Willow Manor was quite rural when I arrived the summer of 1988. From the kitchen window I could see an open field across the road. Dogs wandered freely, children dug holes in the yard, dandelions were good; it was okay to burn yard waste. This week, our neighbor burned a bit of brush in the gully. Someone actually called 911; firetrucks, guys in hazmat gear, the whole shebang over a few burning leaves.
I remember every house in the village of Burlington, Indiana having a rusty burn barrel out back. Everyone burned trash without worrying about toxins being released. Grandma's barrel rested on concrete blocks, a square opening cut in the lower half, so ashes could be shoveled out, and used in the garden. My uncle and I (uncles close enough in age to be brothers) would play war, watch the burning post-bomb trash. No worries; we knew the dangers of fire, how to safely light a match. Sometimes we made elaborate scenes in the cooled ash; pot metal army figures carefully placed around leftover bits of glass and tin.
Children's freedoms have declined since I was a girl. Maybe the world is a more dangerous place, but children seem overprotected. I wonder about the long-term outcome, as far as creativity is concerned. How will this affect the arts on all levels? Nothing compares with wild exploration, digging a hole, discovering creatures in the clouds, riding a bicycle without a helmet, feeling the exhilaration of wind in your hair.
The boiler furnace at Willow Manor is going tapocketa-tapocketa-tapocketa, trying unsuccessfully to keep up with the Polar Vortex of 2014. A polar vortex is also known as an Arctic cyclone, or my personal favorite, frigid twister. Everyone's objective this week is to keep warm. Washing dishes the old fashioned way never felt so good. I'm actually typing this wearing gloves.
Boiler furnaces are becoming obsolete. I have come to love the nostalgic pop and hiss of the radiators. It's a steampunk thing. Grandma's house in rural Indiana had a coal-fueled gravity furnace. Coal was delivered by a truck that backed up to the house, and dumped the coal down the shoot into the cellar. When the temperature dropped in the house, she called for one of my uncles to go down and shovel some coal into the furnace.
I would tag along. Being a lover of stones and bones from an early age, I couldn't resist the beautiful mound of coal in the corner of the cellar. Grandma strictly instructed me to stay away, but I was compelled by the iridescence, the chalkiness, and even more, the satisfying crunch when you climbed on it. As careful as I was about not being seen, somehow she always knew. I guess you can't lie, when you play with coal.
As diligent as Grandma was about keeping house, the coal dust settled on everything. Things were simpler then, but dirtier. Think Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird; that was me. I had dirty feet, knees, elbows, and hands, year round; this was okay. Kids didn't have to be clean, except for The Lord's Day, when we were starched and spit-polished, until we were unrecognizable. My red Kool-Aid mustache never came off. I wore it like a tattoo.
We are all dying, every moment that passes of every day. That is the inescapable truth of this existence. It is a truth that can paralyze us with fear, or one that can energize us with impatience, with the desire to explore and experience, with the hope―nay, the iron-will!―to find a memory in every action. To be alive, under sunshine, or starlight, in weather fair or stormy. To dance with every step, be they through gardens of flowers or through deep snows. ― R.A. Salvatore
Best wishes for a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend ...
Castile soap is a name used in English-speaking countries for olive oil based soap made in a style similar to that originating in the Castile region of Spain, as early as the 1600s. The word "castile" actually means "land of castles". A few weeks ago, I mentioned in my poem"Molt"about sprouting "castile wings" and flying to the "brutal clean".
The poetic metaphor conjured images of the Kirk's Castile soap of my childhood, so much so, that I couldn't stop thinking about its distinctive scent. Friday, when I was grocery shopping, I spied a small stack of Kirk's on the bottom shelf of the soap aisle at Kroger and tossed a three-pack in my cart.
It still has the white paper wrapper, now jazzed-up with a slick finish. I was a bit disappointed, since it seems quite unscented, without any distinguishable traces of the unique trademark scent I remember so well. Maybe my olfactory system isn't as keen as it once was? Nevertheless, I adore the silky way it lathers, especially in well-water. It's the brutal clean, without dryness. I even like it better on my face than my pricey facial cleanser. I love thriftiness. And chain reactions. Do you have a favorite soap?
Isn't it amazing how a tune can evoke a specific event in time? Woody Allen includes the best music in his films. Last weekend, I watched Scoop, and a piece of movie music carried me straight back to my childhood. My uncles, actually more like brothers in age, and I used to sword fight to Aram Khachaturian'sSabre Dance. We would play the piece from an LP record on a turntable, volume cranked to the max.
When the music ended, we moved the needle back and played it over until we were completely clashed out. Don't worry, we didn't use actual swords. Curtain rods were the next best thing, thrilling crash of metal on metal, imaginary sparks flying, catching the room on fire. I miss my Joan of Arc days, swashbuckling with the best of them. I should take fencing lessons.
By the way, the Khachaturian is deliciously quirky music. I think I will have it played at my funeral.
our Ben-Hur production still, 1959
We were an incredibly theatrical household. The saber dances are tucked safely away in my mind's eye, but I wish I had a tangible photo. I do have a shot of one of our Ben-Hur-esque dramatic productions. This wasn't just for fun; we were dead serious players. Speaking of serious, I was rather a precocious child. Here I am below, busy with some very serious writing, maybe an epic screenplay or some poetry. Nothing has changed.
I've been getting a ton of hits on my sitemeter lately on a particular post about my Shirley Temple. Are Shirleys back in vogue? Maybe. So, gentle readers, by popular demand, this is a re-post of Flying Shirley, originally posted in February of 2009.
When I was a little girl, I adored throwing my dolls in the air. The most fun, was tossing the baby Jesus from my grandmother's nativity set, complete with permanent plastic swaddling clothes, as near the ceiling as possible. To Grandma, this little fetish was entirely disrespectful. Like Queen Victoria, she was not amused, and promptly ordered me to stop, which I did, until she was safely out of the room.
I often dreamed of flying, myself, running fast as I possibly could in the grass, until my feet miraculously left the ground. It was exhilarating, drifting, wind in my face, arms out like Peter Pan, with an aerial view of my house and yard. I've heard it said to dream of flying is a sign of creativity, or maybe it was simply my childish craving for autonomy.
One Michigan summer day, a five year old me was doing my favorite Shirley Temple doll a favor, by sharing with her the thrill of flight. Higher and higher she flew, until she landed with a thud on the roof. I was mortified. Shirley, up there on the blazing asphalt, was more than I could bear. I begged my parents to rescue her, but to no avail. Fall came, and by November she was covered with a heavy blanket of snow. All winter, I imagined my Shirley, cold and abandoned on the roof.
With the arrival of spring, my father, anxious to see a ball game, climbed on the roof to adjust the TV antenna. He descended with a treasure, my beloved Shirley. Her ringlets were frizzled, one of her eyelids hung partially shut, and she had lost that curious, intoxicating scent of new plastic. I had never seen anything so lovely. I never again dreamed of flying.
Head of a Doll by Charles Simic
my flying Shirley
Whose demon are you,
Whose god? I asked
Of the painted mouth
Half buried in the sand.
A brooding gull
Made a brief assessment,
And tiptoed away
Nodding to himself.
At dusk a firefly or two
Dowsed its eye pits.
And later, toward midnight,
I even heard mice.
In the 1930s, the lovable little Shirley Temple became a symbol of happiness and hope in the midst of the Great Depression. A wave of merchandising followed, including a series of high quality Shirley Temple composition dolls (composition is a sawdust-based wood pulp, which can crack easily, so many did not survive). Later, in the 1950s, Shirley Temple dolls were made of vinyl and are therefore more common. Celebrity dolls have been in production for a long time. In the 1840s, several famous ballerinas were featured as paper dolls. Also in the 1800s, various military heroes were portrayed as dolls/figures. John Bunny, the silent film star, was one of the first dolls produced in 1914 by Louis Amberg & Sons, and the first Charlie Chaplin doll was produced in 1915. The Shirley Temple doll by Ideal was a wild phenomenon in the 1930s, and would go on to be one of the most successful celebrity dolls in history.
Note: My daughter looked so much like Shirley Temple when she was a little girl. In fact, she is still fondly known to one particular maestro as "Curly Top". I guess you could say I've been blessed with a real live Shirley doll of my very own.
Last week, when I wrote the poem titled Pink, a long legacy of pink hair curlers came to mind. It all started when I was eight, and my hair had finally grown out of that horrid 50s pixie cut, my mother would twist little sections of my wet hair around her finger and clip them in place with two bobbie pins forming an "x". I'll never foget catching the first glimse of myself in the bathroom mirror, in this state of total pin-headedness, brushing my teeth, thinking I looked like some kind of space alien. Was I the only one who made dancing ladies, by threading four bobby pins onto one, then twirling it for her skirt? Okay. Don't answer that.
After the pin-head stage, I graduated to the pink spooly rollers. Speaking of aliens, they were far more fun to play with than wear, since in the closed position, they looked just like pink flying saucers. I remember how they flew in the air and hit me in the face, if I flipped my head around too much.
Next came the pink sponge curlers. Even though they were like stretching my head on the rack, they were a tad more comfortable to sleep in. But for some reason, the one on my right side would invariably fall out during the night, so I would head off to school in a lopsided state. How did those girls manage the perfect flip all the way around?
The spongies were for little girls, so in junior high school, I graduated to the bed of nails pink stubbies, which were covered in prickly spikes, and pink Dippity Doo gel. (Is there some reason why both the gel and all the curlers were pink? No wonder it's not exactly my favorite color.) Some of them had clips and some were held in place with plastic lobotomy-type picks, and were like sleeping every night in an iron maiden. What a price we girls paid for beauty. But, you know, looking back at those old photos, for all the torture, my hair really didn't look that great. I thank God every day for whoever it was who invented the blowdryer. No doubt it was a woman.
A grand set of mounted Longhorn steer horns hung in his bedroom, over his bureau. It was an awesome sight to a small girl, peering up from underneath. They belonged to my great-grandfather, Glenn, son of Palestine Hanna, featured here on past Sepia Saturdays, and were from his days in Albuquerque in the early 20th century. Across the top of the horns rested a stately black walking stick, tipped with a silver cap.
Three years ago, after the death of my grandfather, my dear aunt gave me the walking stick I remember so well. After close examination, I barely made out some engraving on the cap. I pulled out my trusty magnifying glass, and played one of my favorite roles, a giddy Sherlock Holmes. Compelled to a delicious hunt, I drooled investigative juices.
Rev. N. Gillam
by
L. H. Hicks
.
As the delicate script appeared from the patina, my DNA danced a little jig. First, I checked my ancestral file, which contains the names and notations of over 6000 people, which I am proud to say, took five long years to log in and document.
.
My fourth great uncle, Oliver Hazard Perry Hanna (1813 -1880), as it turns out, was married to a Rachel Gillam. Sure enough, Rachel had a brother, Nelson Gillam (1814 - 1902) who was minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church near Delphi, Carroll County, Indiana for many years.
.
At the Carroll County Historical Museum's online site, I found a photo of Rev. Gillam. There is a certain compelling, yet haunting, Lincolnesque quality about him, with the same deep set steely blue eyes and gaunt cheek bones. They could be brothers. (I feel another research project coming on.) I was unable to pin down the one who bestowed the gift, H. L. Hicks. I assume he was a dear friend, or possibly a parishioner of his church.
.
Here's what John Rutherford has to say in his book, Millennium History of Carmel Methodist Church:
.
Reverend Nelson Gillam’s ministry here in 1851 and 1852 was not the superficial kind in which numbers are counted, but the kind in which men are gloriously converted to God. His preaching was the type of Peter, filled with power and effectiveness.
.
He must have been quite a charismatic speaker. I would love to take a journey back in time and attend one of his Sunday sermons, his walking stick resting on one of the altar chairs, alongside the pulpit.
In second grade, we were allowed to bring cough drops to school and keep them in our desks. Since I had a cough, my mother let me take an orange box of Luden's Originals to school. They were as big as footballs and had a barely tolerable, medicinal taste.
I was the new kid on the block, as usual, since my family moved on the average of once every two years, which I hated, by the way. Just as soon as I felt warm and woolly, and made a few friends, it was time to pack up and hit the road. But, I digress. Anyway, I was clueless as to the "cough drop protocol" at my new school.
Psst. I'll trade you cough drops. The girl with the curly red hair whispered to me, when the teacher turned her back.
Okay. Sure.
She took a little round red piece from a funny looking white box with two old men on the front, and handed it over, under my desk. I had never tasted anything so mouth-watering-good as a Smith Brothers wild cherry cough drop. I was in heaven. It was even better than my favorite butterscotch Lifesavers.
Bleh! What's this? She whispered loudly, spitting my sticky Luden's football into her hand.
What I didn't realize, was that cough drops were the approved "candy of choice" at school. Everyone had a "cough" and brought delicious wild cherry ones to enjoy on long snowy afternoons. When I asked my mother if I could please have some Smith Brothers cherry flavored, she refused, because they were "just like candy" and didn't work for coughs. Hmm. Little did she know.
I finally got rid of a pesky cough that's been bothering me for months. My grown-up cough drop of choice is Ricola sugar free cherry. It brings back delicious memories of lovely borrowed Smith Brothers. But, if you're in need of a really high powered drop, forget the Luden's
and go for straight for the Fisherman's Friends, my friends.
Years ago, when my youngest son was four years old, he was enamoured by the Dickens classic, A Christmas Carol. It was approaching the holiday season and he had watched the Muppet film version umteen times. One afternoon, as a manor visitor was leaving, he playfully called out, "Bye, old Scrooge!" This particular visitor, being none too amused, gave him an icy scowl and hastily stomped out of the manor. I was mortified.
"Punkin, why did you say that?"
"I thought it would make them laugh."
Well, sadly, this person certainly didn't laugh. But what a different scenario it might have been, if they had. There is an innocent honesty in the thoughts and actions of children. Many times they can assess a certain situation to a tee. The funny thing is, this person was close to the age I am now. Heavens to murgatroyd, I can't imagine a small child sizing me up and comparing me, of all people, to Scrooge.
There is something absolute in the old adage, "you are as young as you feel". Happiness is a choice. There is much to be said, in my little book, for emotional riches. No matter how far on the other side of the hill we might be, we can make a choice, like Scrooge finally did, to be youthful in spirit, bringing warmth and generosity to those around us.
My sister and I were chatting last week about the start of the new
school year. With my last son starting his (hopefully) last year of
college, it was a relatively smooth process to get him off to school.
A far cry from the days of getting three on the bus for their first day
with new haircuts, shoes, lunch boxes and freshly sharpened pencils.
A twinge of nostalgia comes over me this time of year. I long for
the good old days, when the kids were mortified to be seen with us
in public. This conjures a memory, of just such an occasion, when
our youngest son was a freshman in high school. He hadn't yet
turned 16, and still rode the bus most mornings. One particularly
dark, frosty morning, he was running late, so WT agreed to give him
a lift in my car.
.
It was my second favorite car ever; a cute red Volvo 240, with the
recognizable square body they used make. (That's it in the above
photo, parked at Indiana University, one of the many times I drove
my daughter.) Sadly, my oldest son totalled Old Red and she went
to the great car lot in the sky with nearly 200,000 miles to her name.
My all time favorite was the little red VW convertible I owned in the
late 1970's. It looked just like this picture I found online. Oh, what I
would give to still have that sweet baby today. I have a funny story
about my sister and me in this car, but it will have to wait for another
post.
Anyway, I digress. So, being trash collection day, WT packed a
gigantuous load of trash barrels and junk, having cleaned out the
garage the day before, into the open trunk of Old Red. I am not
exaggerating, it rose 10 feet in the air; all he would have needed was
Granny Clampett in a rocking chair on top.
Son and WT hopped into the car, but being 6:45 a.m., a bleary eyed
WT forgot to stop at the end of the drive to deposit the junk yard
rising from the trunk, and continued out onto the road heading
toward school. As they approached the school drive, filled with sleek
Beemers and Jags depositing kids, Son says,
"Um, you can just pull over and I'll get out here."
It was 21 years ago this month that we moved into our beloved Willow Manor. The stone lined culvert that cuts through the front of the property was once lined with huge willow trees, hence "Willow Manor", the name given to the place by previous owners. It's a delightful old house, built in 1927, with lots of original fixtures and glorious mature trees. Looking back, we've adored every single day living here. Well, most days, that is.
As any of you who have lived in a older home know, there is always something sinking or exploding. Do you remember the film The Money Pit, when Tom Hanks and Shelley Long portray a idealistic young couple who struggle to repair a dilapidated old house? Well, it's a perfect picture of us and our first weeks at Willow Manor.
I'll never forget the first night here, when I turned on the water to fill the tub for a nice hot bath, after a harrowing day of moving. Just like in the movie, muddy water gushed out, filling the tub with thick brown slop. Revolted, I let out a blood curdling scream. The romantic bath in my new dream home was not exactly coming together like I imagined.
Putting the bath episode aside, the next morning I happily came downstairs to make a lovely breakfast in our new surroundings. When I plugged in the toaster, all the kitchen lights went out with fireworks and a dynamic pop. After another desperate scream, from this non-screaming kind of girl, I rushed into the dining room to find WT poking at a soft spot in the ceiling. Just as I was opening my mouth to tell him about the kitchen episode, a sizable (18' x 18') hunk of plaster fell on his head, leaving a gaping hole in our newly acquired formal dining room. Oh, I wish I'd had my digital camera then.
The following weeks were spent living among some unsavory remodeling guys, one of whom I will never forget. The company hired to install air conditioning, sent their slinkiest man. He, being the only one who could actually fit inside the plaster walls to build the duct work. Again, I let out some whopper screams, when his unsuspecting, Norman Bates head would randomly slide out of a register opening. I swear he was trying to catch me naked.
Newly dug well and years of plumbing, electrical and drywall patching later, we adore this old place; and even more for the wear. Yes, it's still a money pit. As I speak, there's a large hole in the master closet ceiling, covered with duct tape and a plastic garbage bag, the hot water faucet doesn't work in the kitchen bath, and the air handler upstairs is out. One of these days, when our last is finished with school, (we're starting our eleventh straight year of kids in college) we'll take care of some delayed projects. Still, the manor does have a comfortable old personality all its own. The cracks and duct tape are all part of the patina that gives it that unique charm we've come to love. So, I raise my glass in a toast to the manor, our darling, crusty old money pit.
This is a Sepia Saturday post.
