my fondness for stones and bones

I attribute my love of archeology, of relics and bones, to the DNA inherited from my great-great grandfather, Palestine Hanna (1856-1938). Farm folk would bring him bones, and various Native American relics from miles around the tiny village of Burlington, Indiana, for his extensive collection, which he kept in a large,
handmade walnut cabinet.

As a girl, I spent many a blissful afternoon, hands cupped around my eyes, and nose pressed against the glass of that dark, magical cabinet. Literally, hundreds of arrowheads and various relics were part of his vast collection. Sadly, my grandfather sold the entire lot of relics back in the 1960s. A tragic mistake I wish I had been old enough to prevent.

There is, however, one piece from Palestine's cabinet that managed to be saved from the sale. I am fortunate enough to have it hanging in the dining room at the manor. It's a giant 38 inch sawfish blade.I have no idea how or where Grandpa Pal acquired this fascinating item, but I have fond memories of it nestled in the back of his cabinet, keeping watch over arrowheads and spear tips.




For more Sepia Saturday participants, click [HERE].

supernatural nod

Memos

I need messages

in bottles, random fortune

cookies, those subtle signs

from heaven, memorandums

stating all is as it should be.

Not Moses

parting my Red Sea,

just a burning weed,

a small bit of shrubbery,

a simple note

stating he supposes

his toeses are roses.

A little everyday

omnipotent ditty,

showing his sense

of humor is still intact,

that I'm on the right track.

willow, 2010

This is a Theme Thursday post.

queen of oscars

At the manor, we like to call out the name of a favorite actor,
director, or designer we might happen to see in the opening credits
of a film. The name I end up calling out most often, is Edith Head!
Did you know this powerhouse American costume designer's long
career in Hollywood garnered her more Academy Awards than any
other woman in history? She was nominated a whopping 35 times
and actually won a total of eight Oscars.

I adore that stunning off white cashmere coat she designed for Kim
Novak in Vertigo. And what about that classy wardrobe of Patricia
Neal's in Breakfast at Tiffany's? All those gorgeous dresses for Grace
Kelly in the Hitchcock films were also designed by Head.

She is one of those people I would love to have for dinner. Fascinating
conversation would take place, and there would be a paper table cloth
and lots of pencils near her place setting for sketching, during that
after dinner coffee. It would be fun to hear all the inside scoop on all
the iconic stars of old Hollywood. I would like it almost as much as
stopping in for a chat with Pop Leibel in the Argosy Book Shop.

Here's a list of Ms. Head's fashion commandments, listed in her book
The Dress Doctor, Prescriptions for Style, from A to Z. Amazingly
enough, her rules for dressing are still applicable today, only she
doesn't mention anything about woolly socks.

Don't let your clothes be fitted too tightly.
Even a perfect figure looks better if it doesn't
resemble a sausage. Only bathing suits
should be tight.

Don't wear a date dress when you're arriving
for a day's work at the office. The dressy
dress, the low-necked lacy blouse, the glitter
sweater, all of the glitter category belong to
after dark.

Don't be too different. You don't want to dress
like the heard, but you don't want to look like a
peacock in a yard full of ducks. Being too
much an individualist is not being well dressed.

Don't feel that when you're going to a party
you must look "dressed up" a simple dress is
safer if there’s a question of what to wear, and
you will be much more comfortable simply
dressed than over dressed.

Don't be afraid to wear a becoming costume many, many times. It's
an old fashioned idea that you have to have a new dress for every
occasion or party. Even if you have the money to do so, it isn't
necessary. The modern approach is to change accessories.
.

Life is competitive;
clothes gird us for the competition.

.

Edith Head

.

.

Magpie Tales II

I felt queasy from the cheap champagne served at the embassy

reception. The usual rounds of tedious small talk had given me a

headache. The wet November air was refreshing, as we stepped out

into the rustic streets. Fog had settled in, and it was already dark at

4:00. I felt the match box in my pocket, and realized I had left my

gloves at the hotel.

.

Old Town was unusually quiet; not a car in sight. Bratislava Castle

rose up from the mist on the hilltop, as if by magic, and I remember

thinking the night must have felt just this way, hundreds of years

earlier. He stopped at the corner, and turned to me.

"Heading back to the hotel? Mind if I join you?" His breath visible

in the cold.

.

Normally, I would have shared a cab with a colleague, but it was

only a ten minute walk downhill. Besides, there was not a taxi to be

hailed, even if we wanted one.

.

"Sure, I'd love the company." I smiled.

.

We clip-clopped down the murky pavement in silence, hands in my
pockets, aided by an occasional window, or house light above an

ornately carved door. Suddenly, my heel caught on a piece of

uneven paving stone, and I instinctively grabbed the sleeve of his

overcoat, to steady myself.

.

"Oops! Sorry about that. I guess these old streets aren't so heel

friendly."

.

"No problem. Here, take my arm."

.

We walked on, without speaking, my left hand nestled around his

arm, and my right tightly gripped the matchbox in my pocket.

.

Just before turning down the block leading to the hotel, we paused
under the soft glow of an iron street light, while he pulled a cigar out
of his breast pocket. I struck a match from the box, moist from my

palm, and lit it.

.

.

To sign up for Magpie Tales, or for more participants click [HERE].

contented inmate

I've been happily imprisoned in winter for the last few weeks. The
manor has taken on a fabulous Zhivagoesque atmosphere, like one
of John Box's wax creations. Of course, you know I am in snow
heaven. The lovely icicle I showed you last week, now touches the
ground. It measures a deadly nine feet long and nine inches wide, a
record setter, for sure, in the manor book of ice.



Deadly Cold


I know a way to kill a man
and leave no trace.

A clandestine lobotomy
perfectly performed
.
with a crystal ice pick
melting slowly,
silent and odorless;

ingenious homicide.



willow, 2010

(with a bit of inspiration from Walter Mitty)

sepia saturday, don't take any wooden nickles

Walter, the Missour-ah boy,
who originated the phrase in our family

When I found some loose change in the couch cushions the other
day, it reminded me of a phrase WT likes to say. He got it from his
father, who got it from his father. I guess you could say it is an old
"Missour-ah" boys' saying. The kids used to think it was so funny;
right on par with "I'm going to see a man about a dog", which he
would tell them when he was going somewhere and didn't want to
take them along. I'll save that for another post. I digress. The
phrase in question today is this:

Don't take any wooden nickels.

First recorded in about 1915, this expression was originally a
warning from friends and relatives to country folk in the great
migration from rural areas to the big cities, at the turn of the
century. It was a humorous bit of advice, meaning "beware of
those city slickers". No real wooden nickels were ever
counterfeited. Ironically, the country boys were the ones who
possibly did succeed in passing off wooden objects as the real thing.
Yankee peddlers as early as 1825 allegedly sold wooden nutmegs,
which cost manufacturers a quarter of a cent each, mixed in with
lots of real nutmegs worth four cents each.

A second source says the expression means "don't let yourself be
cheated or ripped off". Originating in the United States, in the 1920s
and 1930s, money that had no real value was sometimes referred
to as "wooden". Stories about wooden nutmegs, wooden hams, and
wooden pumpkin seeds contributed to the later use of the phrase
"wooden nickels" in America, and even the use of wooden rubles in
Russia.

Another source adds that the United States minted five-cent pieces
from the earliest days of the Union, but they were not known as
nickels until 1866, when the first five-cent coins containing nickel
were minted. The practice of making commemorative tokens from
wood as centennial souvenirs developed, and we assume wooden
nickels actually were made during the nineteenth century for this
purpose. Frequently such coins were accepted as legal tender while
the celebration was in progress, but they ceased to have value
when the show was over. So, the expression "don't take any wooden
nickels" became the popular equivalent of "don't be a sucker".

So, hey, there you have it, my bloggy friends.

Have a great weekend, and don't go taking any wooden nickles.



For more Sepia Saturday participants click [HERE].


info from:
The Phrase Finder
Morris Dictionary of Word and Phrase Origins
by William and Mary Morris
Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins by Robert Hendrickson
Random House Dictionary of Popular Proverbs and Sayings by
Gregory Y. Titelman

pink glove dance

My friend, Virginia's blog featured this piece by Emily MacInnes
Somers, who created, directed and choreographed this video at
Providence St. Vincent Medical Center in Portland, OR for her
Medline glove division as a fundraiser for breast cancer awareness.

Medline will be making large contributions to the hospital, as well as
offering free mammograms for the community, according to how
many hits this video gets on YouTube. Please check it out. It's a
fun and easy way to donate to a wonderful cause.

bell

When we moved to Willow Manor 22 years ago, this great old bell
was on the property, mounted on a wooden post. It's been well used
over the years, to summon children on warm summer nights. The
clapper rings a wonderful clear G major that wafts across the Scioto
River. I often wonder of its history, hidden inside the dark iron crown.

The tolling of bells always evokes poignant emotions in me. The tiny
Indiana village, where I lived as a young girl, had two churches whose
bells tolled for Sunday services, as well as weddings and funerals.
Wedding bells rang wildly with happiness, while funeral tolls were
hauntingly slow, with several seconds between each chime. I can't
hear a bell toll today, without it reaching in, grabbing my heart, and
giving it a squeeze.

Speaking of heart grabbing, there are some powerful bell scenes in
movie history. My favorite would have to be the chilling scene in
Black Narcissus as Deborah Kerr clings to the bell rope after
Kathleen Byron pushes her off the vast cliff. Just as scary, is the
bell tower scene in Vertigo, where Kim Novak backs off the dark
edge and falls to her death, much to Jimmy Stewart's chagrin.

But, the sweetest bell scene would have to be Father Murphy
rewarding Darby O'Gill, for volunteering to pick up the church bell
from a neighboring village, with the music of the bell for generations
to come.

A sweet real life bell scene happens to be scheduled for Thursday,
February 18 at 2:00 EST, as we proudly ring our manor bell, along
with our good friend Barry, who will be ringing the bell at Princess
Margaret Hospital in Toronto, a ritual performed by patients who
have completed their last chemotherapy treatment. Join with us in
supporting Barry, as well as all those brave souls out there who are
winning the battle against cancer.

Barry, the music of the manor bell is for you, dear friend. It will be
pealing with love and hope, across the frozen Scioto.

.

For more Theme Thursday participants click [HERE].

never apologize

Is there ever a time when it's a good thing not to apologize? I happen
to think there are some instances, when it's best to hold back.

I'm the first to admit, I sometimes struggle with low self esteem.
Much of it stems from a childhood environment rife with a toxic mix
of mental health issues and ultra fundamentalism. To this day, my
first reaction is to back down, in typical codependent fashion,
assuming I'm at fault. Before taking time to think through an issue,
I take the blame, in effort to please.

Recently, there was a suggestion that my blog background color
might not be the easiest for reading print. What did I do? I apologized
and immediately went to my Blogger settings and changed it to a
color I hated, just to be compliant. What was I thinking? I loved the
original color. Luckily, I came to my senses and switched it back.
.

Usually, when I react this way, my personal coach, WT, looks me
directly in the eyes, and loudly, in his very best Julia Child voice,
says, "Never apologize!" He reminds me to embrace my creativity
with confidence. This time, he happened to be out of town, so I had to
look in the mirror and quote Julia, complete with a little chuckle.
.
I realize there are times when it is very appropriate, in fact a
necessary sign of respect, to ask to be forgiven. Some people never
feel any remorse for their actions. But for me, Ms. Child's quote is a
very effective way to keep my self confidence in check and my Libra
scales in balance.
.
.

Here's a dozen of my favorite things never to apologize for:
.

1) Never apologize for acting on your instincts.
2) Never apologize for being passionate.
3) Never apologize for being smart.
4) Never apologize for demanding respect.
5) Never apologize for saying no.
6) Never apologize for not embracing someone else's agenda.
7) Never apologize for disagreeing.
8) Never apologize for your faith.
9) Never apologize for your own sense of creativity.
10) Never apologize for ordering dessert.
11) Never apologize for being funny.
12) Never apologize for living your truth.

.
.

Magpie Tales No. 1

Today is opening day for my creative writing blog, Magpie Tales.
Your initial response was incredible. A warm, woolly thank you to all
who signed up to participate, making today a huge success. I can't
wait to read all of your amazing tales.

If you consider yourself a creative writer, and happened to miss
this first photo prompt, no problem. A new weekly prompt will
be issued each Thursday, with the piece of fiction or poetry due
the following Tuesday. So, please join in whenever you can.

This is my sample piece, posted last week. For those of you who
might have missed it, or are wondering what Magpie is all about,
here it is again. The instructions were to write a short fictional piece
inspired from the photo, below.

General Washington's favorite dessert was tipsy pudding. Timing

was everything. When he was home in Philadelphia, he made it a

habit of stopping by Mrs. Anne Lippincott's row house as near tea

time as possible, preferably ten minutes to four, not a minute past.

His three-cornered hat neatly on the peg by the door, he was seated

comfortably by the fire, in time to hear her mantel clock chime four.

.

Anne's table always brimmed with scones, fresh fruit, and pudding

made with the finest sherry in the region, over sponge cake light as

a goose down feather bed. She was one of his dearest friends, and at

times, he wished he had met her years ago, before he had set his cap

for his Martha.

.

The general never took sugar in his tea, just a spot of milk, always

set out in a small, delicately engraved pewter pitcher, near his cup.

.

On a gray November day, some 200 years later the estate of

Anne Lippincott's fourth great grand niece, Stella, went up for auction

on the front lawn of her stately farm house in rural Delaware County,

Ohio. The auctioneer called out from the front porch to the small

crowd gathered outside.

.

A lot of kitchen goods. Do I hear 10?

.

I raised my hand, taking a chance on the worn cardboard box with

the green Palmolive logo on the side. Kitchen lots were dicey. But,

it was a thrill to see what prize my ten dollar bill might land; maybe

a quirky McCoy planter or a Bakelite handled spoon.

.

10 once. 10 twice. Sold to the lady in red for 10 dollars.

.

I carried the box out and slid it into the back of my old Land Rover.

Once home, I emptied the box onto the kitchen counter, piece by

piece. Two well used metal ice cube trays, several nice Mason jars

with lids, a worn, but pretty yellow calico apron, and jostled in the

bottom, an assortment of odd utensils, nearly covering a small

pewter creamer, with a delicate wreath etched on each side.
.

taxidermy

The Poetry Bus is once again heading back to the Republic of EEjit.
The ticket for this particular bus must include taxidermy. Since it's
Valentine's weekend, EEj requested an extra dose of love, hate,
passion and angst. The ticket stirred some passion at the manor, but
not in a romantic sort of way.



Taxidermist



I was a doll
behind the sofa
who understood
the meaning of disgrace;

a dusty version of me,
who always looked good,
but had no thoughts,
no skinned knees,

just a row of stitches
where my heart
was removed
and replaced
by a rusty string
in the back of my head,

for an occasional please
or may I have some water?
No childish chatter,
not a thing out of place,
I was better than dead.

Safely mounted
on wood by a Norman Bates,
who without hurting a fly,
made me into a bust
installing glass eyes

so I could not cry,
laugh, or hate and behaved
as all saved
children must.


.
.
willow, 2010
.
.
.
photo from flickr

valentine

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

And call upon my soul within the house;

Write loyal cantons of contemned love

And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

Halloo your name to the reverberate hills

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out 'Olivia!' O, You should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth,

But you should pity me!
.
.
William Shakespeare

from Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene V

.

.

.

photo google images

sepia saturday, palestine's syrup

This is my Great-Great-Grandfather Palestine Hanna. I have always been intrigued by his unique given name. Census records show only a hand full were named Palestine, both male and female, at the turn of the century. So, it was not particularly a trendy name at the time. Was it biblical, or maybe geographical? I guess I'll never know. I do know, however, that his nickname was "Pal", which I think is so endearing.

The photo below shows Pal tapping into a maple tree on his "Stockwell Farm" in Howard County, Indiana in about 1920. The sap was cooked in a large vat in the woods, in a spot the family called “sugar camp”. It took a whopping 30 gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup.

Several years ago, a friend of my daughter introduced me to the pleasure of pure maple syrup. After you have tasted the real thing, you can never again eat the icky bottled pancake stuff, we Americans

all know as "syrup". The genuine article is especially delicious wintry mornings, on a nice bowl of steel-cut oats with walnuts and dried cranberries.

For more Sepia Saturday participants click [HERE].

conies

You probably noticed on my sidebar, that I've been having a Coney dog attack this week. I finally gave in, and made myself one, so I am happy to report I can once again live a normal life, craving free. The Coney, or Coney Island hot dog, has nothing to do with Coney Island, by the way, but is named for preparation style, rather than location. The birthplace of the Coney is actually right here in the Midwest.

Did you know "dog" has been used as a synonym for sausage since 1884? Accusations that sausage makers used dog meat, date to at least 1845. Appetizing, huh? The earliest usage of hot dog in clear reference to sausage appeared in the 28 September 1893, The Knoxville Journal.

It was so cool last night that the appearance

of overcoats was common, and stoves and grates

were again brought into comfortable use.

Even the weinerwurst men began preparing

to get the "hot dogs" ready for sale Saturday night.

Willow's Coney Dog Sauce


1 pound lean ground beef
2 cups ketchup
2 tsp cumin
1 tsp onion powder
3 Tbsp chili powder
1 Tbsp sugar
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
1/4 tsp garlic powder
1 cup water

Brown ground beef, remove from pan and drain well. In hot pan, add remaining ingredients, mix well, add meat and simmer 5-10 minutes until thick.

What's your favorite way to eat a dog? Or do you call them frankfurters, franks, wieners, or weenies?

mirror

Since February 1st was St. Brigid's Day, and this week's Theme Thursday is "mirror" I'm taking the liberty to post this piece again. St. Brigid is, after all, the patron saint of poets, so she would be pleased, don't you think? Hmm, I don't know, is there a patron saint of mirrors? She must be the saint who protected Snow White!

Time Travel

Deep in the mirror,

her eyes meet mine

in the glow of her low

ceilinged room.

Ancient mother,

tends the hearth,

smoors the fire,

rakes my dreams

of earthy peat.

Her besom prayers

kindle bright,

while sacred three

light my night.

Then beckons me

with withy broom,

sweeps circled heaps

of embers,

St. Brigid offers solace

in her cinders.

willow, 2009

to my ancient grandmother, Anne Mackie, 1580, Galloway

"Smooring the fire" is an artistic and symbolic ceremony performed by the woman of the house before retiring for the night. A ritual blessing, recited over the fire in Gaelic is called "smaladh"; in Scottish, "smooring". The embers are evenly spread on the hearth and formed into a circle, which is then divided into three sections, with peat laid between each.

As a prayer to St. Brigid, the first peat is laid down in name God of Life, the second in name God of Peace, the third in name God of Grace. The circle is then covered over with ashes sufficient to subdue, but not to extinguish, the fire in name of the Three of Light. You might remember seeing this lovely tradition performed in the movie The Secret of Roan Inish.

This also makes me think "smores", the traditional campfire treat, consisting of a layer of roasted marshmallow and a layer of chocolate sandwiched between two pieces of graham cracker, doesn't come from "s'more" or "give me some more", but rather from the tradition of smooring the fire. Maybe the correct spelling should actually be "smoors"? This is making me drool. Where'd I hide that last Ghirardelli square?

Just so you know, a "besom" is a broom made of a bundle of strong flexible "withy" or willow stems. How appropriate.

For more Theme Thursday participants click [HERE].

Temple Grandin

Did anyone else see the HBO premiere of Temple Grandin Saturday

night? Claire Danes stars in the true story of Grandin, an autistic

woman who became a leading scientist in humane livestock handling.

I was a little leery, since Danes is an okay actor, in my opinion, but

not brilliant. But, I'll have to admit, I was totally blown away by her

radiant performance of Temple Grandin. She charmingly captures

Grandin's sense of humor, as well as powerfully portraying her

frustrations and fears. I won't be surprised at all if she wins an

Emmy for her performance, because she deserves it.

This extraordinary film should be seen by anyone raising, working

with, or caring about autistic children. It gives its viewers an inside

look at what it means to live in a world of autism, with a mind that's

"different, but not less". Grandin describes blisteringly vivid images

that pop into her head faster than a Google search, that she describes

in her book as “full-color movies, complete with sound, which run

like a VCR tape in my head”, expertly portrayed in the movie, with

cut away scenes of what Grandin actually sees in her head. It's very

well done; powerful and touching. It gets two woolly socks up from me.

.

Temple Grandin is currently a Doctor of Animal Science at Colorado

State University, bestselling author, and consultant to the livestock

industry in animal behavior. As a person with high-functioning

autism, Grandin is also widely noted for her work in autism advocacy

and is the inventor of the Hug machine designed to calm

hypersensitive persons. Her mind is certainly anything but less.

.

Check HBO's schedule [HERE] for Temple Grandin on demand.

icicles, skillets, and magpies

It's pretty darn cold in my neck of the woods. The foot plus of snow has frozen into a layer of solid white rock. The digital time and temperature sign on our little local bank read 12 degrees this morning. I was up with the chickens, but I didn't see a single chicken on the road at 4:45. Too cold.

So, what do I do when I'm snowed in at the manor? Cook and eat! Kary, at My Farmhouse Kitchen, posted about making lasagna in her cast iron skillet. Well, I just happen to have a big beautiful vintage iron skillet with a lovely patina, given to me by my dear Aunt Janet maybe 20 years ago, or so. It belonged to her maternal grandmother, Myrtle Watts Yost (1886-1940) of Howard County, Indiana. It's faithfully served our family over 100 years; everything from farm buttermilk fried chicken to wintry Sunday night lasagna. My trusty iron skillet is one piece of kitchenware I can't live without. Even though I'm not blood related to Grandma Yost, I'm sure she is happy her skillet is lovingly put to good use at the manor.

By the way, this lasagna, baked in the iron skillet was by far the best I've ever made. Got an iron skillet? Give it a try.

And I might add that I am thrilled with the reception of my new creative writing blog Magpie Tales! Pop on over and check it out. Our first little piece of writing is due Tuesday, February 16. Lots of brand new writers have already signed up, and I am looking forward with great anticipation to some good reading! Thanks everybody!

As Mr. Junk Thief so aptly put it, "the Magpie is in the Willow"!

calling all writers and poets

Here's a new idea, I've been kicking around for a few weeks. The
J. Peterman post this week inspired me to give it a shot. I'm starting
a new creative writing blog called Magpie Tales. Each week, I'll
throw out a photo of one of my personal objects. (This first object is
rather tame, but believe me, I've got some quirky ones.) This will be
the prompt for a fictional account or poem telling of its history
and/or how it came to your possession. A Mr. Linky widget will be
available for open participation.

Come on, join this wacky magpie; it will be loads of fun! Check it out
by clicking on the link on my sidebar, or on the link at the end of this
post.

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, here is my first Magpie
Tale, just to get your juices flowing...

General Washington's favorite dessert was tipsy pudding. Timing
was everything. When he was home in Philadelphia, he made it a
habit of stopping by Mrs. Lippincott's row house as near tea time as
possible, preferably ten minutes to four, not a minute past, hat
on the peg by the door, and comfortably seated by the fire, in time to
hear her mantel clock chime four.

Her table always brimmed with scones, fruit, and pudding made
with the finest sherry in the region, over sponge cake light as a goose
down feather bed. She was one of his dearest friends, and at times,
he wished he had met her years ago, before he had set his cap for his
sweet Martha.

The general never took sugar in his tea, just a spot of milk, always
set out in a delicately engraved pewter creamer, near his cup.

On a gray November day, some 200 years later the estate of
Mrs. Lippincott's fourth great grand niece, Stella, went up for auction
on the front lawn of her stately farm house in rural Delaware County,
Ohio.

A lot of kitchen goods. Do I hear $10?

I raised my hand, taking a chance on the worn cardboard box with
the green Palmolive logo on the side. Kitchen lots were dicey. But,
it was a thrill to see what prize my ten dollar bill might land; maybe
a quirky McCoy planter or a Bakelite handled spoon.

10 once. 10 twice. Sold to the lady in red for 10 dollars.

I carried the box out and slid it into the back of my old Land Rover.

Once home, I emptied the box onto the kitchen counter, piece by
piece. Two well used metal ice cube trays, several nice Mason jars
with lids, a worn, but pretty yellow calico apron, and jostled in the
bottom, an assortment of utensils, nearly covering a small pewter
creamer, with a delicate wreath etched on each side.

.

THIS JUST IN:

I've had so many ready to participate, I went ahead and set up
Magpie Tales, with the first photo prompt and Mr. Linky widget
ready for Tuesday, February 16. Hop on over and sign up!

http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/

sepia saturday, we are who we were

In the last several years of genealogical research, I discovered my maternal Great-Great Grandmother, Mahala Ray, born in 1812, is said to have been full-blooded Cherokee. This is almost impossible to prove on paper, considering many Native Americans carefully hid their ethnic roots, completely disappearing into white families, to avoid atrocities such as the Trail of Tears. The word "squaw" was an epithet of utmost disgust. Many census takers presumed them to be white, and recorded them so in the records.

Mahala was born in Tennessee and spent most of her life in Jackson County. She married William E. Smith, had nine children, was widowed, and then married her widower neighbor James Spivey, 37 years her senior. Their son, George Washington Spivey is my Great Grandfather. Sadly, other than this, I know nothing else about her.

"We have come to understand that who we are, is who we were," said Anthony Hopkins, in the role of John Quincy Adams, at the climactic moment of Steven Spielberg's Amistad. This haunting quote from the film has often made me wonder exactly how much influence DNA, as well as the life experience of our ancestors, have on who we are today.

Pioneer life was harsh and childbirth unending. I would love to know Mahala's dreams, her fears, and what bearing her ethnicity had on her life. I also can't help but wonder what effect her life has on mine, apart from the obvious things, like the color of my eyes and hair. My DNA is tingling to know, since her story is also part of my story.

Family Tree DNA has my sample, on which I plan having additional tests run, to check for Native American genes. I'll be sure to keep you posted on the results. This would confirm the oral history that's been handed down through the generations.

vintage postcard from my collection

Every man is a quotation from all his ancestors.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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the j

My favorite J. Peterman travel case, just like the one Kay Francis

carried in One Way Passage, 1932. So romantic.

I was a huge fan of the
J. Peterman Company
way before he was
parodied on Seinfeld as
Jacopo Peterman by
John O'Hurley, who
played Elaine Benes' boss.
Even though Seinfeld
brought the company moderate success, it filed for bankruptcy in 1999. Certainly not because of me, one of their bestest customers. Funny thing, John O'Hurley, became a major investor and helped resurrect the J. Peterman Company in 2001. Is this a case of life imitating art, or what?

The real J. Peterman is a retail
and catalog entrepreneur from
Lexington, Kentucky. (Not New
York, like Seinfeld lead you to
believe.) He has written a book
about his company's trials, the
influence of Seinfeld, and more
called Peterman Rides Again.


So, all this to say, I am happy to again find the delightful catalog in the manor mailbox. The products are accompanied by entertaining, exotic descriptions, as well as artwork, for each item with quirky names, like the "Victor Lazlo Shirt" or "Flowers for Mrs. Oglethorpe". I'm sure Mr. Peterman won't mind if I share with you a little excerpt from his latest catalog.


1947.
Paris had a new president.
Optimism was in the air.
So was spring.
And there were never enough polka dots to go around. Since you
may have just commandeered the entire city supply. Not just little
dots. Big ones. Paris was still in its coming out party mode. And you
were there, on the grandest boulevard in the world, to make sure
the party continued.
Look, isn't that Le Fouguet's? Wonder if they still serve those
great champagne cocktails?
Found the original at a vintage boutique in the Right Bank. It
looked lived in. And enjoyed. Champs-Elysees Dress (No. 2663)
When the world still needed a hug. And so did you.
.
.
How's that for a description of a polka dot dress?
.
If I happened to be writing for the company, my dream
job, by the way, (do you hear that, Mr. Peterman?) I would have
to call this little polka dot number the "Demendante Dress".

.

red

Pam, over at Textilosophy Oz, posted a delightful piece on dreams this week. She dreams exactly like I do, by the way, in vivid technicolor. Are you ever inspired by dreams? Several years ago, I dreamed a very strange and lucid dream, that was at the same time, pleasant and comforting. It has come to mind many times since, and always gives me smiles.



The Ride




We stood in a field of waving grass,
and spoke, only not with words.

She was alone; I with my wagon.
Our eyes met. Hers sparkled, she fancied a ride.

The stalky sea might tangle the wheels.
Resisting, she climbed aboard red Radio Flyer.

Was I dead?
I pulled, we flew higher.


My dress flapped like a flag in the breeze.
Over my shoulder, I could see she was happy.


I was her captain. Grandma, first mate.





willow, 2010





For more "red" Theme Thursday posts, click [HERE].


photo "Radio Flyer" by Jenny Arnez

bloggy pope?

Last Wednesday I picked up my cell phone, and was surprised to
hear the charming lyrical accent of my dear friend, FireLight on the
other end.

"Hey, are you listening to NPR?"

"No, I usually do, but don't have the radio on yet."

"Well, turn it on right now! They're talking about the Pope blogging!"

If you recall, I posted last November, about having a certain German
visitor on my blog site meter from the Holy See, the Vatican City
State. I enjoyed relishing in the possibility that it was His Holiness,
Pope Benedict XVI, popping in from his laptop to visit my humble
Willow Manor, since he is, after all, very computer savvy.

The program on NPR mentioned that the 82 year old Pope already
has a Facebook page and it is very possible he will soon start his own
blog, since in a recent message, he called on priests to "proclaim the
Gospel" through blogs, videos and Web sites.

David Weinberger, who writes about politics and culture on
Joho the Blog, warns that whatever the Pope does blog, "people take
it up, they republish it, they make fun of it, they contextualize it".

Obviously, he will have to have thick skin, in dealing so directly
with the public. I'm sure he is well aware of the ramifications of
blogging, like any other form of media. I happen to think it's a
fantastic way to connect with real, everyday people, on their level.

What kind of advice would you experienced bloggers have to give to
His Holiness? Gosh, I wonder if he'll start twittering, as well?

Like I said before, Holy Father, if you happen to be reading this,
please know you're always welcome at the manor. ~xx
.

in political

Some years back, WT was working on a Russian project. One day,
he got a call from one of principles of the company, telling him in
broken English that the deal was on hold. "We are in political," he
said. That's all. Just political. I can't think of a better way to sum up
the state of things. Seems we humans are always "in political".

Last week, Leah, of The Weather in the Streets, wrote an impressive
post, listing exactly where she stood politically on most of the current
issues. I admired, and actually felt a bit envious, of her candor and
confidence. Her post made me stop and wonder why, exactly, do I
steer clear of most political discussions. My eyes cross and I
invariably leave the room. I am never in political.

As I recently watched Ken Burns' The Civil War, I found myself
feeling sympathetic for both the North and the South during the
course of the documentary. My Libra scales tilt to one side, then the
other. I can often see both sides of an issue. There are times, when
there's no question, and I see totally black and white. But, for me,
many issues are gray. The scales go nuts. Maybe this is why decision
making for Libras can be so difficult. We can be sympathetic to a fault.

Before the last presidential election, I was accused in the comment
forum of one particular blog of being a "fence straddler". Well,
maybe I am. I see both sides. I like to weigh all the elements, and
when I finally do make a decision, hopefully it's a good one, now that
I'm older, and I like to think, a bit wiser. And you know what?
Sometimes, I still can't decide.

Speaking of things Russian, and civil war, the kooky photo above
is me in my Budenovka, a hat that was an essential part of the
communist uniform of the Russian Civil War. Its official name was
the "broadcloth helmet", named after Semyon Budyonny, and also
known as the "frunzenka" after Mikhail Frunze. Soft and woolly, it
covers the ears and neck, it can be worn alone or under a helmet.
It was created as part of a new uniform for the Russian army by
Viktor Vasnetsov, a famous Russian painter, who was inspired by
the Kiev Rus helmet. It reminds me of a quirky Russian version of
the Tin Man. Don't worry. I don't usually wear this one out and
about.

I happen to love this painting by Vasnetsov called "Samolet",

depicting Ivan, of Russian folklore, riding his magic carpet

to a place where there's no political, no fences.