The Gift

It’s time, she tells herself. Time to give this away to someone else.  Someone who needs to know the power of those six words as much as I did. Clutched tightly in her hand is a penny. Plain and ordinary.  Worn smooth, the date no longer discernable.  Certainly not very valuable.

But worth can be deceiving.

♥♥♥

She was looking down, on that frosty night.   Focused on her coin purse, her fingers trying to find a quarter to put in the black kettle that stood next to one of the many street corner Santas populating the city in December. She was looking down, searching, when the mitten clad hand of a stranger entered her field of vision.  Palm open, and  filled with pennies-enough pennies to just about cover the price of a cup of coffee.  Judging from the ragged appearance of the mitten, and the threadbare hem of the coat sleeve above it, the wearer was down on his luck, and in view of such unfortunate circumstances, both his greeting, and his generosity surprised her.

Merry Christmas!  Here, take a penny!

She was feeling down that frosty night, as well.  Unloved, and unappreciated.  Certain that there was not another soul in heaven or on earth who gave her a second thought.  Friendless, and forlorn.  She had stopped to put a quarter in the black kettle because it was less awkward than simply walking past and giving nothing, and when she looked up at him-the expression on her face framed with questions-he whispered six words.

Give what you do not have.

Give what you do not have. Love-when you feel unloved.  Thanks-when no one seems to appreciate what you do.  Praise-when your own accomplishments go unnoticed.  Sympathy-when you are in need of comfort.  Take that which you long for in your own life, and make a gift of it to someone else.

His eyes were shining as he finished his message.  Shining more brightly than the fluorescent light illuminating the queue of poor waiting in line at the soup kitchen across the street.  The line he was about to join.

There are many good people out there-if only you will let them find you.

♥♥♥

She is looking down, focused on her coin purse-her fingers searching for the familiar shape of pennies.  Enough pennies to just about pay for a cup of coffee.  It’s cold outside tonight, and she will need to wear her mittens.

 

Merry Christmas, dear readers!  May your holidays be blessed with much happiness, love and joy-and I will be back next week!

Valerie  xx

A Favorite Book

Night Tree, by Eve Bunting, is one of my most favorite stories to read this time of year.  I first bought a copy when Amy was a baby, but I misplaced it a couple years ago.  This year, I bought a new copy, because I didn’t want to let another Christmas go by without reading it.  In a nutshell, it’s a wonderful story about a family’s yearly tradition of going into the woods to decorate their special tree with gifts of food for the animals. The book is short, but the text is beautifully written and the illustrations are magical.  I highly recommend it!

Do you have a favorite Christmas book?

26

I’m still grateful to those guys.  Even though I never got their names.  They came along at the right time-just when we needed them.

The previous summer, Stuart and I had moved to Western New York from the much milder town of Corvallis Oregon, and the harshness of our new surroundings in winter caught us off guard.  A snowy road-one late afternoon, a bully of another driver-right on our tail as we were returning home from a neighboring village, and lack of proper traction devices spelled disaster as we skidded off the road into a deep bank of snow.  (And to our shock and dismay, the bully driver kept right on going!)  I remember the panic I felt at the seemingly hopeless state of our situation.

And then they showed up.  Half a dozen of the toughest looking young men I’d ever seen, and my first reaction, I’m ashamed to admit, was that in addition to being stranded, we were now going to be robbed.  Oh was I ever wrong.  Scrambling out of a big old beat up truck, and armed with chains and able bodies, those dear boys proceeded to push and pull us out of the snow bank.  They made sure we were ok and fit to travel again, all the while shrugging off our profuse thanks, and then then they were gone. 

While the kindness of these fellows and what they did for us could be written off as simply the right and decent thing to do, given the gravity of our situation, still, it was a choice they made-to do good, instead of letting the opportunity go by. And it also reinforced my belief that when it comes right down to it, for the most part, we want to help one another-in fact, we can’t help ourselves.

Random acts of kindness. The big ones as well as the small ones.  Moments when the light of humanity shines the brightest.

It’s what the world needs more of, so desperately, right now.

 

 

 

Sugar Cookies

1  1/2 cups powdered sugar
1 cup butter, softened        
1 egg

In the first few hours of the day, her kitchen is cold, but in spite of this, she sets to work.  From her tin recipe box-decorated with colorful fruits and vines, she pulls out a dog eared card.  Christmas Sugar Cookies

1 teaspoon   vanilla      
2  1/2  cups flour

She brushes a stray piece of silvered hair from her eyes to better see this recipe that she is about to follow.  Over the years, she’s made these cookies dozens of times,  but she wants to make sure, once again, that they are perfect.

1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cream of tartar

As she measures, and pours, and stirs, her mind begins to wander, but the path it takes is familiar.  She is remembering  other years, and other baking days when this very same recipe was the one that lay on the counter in front of her.  A lot of water under the old bridge, she  thinks to herself.  94 years worth of water.

Cream together the  powdered sugar, butter, egg, vanilla, baking soda and cream of tartar.  Mix in flour.  Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.  Roll out small portions of dough 3/16”  thick on lightly floured surface. Cut into shapes.  Bake at 375 degrees for  7 to 8 minutes until golden brown.  Let cool, and frost, if desired.

                                                          *****

In the way that 94 years can go by in the blink of an eye, this day has come to an end.  She pours herself  a glass of milk and drinks it, and then pours a second glass, and sets it on a painted wooden tray.   From her china cupboard-older than she is-she takes out a piece of her best Haviland china.  A salad plate.  On it, she carefully arranges three cookies, and puts the plate on the tray beside the milk.  Taking the tray to the living room, she places it on the coffee table next to her Christmas tree.

She tucks herself into bed, but she knows that it will be hard to sleep tonight.  She has nothing to fear though.  She has been a very good girl this year.

                                                            *****

Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmas-time. 

~Laura Ingalls Wilder

                                                               

This post is dedicated to children everywhere, both big and small.  Blessings to you, dear readers.

 

Just Delia

 

Dear readers, this story is one of the very first pieces of fiction I ever tried my hand at writing, and I hope you enjoy it. At the moment, I  also have an awful cold and thought reposting something I’d previously written would be the easy way out today. I hope to be right as rain tomorrow, and I will be stopping by your blogs and reading and commenting. In the meantime-my thoughts are with each of you. Valerie xx

                                                               *****

She wasn’t happy about it.  Not one little bit. She’d yelled at her coat, kicked one of her snow boots. Nevertheless, she’d been elected.  Everyone else claimed to have something more important to do.  And besides.  No one liked making time for Delia.  As Lucy drove the unfamiliar roads to her great aunt’s house, the flakes seemed to be getting bigger, and falling harder. Great.  Just great.  At this rate, I’ll end up getting snowed in at the old bat’s house.

Lucy was momentarily taken aback when Delia answered the door. Her great aunt looked ancient now, but then it had been years since Lucy last saw her.  Guilt stabbed her over this neglect, but the moral discomfort vanished when she remembered being here in her childhood.  Eat your peas Toots, and when you grow up you’ll have some dangerous curves on you!  Look at all those freckles!  You’ll have lots of boyfriends, mark my words!  Between the cheek pinching and the endless servings of vegetables, Lucy detested every visit. As she stepped into the warmth of her great aunt’s home, she became aware of Delia’s hands fumbling to help her out of her sugar dusted coat.  That’s better! I don’t want you to catch a chill!  My, but it’s really snowing out there, isn’t it?  Delia was shyly attempting small talk, though Lucy’s dry reply was in thought only.  Cold, uncaring thought.  Well, well, well.  The old bird is sharp today.  What a treat.   Half an hour, and I’m out of here.

My stars!  How could it have happened so long ago?  It seems like only yesterday!  I still clearly remember that blizzard-right before Christmas, back in 1946. Delia was reminiscing, staring out the picture window in her front room. The snow, falling like feathery goose down, seemed to have whited out the passage of time as well as the world outside.  She’d made steaming mugs of hot cocoa. Trying to be a good hostess as well as a doting great aunt.  Lucy held her cup with both hands, secretly trying to glance at her watch.  Stifling a yawn, she hoped Delia’s story wouldn't last too long.

The war was finally over and Jack was home.  I’d been writing  to him for 3 years.  I still have his letters.  Anyway, he asked me to go for a walk in the snow.  We didn't count on being caught in the middle of a major storm.  We took refuge in someone’s barn and ended up being stuck in there for hours.  There wasn’t much to do but talk and… 

Delia blushed, yet there was a sauciness in her eyes.

I let him kiss me.  He asked me to marry him.  He said we were going to be together for always.

Lucy snapped out of her indifference.  Her great aunt was not making any sense.  Um,  Aunt Delia… I thought Jack never, you know. Don’ t you remember? Jack didn’t come home.  She was proud of herself for knowing at least some of the family history, but it also made her wonder whether or not her aunt was playing with a full deck.

Delia stared out the window again, but instead of the soft white clumps of snow, she saw parachutes.  White silken clumps.  She thought about Jack and how he must have felt high in the sky where it was peaceful, far above the chaos on the ground.  She often wondered what had gone through his mind as he landed, his parachute covering him like a blanket of snow-and then a shroud.  All in the split second it took fate to play it’s hand.  She hoped he’d felt no pain. 

Her sigh was barely audible.

I know, Lucy dear, I know.  But  I don’t like to think about what really happened, so I’ve made up my own memories. And besides,  what else have I had all these years  but  memories.  I'm old, and probably not very interesting to any of you.   I realize none of you like to visit me, and I’m sorry about that.  How did you get stuck with me this time?   Are you being punished?  Did you lose the coin toss?   Delia seemed to wilt.

Lucy was stunned.  She hadn’t anticipated this-suddenly finding her heart aching for the old woman-and she wished a silent, desperate wish.  Please, please, please, let it keep snowing!  She knew, in that instant, that she wanted more time with this aunt she’d been aware of her whole life, but didn’t really know. 

Dear precious Delia.

Tell me more about Jack, Auntie. We’ve got all night.  I think I’d better stay over.  It looks like the storm is getting worse. Where do you keep your candles?  Do you have an extra toothbrush?  How did you meet Jack, anyway?

A grateful Oh Lucy, and tears.  An entire lifetime’s worth of tears, saved for this hoped for moment.  Spilling down Delia’s cheeks, as she prepared to answer.

How to Make a Pupcicle

Take one dog, already very sweet.

 

Add snow.

 

Roll…

 

until evenly coated.

 

Photograph finished product.

 

Enjoy immediately, and then take home to thaw out.

 

Happy Monday, dear readers!  Hope you have a great week!

Remembering

Seven years ago, my family and I took our first trip to Hawaii.  It had been my desire, since learning more about my uncle, to visit his grave in the Punchbowl Cemetery on the island of Oahu.

As we walked along row after row of graves, searching for the one belonging to Pete, we passed many, many markers like this one.

Some of these markers even rested on ground that held the remains of several “unknowns,” buried together.

Later on during our stay in Honolulu-as we were visiting  the USS Arizona Memorial, and saw the columns of names of the men lost that day-I couldn't help thinking that some of those names matched some of those “unknowns” we ‘d seen at Punchbowl.

For their sake, and the sake of their loved ones who never had an actual place to say their goodbyes, I’ll remember Pearl Harbor.

Amy’s Cake: A Success Story

I really didn’t intend to post another recipe quite so soon, but after my roaring success with Amy’s birthday cake yesterday, I just had to share this one.

It wasn’t that long ago that cake was synonymous with cake mix in my kitchen.  I saw cake mixes as my ticket to an easy and fast dessert, while at the same time avoiding the dry and heavy as a load of bricks concoction that a scratch cake could be. What frustrated me though, about a cake made from a cake mix, was trying to frost the thing.  One year, Amy’s overly light and moist birthday cake completely ripped apart, and I don’t know how many tubs of frosting I went through trying to “glue” the pieces together.  In the end, it looked like I’d baked the cake alongside a stick of dynamite.

After that experience, I decided to start baking all of my cakes from scratch.  I think I’ve practiced enough now to get consistently good results, and having an exceptional recipe helps too.  Here, dear readers, is the “secret formula” for the perfect chocolate cake.

Cocoa Fudge Cake   (From my 1981 Betty Crocker cookbook.)

1 2/3 cups all purpose flour

1 1/2 cups sugar

2/3 cups cocoa

1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 1/2 cup buttermilk

1/2 cup shortening

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

Heat oven to 350 degrees, and grease pan(s).  When I make a layer cake, I line the bottoms of the pans with waxed paper first and the cake never sticks.  Beat all ingredients on low speed for 30 seconds, and then beat on high speed for 3 minutes.  This makes enough batter to fill a 13x9x2 oblong pan, or two 8” or 9” round pans, or a 12 cup bundt cake pan.  Bake until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean:  oblong, 35-40 minutes, round layers 30-35 minutes, bundt cake 40 to 45 minutes.  Cool, and frost.

I also make my frosting from scratch too, but I don’t use a recipe.  I simply mix butter, powdered sugar, a little bit of milk and a teaspoon of vanilla until it tastes good, and I still think premade frosting in a tub is very good too.

And lastly, I found this picture on the internet, and I think it’s a festive idea for a Christmas cake!

 

Now put the explosives away, and start baking!

A Celebration

Tell me who you love, and I will tell you who you are.                                              

-Arsène Houssaye

 

It’s one of my favorite parts of the day. Dinner is finished and the dishes are done. We’ve donned our winter coats and gloves and are heading out on our nightly walk. In a matter of a few steps, we are several yards away from the bright glow of the porch light, and darkness closes in.  Still, I can see her hand reach towards me and I feel her arm encircle mine.

A M Y

Three ordinary letters.

Three ordinary letters that spell my life. Strung together, they define sweetness and kindness and beauty.  Fairness and loyalty.  Quiet strength and simple wants-and a fun sense of humor too.  An inspiration for the kind of person I’d like to be.

My daughter.

17 years ago today I was forever blessed.

Chocolate cake and chocolate frosting.  How is it possible that I will need to put on that many candles?

Happy birthday, my beloved girl!

An Excellent Banana Bread

Every year, with the arrival of the Christmas season, I like to go through my recipe box and make plans for my holiday baking.  Over the next few weeks I’ll share some of my favorite recipes, starting today with this one.

This recipe was given to me by my dear friend Pam, a long time ago.  I was a single girl when I met her, while she was about to be married and begin her life as an Air Force wife.  We worked together at a small day care center, and favorite recipes were always a hot topic, not only for Pam and me, but among all of the women who worked there. Pam shared this recipe for banana bread, and I remember it being a big hit with all of us because it was fast, and easy and really, really good.

Originally I only used this recipe when I had some bananas I wanted to use up, but I’ve since done some experimenting and found that the cup of banana can be substituted with an equal measure of some other similar ingredient.  When  I made this bread yesterday, I doubled the recipe and used one cup of cooked pumpkin and one cup of cranberry sauce.  A delicious combination!  I could easily have added chopped walnuts too, if I’d had some. 

My friend Pam eventually had to move, to an Air Force base far away. I remember we cried and cried when we said goodbye.  And then a few years later, she was my matron of honor when I got married.  We still keep in touch, on Facebook now.  And as much as I love the internet and all of the recipes you can find there, I still cherish my memories of times spent sharing recipes with that group of dear women.

Banana Bread

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, and stir the following ingredients together:

1/4 cup cooking oil

3/4 cup sugar

2 eggs

2 cups baking mix, such as Bisquick

1 cup mashed banana or similar ingredient

 

Put batter in a greased 9x5 loaf pan and bake 55 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.

Tip:  Line the bottom of the loaf pan with waxed paper and the bread will come out easily when done!

I hope you will love this bread as much as I do, and if you do end up trying this recipe please let me know what you think.  I will also be visiting all of your blogs soon.  I’m looking forward to getting caught up after my brief blogging hiatus!

Winter Walk in the Woods

It’s hard to believe that just a few weeks ago, multiple fires were raging in this forest, burning close to 90,000 acres before being all but extinguished by first heavy rains, and now snow.  We love this forest.  It’s a place of unimaginable beauty where we like to go hiking and skiing, and it is also in this forest that we trek each year in search of our perfect Christmas tree. Now that the fires were no longer keeping us out, we were going crazy to return here, and see for ourselves how much damage there was, and whether a visit to these woods could ever be the same as before.

Thankfully, this forest is so vast that the fire damage was not immediately evident, and flocked with a fresh coating of snow, burned trees have become nearly indistinguishable from those left untouched.  Under a heavy cover of clouds that blurred the world beyond the hills, and lightly falling snow, we set out on our walk yesterday.  So quiet was it, and so completely shrouded in white, I felt like we had somehow stepped inside a beautiful and magical snow globe. 

 

And then there was Kona.  While I’m sure she appreciated the beauty of her surroundings too, she mainly demonstrated her ability to go faster than the speed of sound, even when the snow is several inches deep.  It must be that new orange coat of hers!

Have a great week, dear readers!

Seven Medals

I have my Uncle Pete’s medals-seven of them-pinned to a piece of black felt and kept safely behind the doors of a glass fronted book case.  Among these medals are two purple hearts.  One awarded to my uncle for wounds he sustained during an air raid on December 12, 1941 at the Cavite Navy Yard in the Philippines, and the other, awarded for making the ultimate sacrifice on January 9, 1945-killed while aboard the POW “hell ship” Enoura Maru when it was bombed as it sailed for Japan.  To say that I am grateful and proud of my uncle and what he did for his country, my country, is putting it mildly.

I have other mementos of Pete too.  A few photos, some letters he wrote, and a pint sized sailor uniform he had made in Honolulu as a gift for a younger brother.  These few possessions of Pete’s are priceless.  Reminders of the uncle I never knew, but still feel connected to.

My father is a veteran.  He was in the Navy, and served in Korea.  I keep his dog tags in my studio, where I see them every day.  They are part of the story of who my dad is that I wouldn’t part with for anything.

It saddens me when I see mementos like these for sale in antique stores or on internet sites, because many times, once these pieces of history are separated from those who know the faces and the stories behind them, those stories about those faces are lost forever.

On this Veteran’s Day, and every day, I am so proud and grateful to our veterans for their service and their sacrifice.  But most of all,  I remember them.  It’s the most fitting tribute I know.

 

Split Pea Soup

It’s obviously Friday afternoon.  A quick glance into the shopping carts that snake both ahead of her and behind her, like some sort of long grocery train, confirms the fact.  Cartons and six packs of beer, bags of chips, and plastic wrapped packages of hamburger and steak.  She won’t make this mistake again-shopping at the start of the weekend-and for a fleeting moment she is tempted to break from the line, put back the few items in her small basket, and leave.  But she is hungry, she is already homesick, and she still has not finished unpacking-and the comfort and nourishment that a bowl of homemade soup promises is too compelling.  And so she waits.

The train of carts inches forward until she is near enough the check stand to place her humble basket on the conveyor belt, watching it now inch forward, waiting for its turn.  With unpracticed hands, the clerk seizes the basket and begins to remove the soup ingredients one by one.  A small onion, and a few stalks of celery, one pound of bacon, and a package of split peas.  It is the split peas that are to blame. Not quite clearing the edge of the basket, a several inch gash opens up on the side of the package, releasing a torrent of green that cascades onto the conveyor belt and floor.  The clerk gasps, and there is an audible groan from the line of shoppers who are painfully aware that the beer in their carts is getting warmer by the minute.

Clumsily, the clerk is trying to gather the peas and put them back into the wounded package.  Clearly he is wishing  to put this incident behind him and finish up a shift that seems to have no end in sight.  She, all the while, stares open mouthed as the scenario unfolds, unable to say a word.  Until, unbelievably, the clerk places the partially filled bag of sullied split peas into the waiting brown paper sack. 

She finds her voice and stammers-

Wait a minute!

All eyes are on her.  She can feel them.  Angry eyes.  Impatient eyes.  Eyes that like the sight of ice cold beer.  Her face is hot, but she asks anyway.

I don’t want to be a bother, but may I please have a new bag?

The poor novice clerk.  His face assumes an expression of sheer panic, as though he is facing an impending mutiny.

Split peas…anyone know what aisle the split peas are on? 

He addresses everyone, and no one in particular.  She can offer him no assistance, either.  The layout of the store is already a blur.

As though taking part in a frenzied scavenger hunt, a dozen or so pairs of feet abandon their carts and scatter in every direction.

She is suddenly tired, and embarrassed beyond words, but she can’t resist thinking how amusing it would be if only she had the nerve.

Would somebody grab me some cold beer too!

 

******

The Write on Edge Prompt this week was to use the word new as inspiration.

 

 

Just Like Jo

I remember the first house Stuart and I ever lived in. A postage stamp sized 4 room ramshackle cottage, with an equally tiny and disheveled yard.  Still, after several years of apartment living, we were excited that we had a yard.  I also remember finding a copy of the 1951 Better Homes and Gardens Garden Book at the local used book store, and feeling confident that between that book, and a few assorted tools we collected, including an old hand me down metal rake from my parents, we were well prepared for any yard and garden challenge we might face.  We bought a lawn mower and cut down the foot tall grass, tamed the wildly overgrown blackberry bushes (and learned how to make jam and pie as well), planted herbs and flowers, and raked the occasional leaf or two from the pair of camellias that graced either side of our front walk.  When we eventually moved from Oregon to Western New York a few years later, we bought a 60’s split level, situated on roughly two acres of land.  There were numerous flower beds and many trees.  Dozens of trees. When that first fall rolled around, and we found ourselves knee deep in leaves, our poor little metal rake could not keep up, and as if to offer one final protest, its wooden handle snapped in two.

The local hardware store was several miles away, but as the flurry of leaves showed no sign of letting up, we hopped in our car and made the trip.  And that is when we learned that the latest innovations in the field of modern raking had passed our little rake right on by. 

Look at the wingspan on that thing!  It must be 3 or 4 feet!

We both marveled as we stood in front of a display of the largest rakes we’d ever seen.

And that handle!  It must be 8 feet long, at least!  Will it fit in the car?  I wonder if we should have rented a U-Haul?

It took the two of us to carry our chosen rake to the checkout counter.  And when the clerk asked if we’d like help out with our purchase, we were mighty grateful.

We raked a lot of leaves in New York.  So many, that we eventually became a two rake family.  (Amy had her own toddler sized purple rake, but she left it on the driveway right before it snowed one winter, and it really wasn’t made to withstand the weight of a Subaru Legacy.)

Now we are comfortably settled in our 1900 Victorian, and we have those six beautiful maple trees I’ve mentioned before.  While I’ve never thought of raking as a chore, I never thought about raking as a tradition either.  Until I met Jo.  She stopped by one summer day, and introduced herself.  She lived in our house in the 1960’s.

I remember those trees, she said.  Sometimes I thought the raking would never end.

And it suddenly occurred to me.  We rake up those maple leaves every fall just like Jo and her family did 50 years ago, and just like all of the other families who lived in this house before us did.   We are following in the footsteps of 112 years worth people who raked leaves in this yard-if not from the maples, then from the other trees that were once here, as evidenced by the stumps that remain.  And maybe I’m a little odd, but I like that connection to the past.

But I do love the modern super sized rakes we have now.  And how about those crazy leggings I wore way back when?

I’m Back!

I’ve missed all of you!  Last week, my computer stopped working.  Out of the blue, after barely two years of use, it just quit.  The nice guy at the computer repair shop advised me that it would be more cost effective to start fresh with a new computer. He could try to fix my old one, for a couple hundred dollars, but he couldn’t guarantee that it would do any good. 

It frustrates me.  Two years is hardly what I would call an acceptable lifespan, but what could I do?  So I bought a new computer.  And it’s good to be back.  I’ll be making the rounds of all of your wonderful blogs and getting caught up as soon as I can, but in the mean time, I thought I’d share a photo of one of my mums.  With the mild weather we have been having, my mums just keep blooming and blooming.  I’ve got vases full of them all over my house, because I figure it will get cold soon, and then they’ll be done for the year-and I want to hang on to their beauty as long as I can. 

I don’t think I need to worry though.  My mums, unlike some computers I know, aren’t going to quit any time soon.

Happy Monday, dear readers!

Chasing Scared

This is the time of year, on these crisp October nights, when the line between what is real and what isn’t becomes blurred. Walking after dark along leaf scattered sidewalks, the skeletons of bare trees silhouetted against the inky sky, it’s easy to see things, hear things, believe things.

Another October, years ago, my friend Veronica and I decided to walk the dozen or so blocks from our dorm to the downtown cinema to see the late showing of the classic film “An American Werewolf in London.” It was after midnight when we left the theater and headed out into the cold, black, windy full moon night.

Then somewhere, close by, something howled…

And we RAN!

Sure, deep down, we knew it was only a dog. But it was just so much more thrilling to terrify ourselves by believing in an explanation far more sinister.

That frightful feeling, I must confess, is what makes these October walks after dark so much fun. It’s the perfect kind of being scared-the safe kind. And it’s also realizing that you don’t have to be a kid to enjoy the magic of the Halloween season.

Picture sourced from the net.

Technorati Tags: Halloween,werewolves,being scared

Autumn Riches

Take one ancient maple tree, and multiply by six…

Add a very, very windy day…

And Mother Nature will lay a carpet of gold at your feet.

 

 

A dear friend of mine shared one of her favorite poems with me.  It’s one of my favorites now, too!

"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."

George Eliot

Happy Wednesday, my dear readers!

Friday Thrift Report

Last Friday, I went thrifting.  It had been months since my last trip.  So long, in fact, that I almost couldn’t remember the way to the thrift store.  Almost.

And right off the bat, I hit pay dirt.  A set of mid century Noritake china in the beautiful Esteem pattern.  Eight place settings, for forty-two bucks. 

Of course, the usual battle started in my head.  The one where my Simplify side starts to argue with the side of me that says Oh my goodness I can’t believe I found this!  I sent both sides outside, to duke it out while I considered whether or not I needed these dishes.  (Set of eight (8) place settings, $42.)

Like there was much to think about.

And then, it got even better!

I found this vintage red fiberglass tiki wall plaque for $1.99!  Wow!

Did I mention he’s a whopping 14” tall? Aside from being quite an eyeful, he’s big enough to win any argument!

When I got home, I did a little research on the internet and found a site selling Esteem for forty dollars per place setting, so I’d say I got a good deal.  And as for the tiki, he seems to be rather unusual-a once in a lifetime find, perhaps?  (Maybe that’s not such a bad thing…)  I haven’t picked out a place to hang him yet, but wherever he eventually ends up, he will be right at home with my other vintage Hawaiian decor.  (And I’m also happy to report that my family has recovered from their initial shock after I first showed him to them.)

So, it was a successful outing. 

Which reminds me.  I forgot all about those two sides of mine.  I guess I left them fighting in the thrift store parking lot.  I think I’ll just leave them there, though-for next time.

Just Like Grandma Did-Almost

 

 

 

It was such a proud moment for me. Amy was in the third grade at the time, the date on the calendar just a few days away from Thanksgiving.  Her teacher was taking a survey.

What is your favorite kind of pie for Thanksgiving dessert?

Mincemeat!

As Amy was relating this story to me, I could tell she was just about bubbling over with excitement. Initially, she’d been the only kid to nominate mincemeat pie-even having to explain to her classmates what it was.  But her enthusiastic testimonial as to the many merits of mincemeat worked, because mince pie received more than a few additional votes that day!

You see, mincemeat holds a special place in my heart.  My grandma always made mincemeat, and the thought of it evokes so many memories for me.  I remember sitting at her dining room table, relishing the large slice of mince pie in front of me, when I happened to observe what could only be antennae sticking out from among the raisins, bits of apple, spices and green tomatoes.  An ant, poor creature. (But what a way to go…)   And every Christmas, as long as my grandma was able to make mincemeat, we would receive a newspaper wrapped jar in the mail, and my mom would make a mincemeat pie.  We all loved it.  It truly was one of the most delicious traditions during the holidays.  

After I grew up, left home, and eventually got married, I didn’t have mincemeat pie at Christmastime any more.  By then, my grandma was gone, her recipe for mincemeat gone as well.  Or so I thought.  I was visiting my sister a few years ago and she told me she had grandma's hand written recipe for mincemeat, and would I like to have it.

Mincemeat!

Now Amy and I make mincemeat every year.   And though we measure our amounts in cups, and not pecks, the ingredients are the same.  Green tomatoes, apples, chopped oranges, raisins, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and brown sugar-cooked for several hours until the mixture turns into a spicy, dark brown bit of heaven.  

Just like my grandma did.

We just leave out the bugs…

Taking Notes, Not Orders

I found this vintage restaurant order pad during one of my thrifting expeditions.  I thought it was a great find, and I love that the top ticket still has the impression of the last order written.  Even though I had no idea what I might ultimately do with the order pad, I bought it anyway.  It has such great old fashioned graphics, and if it could, as they say, talk, I bet it would tell some pretty interesting stories.  

The week before last, when Amy was home sick, she was keeping me company as I cleaned up the room where I sew and she works on her own creative projects.  I picked the order pad up and laughed quietly to myself, acknowledging once again my tendency to collect vintage treasures I can’t resist, but really don’t have a use for.  (I must have been a magpie in a previous life.)

Amy came to the rescue with this exceptional idea for a way to use, yet at the same time preserve the order pad.

I carefully tore out one sheet, and scanned the image to my computer.  Reducing the size of the image to fit the dimensions of the tray on my vintage bakelite note paper holder (Do magpies crow, or squawk, I wonder?)  I was able to fit several images on a sheet of printer paper. 

Printed, and carefully cut out-here is the finished product…

 

I like the idea of leaving notes for my family on pieces of restaurant order pad paper.  Maybe if I leave really good notes, I’ll receive some tips, too.  Actually, Amy is the one who deserves a tip. I love how her idea turned out!

 

Just for fun, here’s a picture of my desk, where my new note paper now resides.  This desk used to belong to my Grandma Helen.  I can still picture her sitting at it as she paid bills and wrote letters.  I use it now as the place to set my computer and compose all of these interesting and informative blog posts.  (Do magpies know how to wink?)

My grandma’s desk also provides a place to display more of my second hand treasures.  Some are still useful, such as my airplane pencil sharpener, a souvenir of Pearl Harbor, and the ceramic picture frame that holds a bouquet of fall mums.  Others-maybe not as useful, but still valuable in my eyes.  My green 1920’s travel alarm clock that no longer runs (I find I get more done when time stands still.) and the obsolete glass ink bottle holder, supposedly used as a prop for the TV show Leave it to Beaver. (A coaster for my morning cup of coffee, perhaps?)

And then there are my helpful little ink blotter monkeys.  I couldn’t have said it better myself…

Happy Monday, my dear readers!  You are all keepers too!!