the airline. Sure, they could find me a more direct route--for an additional $600!  Finally I found a shuttle service that ran between the airports, and I could probably make the cross town trip in the three hours I had between the flights. I prayed that I’d make my connection, and went to bed. The next day I checked in and hoped for a complimentary reroute. No go. 

The flight departed on time--a good start. Even better, the small commuter jet flew up the Hudson River close enough to the Statue of Liberty to wave. What a thrill!  On the ground, I found and paid for the shuttle--on my way within minutes. This was going great. 

Plowing through traffic I felt prompted to pray for the multi-cultural people and neighborhoods I passed, the skyscrapers and the businesses inside of them. I felt connected to the city. Enjoying my mini tour, I laughed at the sign threatening a $350.00 fine for honking horns. Really, are there cops with time to run down a blaring Buick? And the guy wearing a shirt that said “New York City eats its young.” What's with that?

Mercy transformed my mistake into fun, and made me glad I’d missed another boring connection through Atlanta.

Six weeks later I headed west again. This time weather delayed my departure, and after two hours I knew I had missed my connection. I fretted, I stewed, I imagined that the subsequent flights would be full and I would be stranded.  I wanted God to fix it. 

The man sitting next to me stayed calm even though his cellphone conversation revealed he'd miss his connections to Belgium and Africa.  Intrigued, I asked him the purpose of his trip.  He was a pastor going to continue community development work in rural Africa that his church supported. I admitted that I believed in God, even though wasn't acting like it.  I poured out my frustration and fear that I'd get stuck in New York. He said he would pray for me. Then, for a couple of peaceful hours, he answered my questions about the community development.  The deprivations those people faced put my inconvenience in perspective.

Twice I experienced "traveling mercies." 

Next trip I'll ask for the grace as I zip my suitcase, and look for it along the way.

Are you a cupcake, muffin or biscuit?

Are you a cupcake, muffin, or biscuit?

Before I'd heard of personality inventories I contrived my own system to peg the women around me. Of course it's unscientific but I found a certain homey truth to it.  It's no more far-fetched than answering questions in a teacher in-service to determine if my mental operating system was like an oval, triangle, circle or square. 

I typecast a "cupcake" based on her big smile even though standing next to a car with a flat tire and a screaming baby in the backseat.  Could I call her "Honey" or "Sugar" without offending her?  I imagined her inner resolve to be light and easily squashed.

That was a long time ago, and maybe it had to do with our youth and the misguided mission to conceal inner junk.  I can't think of a woman I know today who I'd call a cupcake.

The muffins are unadorned, hearty and appealing. They  take more risks than the cupcakes. They are discerning and speak their minds without being unkind. My friend Florence is a muffin. She suggested that despite my zeal, teaching vacation Bible school wasn't my strength.

Most of my friends now are muffins: dependable and accepting. They don't worry about looking as good as cupcakes because they have developed substantial inner beauty. 

I label myself a biscuit--crusty on the outside, but softer on the inside.  Biscuits will stick to your ribs, they’re basic, no surprises.  Not so good alone, better with strawberry jam added. We do tend to be frank, sometimes, unpalatably so. But you know a biscuit won’t sugar coat the truth to keep from hurting feelings. 

My daughters and I tried to explain our system to my son-in-law. Then we asked him what his old girlfriend was. He thought about it and answered “unbaked cookie dough.”  Gooey.  He made a wise choice with daughter number one, a tasty muffin.  

I never bake cupcakes, can’t make a decent biscuit. Here are two of my favorite muffin recipes, which I admit are more like cupcakes than biscuits. Maybe I'm getting  sweeter with age. 

http://www.tasteofhome.com/Recipes/Low-Fat-Chocolate-Muffins

http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/peach-streusel-muffins-10000000461494/

Gratification in a Laundry Basket

There aren’t many household chores I relish. But today I hung small clothes on the tree-tethered clothesline. 

Grandson Sam, 8, is visiting. When he dressed for church  I discovered every shirt was dirty. In desperation I grabbed one of my white T-shirts for him. It wasn’t ridiculously big, but it was long, and when I tucked it in it made a snake sized tube around his hips. So I took the least soiled shirt from the pile, washed the worst spots by hand, and dried them with my hair drier. Bingo.

    Later, after a Sam-load of dirty clothes, I smiled to see the boy-sized swimming trunks and shirts next to my husband’s tee. They reminded me of hundreds of loads that I pinned outside under the Colorado sky. The air is so dry there that I could hang clothes out even in winter.  One day with temps in the low 30’s I hung out a load of cloth diapers that froze as soon as they hit the air. But they were dry by twilight. 
  

   Laundry can create enviable line art.  One neighbor had a large family and her wash was color themed--jewel tone blouses and dresses swayed one day, grey and khaki trousers danced like phantoms in pants the next.  Yet another load would be white sheets and shirts, wind-filled sails on a boat going nowhere. 

This summer we installed a new rotating contraption at the family vacation place. I was tired of trying to dry wet towels on the shady side of the barn. I can stand in one place and swing it around around to fill the lines supported by four orange arms. Quick and efficient. But living green is a minor goal.

     I love the warmth of sun-soaked garments, the matchless scent of meadow-dried sheets and the sound they make snapping in a brisk breeze. The ritual of transferring wet laundry from my woven basket to an outdoor clothesline and looking up to the sky pleases me. 
   I hope you find gratification in some simple task today.

  
http://www.lehmans.com/store/Home_Goods___Laundry___Drying___Large_Spinning_Clothes_Dryer___1154445#1154445

Time Bridge

  

     I married into a family whose legacy is 30 acres of forest perched beside a small tidal cove on Puget Sound. 

My grandchildren are the sixth generation to spend some part of their summers here. 

     Throughout our stay we bridge the past and the present for the children.

    

We sleep in a hundred year old barn built by a homesteading Swede. Some time ago my mother in law had the barn's massive square log walls restored and the interior retrofitted as a rustic living space.  Our beds sit where there was once hay.  A fire in the small wood stove chases the chill away, and its crackling is a gentle wake-up call.

    Hiking through the woods on the unpaved path we refer to as Norrie's road  we tell a story about the great-great grandpa for whom  it is named. On the way to the beach we point out the site of  Aunt Jane's wedding thirty years ago  and describe to the kids what their six year old mom wore.  My husband teaches the kids to catch crabs, poke gooey ducks (a type of clam), and build forts to be defended against the incoming tide the way he did.

   The grands are seven and under so their conception of the past is fuzzy. Currently their memory bridge is like a primitive jungle vine V stretched over a ravine. They need more afternoons pouring over photo albums learning the who's who of the family tree. They need more raucous dinners shared with second and third cousins, great aunt and uncle and lots of story telling.  

    We're building a bridge from Now to Then, and someday--to the future.