Adeline and The A.S.S.

Pardon the alliteration, but all will make sense eventually. In the meantime, I wonder how many of you can rattle off the maiden name of your Great Great Grandmother? I want to introduce you to my Great Great Grandmother: Adaline Torrey Schenck Strong (1844-1933). She was my paternal grandmother’s grandmother. I know almost nothing about her, except that she decided, back in 1864, to buck tradition, which endears her to me.

Adeline Torrey Schenck married Benjamin Strong (1834-1915) at the age of 20 in 1864 in Philadelphia. I found their elaborate marriage certificate, signed by generations of my ancestors, in the box of papers my parents gave to me for safekeeping. I had it professionally framed in archival materials years ago. Adeline lived in an age – and a socio-economic class – where embroidering table linens and engraving silver was a custom. That said, the family tradition was for the bride to keep her maiden last name initial and add her married last name, thus I am Erica H. Jarrett. Poor Adeline was in a bit of a pickle: Adeline S. Strong resulted in the initials A.S.S. Her solution was to retain her middle name Torrey (her mother’s maiden name) instead, and our family has long referred to her as Adeline Torrey Schenck Strong.

I have two other items of hers, a linen table cloth with embroidered initials “ATS”, as well as a small silver dish. It has stamped hallmarks, and research indicates it is Gorham Silver, produced around the time of her wedding in 1864. And good grief, I spent a solid 30 minutes trying to polish the thing, and gave up after polishing one side! Not a very practical item, but I use it to hold a collection of antique skeleton keys to open the large Princeton sideboard which, I suddenly realized, would have resided in her home as well!

The “Princeton sideboard” is a huge piece of furniture. My parents had it in our dining room, and when they downsized, my husband and I carted it by U-Haul to our home in Illinois. The piece is heavy, made of solid mahogany, and was in dreadful shape by the time we got it. (I discuss the history of this piece in an early blog post: https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/to-renovate-or-not-to-renovate) It sits across from me in our dining room as I write. And I realize this exact piece of furniture sat in the dining room of Adeline Torrey Schenck Strong’s home in the 1870s. AND I realize I misattributed the piece to the Strong family, which is incorrect - it arrived in our family via our Schenck ancestry.

I don’t have a clue when Adeline and her new husband, Ben Strong, took possession of the sideboard, but it came from her parents, as her father, William Schenck (1819-1903) was a well-known Presbyterian minister in Princeton, NJ. I’m diving a bit deep into family genealogy here, but this fascinates me. Her paternal grandfather, John C. Schenck (1788-1846), purchased land from William Penn’s family near Princeton, and he would have been the original owner of the sideboard. The Schenck family (Dutch in origin) had long roots in early American history, including an original home from New Holland now displayed in the Brooklyn Museum of Art. 

Adeline was the first child born to her parents, with 7 more to follow. Her mother, Jane W. Torrey, died in 1856 after 13 years of marriage and 8 children, when Adeline was 12. As the last child, Harris, was born 2/27/1856, it is likely she died in childbirth. Of course, all the genealogy research compiled through the years only discusses the men, their careers, and deeds. The women remain voiceless. Even Adeline, who lived to be 89, likely helping her father raise her 7 young siblings, and birthing 5 children herself, had no paperwork saved for me to read. Adeline, with her marriage certificate and fancy silver, who stored her finest housewares in the sideboard sitting before me, will have to speak to me through the lines of the family history. And in the stitches she took, carefully avoiding the A.S.S. that tradition dealt her and rewriting herself to be A.T.S.

The Oracle Not At Delphi

Recently I was asked what “The Oracle “means. This is a tongue-in-cheek way I refer to a search on the Internet, mostly via Google. The original Oracle, however, was a female priestess. These women were devotees of Apollo, and served at a temple to him located at Delphi, in Ancient Greece. When I was turning 18, my parents took me and a brother on a trip around Greece, and my mother insisted we visit The Oracle of Delphi. She loved the ancient history of the priestesses, and we used the term “Oracle” often in our family. The site itself is remarkably peaceful, tucked in the mountains and preserved fairly well.

In ancient Greece, the priestesses held a great deal of power, and leaders would consult The Oracle for predications regarding wars, decisions, and political ideas. The original shrine at Delphi was to Gaea (Earth Mother), though it seems she “gifted” her powers to Apollo in the 8th century B.C. Personally, I’m not buying that – historically female-based societies were overpowered, literally, by patriarchal ones, and the Greeks were no exception. The Greeks referred to the Temple at Delphi as the “omphalos” – the navel of the world. This alludes to the birth of a child, with its connection to the umbilical cord. As the site originally honored Gaea, literally the “Earth Mother”, the Greeks recognized the power of knowledge and wisdom in the origin of humanity. (As an aside, one of my favorite words during college was “omphaloskepsis” which describes the act of thinking while staring at your belly button!)

During the ritual at Delphi, the priestess would fall into “divine frenzy”, with numerous ancient Greeks describing this process. It has actually been proven by modern science that this was due to geology (fascinating story). According to a New York Times article the “region's underlying rocks turn out to be composed of oily limestone fractured by two hidden faults that cross exactly under the ruined temple, creating a path by which petrochemical fumes could rise to the surface to help induce visions.

In particular, the team found that the oracle probably came under the influence of ethylene -- a sweet-smelling gas once used as an anesthetic. In light doses, it produces feelings of aloof euphoria.” The power and wealth of Delphi waned as the Roman Empire took over and banned “pagan” worship around 2nd century B.C. (https://www.nytimes.com/200203/19/science/for-delphic-oracle-fumes-and-visions.html). 

This white statue is neither Greek, nor of an Oracle priestess. Instead, she appears to be of Asian origin, standing on a lotus flower, with incredible details in her dress. Remarkably, there is not a chip on her, including her delicate fingers. I found her at an estate sale last summer, and while I am not much of an Asian art fan, her details and serene nature spoke to me. She also only cost $10 which helped. I knew virtually nothing about her, as she is not marked in any way, nor is it clear how old she is.

A quick visit to my favorite source, The Oracle, determined she is a “Blanc de chine” statue of Guanyin. This is a specific type of pottery, literally “white from China”, that has been made in the kaolin-rich, south-eastern Chinese coastal town of Dehua in central Fujian province. These pieces were being produced as early as 960 A.D., and, starting in the 1800s, were exported by French merchants to Europe.  “Guanyin” is the Chinese translation of “Avalokiteshvara”, the bodhisattva of compassion. Bodhisattvas are enlightened beings who chose to stay on earth as accessible examples for Buddhist faithful to follow. She is considered the Goddess of mercy, compassion, and kindness in Chinese mythology.

Unfortunately, “Guanyin” doesn’t roll off the tongue quite like “The Oracle” does. Honestly, given my dyslexia, I’m not sure I could even pronounce it. I’d have to turn to The Oracle for a YouTube video on pronouncing it no doubt! But it did make me pause, to learn those women in ancient Greece were simply cooking up an excuse to get high. They managed to make a good living at it, as the petitioners had to provide very specific donations. It is possible they were honest and gifted. It is also possible they were not. Guanyin, on the other hand, requests nothing. She does not judge nor cause wars. She does not partake of fumes, which apparently are non-toxic to humans but can cause frost bite. She shows mercy, compassion and kindness. I’m thinking we could all use a bit more Guanyin and a lot less Oracle. Unfortunately, The Oracle remains the source of much information, though we should take some of it with a grain of ethylene.

No Gnomes

This charming gnome has been on our staircase for many years. At some point my two-year-old granddaughter decided she was not keen on him. She was quite distressed when she saw him, and announced “no gnomes”. Thus, the poor guy has to hide in the closet whenever the kids are coming to town, so granddaughter does not get distressed. Unclear when he can emerge from the closet banishment.

This particular fellow is made of cast iron, and painted, probably c. 1950 or so. I suspect he is a door stop as he is quite heavy. Gnomes are often placed in gardens, but putting him outside would likely cause his paint to wear away and the darn thing to rust. I picked him up at a local flea market many years ago, and he’s been near our front door ever since.

The Oracle explains the idea of garden gnomes began in 1844 when a German company  sold small ceramic statues. The term “gnomen-figuren” means “miniature figurines” in German. However, the Germans did not invent the idea of a gnome – that came from ancient mythology. The god Priapus was considered a fertility god, and protected beehives, flocks and vineyards (those worried about their wine). The Romans honored statues of Priapus in their gardens, and the imagery spread with the Roman Empire’s trek across Europe. While their popularity waned over the years, Disney’s animated film “Snow White and The Seven Dwarves” (1937) created a new craze for gnome statues. In the 1990’s, pranks of stealing garden gnomes became popular, and the French movie “Amelie” (2001) has wonderful bits of this idea in its story line.

Being curious, I turned to The Oracle to find out what the difference between a gnome and a troll might be. It seems trolls are from Scandinavian mythology. They are grotesque, brutish monsters, and came in many sizes. Contemporarily, we think of trolls as small sized, like gnomes, which the Norwegians refer to as “Troblins”. The English began using the term “troll” around 1600 as a term to describe a folk creature who is antagonistic and unfriendly to people. Modern English uses “trolling” interchangeably with “trawling” – i.e. trolling for fish or compliments.

“Troll” was first used to describe behavior on the internet in 1992. I am not familiar with the site “alt.folklore.urban” which was a very early internet chat group (basically). The group used the term to refer to threads that attracted comments from new members as “trolling for newbies”. Eventually the concept of trolling became a negative one, and we now all recognize the dangers of the wild web where trolls lurk. The modern definition of a troll (Wikipedia) is someone who posts deliberately offensive messages online or in real life, to cause people harm or distress.

I’m afraid to say that while my charming (and benign) gnome was hiding in the closet over my birthday weekend, a Family Troll landed with a plop amid my birthday presents. Some of you are aware my family of origin is filled with siblings with whom I no longer interact. One such sibling sent me a text as my children, partners and hubby sat enjoying cake and presents for my birthday. In a peculiar approach, the text opened by indicating I was a “b-tch who had turned my family against him”. I didn’t read past that line, as the opening was a tad off-putting. I gather, as my children read the rest, this was supposed to be an olive branch to begin having a relationship. Honestly. I am grateful for the text in an odd way, because it made it clear to my adult children (and their partners) the type of nasty trolls I had in my childhood home. At kids’ request, I blocked this sibling after sending a reply, and I felt incredibly lucky to have my children there to take over the communication and shut down the nastiness.

Trolls are definitely nasty, and should be avoided at all costs. They are always antagonistic and unfriendly, and are not good for us. Gnomes, however, are. How could they not be as they are protecting our wine?! And the bees – and we all know the bees need all the help they can get these days (see The Oracle for Bee Hive Collapse Syndrome). After the kids left, I did move my gnome out from the closet. I dusted him off, gave him a pat for understanding his banishment, and hope I remember to tuck him away the next time the granddaughter comes to stay. Eventually I hope she will understand the difference between sweet gnomes and nasty trolls.

Kookaburra Tree

To be honest, this is not actually a “kookaburra” tree, but how many of you can hear that song now in your head?! I cannot begin to explain why we sang it when I was young, in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Fortunately, the Oracle could explain a bit about that ear worm I now cannot get rid of, but I’ll get to that later.

This quilt – with a native New Zealand tree called a Pohutukawa – was made for my cousin’s first grandchild. I have been thrilled to connect with him due to my rambling blogs, and we periodically touch base, even though he lives in New Zealand. No matter what the holiday, his is the first greeting I receive! When I learned his daughter was having a child, I wanted to send them a quilt. Fortunately, I knew my sister was heading to NZ and could carry the quilt to them (under much duress, mind you, as she is a minimalist packer… she only had a carry-on for a 3-week trip to NZ!). I asked my cousin what his daughter loved, and he mentioned trees. Off to The Oracle to find images of native NZ trees. There are a number, but when you filter your search to only present drawings, this design shows up. Sadly, it is not attributed to anyone, other than to say it is aboriginal in origin. NZ has summer when we are slogging through winter, so the Pohutukawa tree is in full bloom at Christmas time, thus it is considered their holiday tree. I was attracted to the shape and colors.

I work very part time helping a local print company manage their accounting, and the owner is wonderful at creative projects (Little Fort Media in Waukegan). I asked her to enlarge the image to create a pattern. As the piece is a mirror image of itself, I actually told her she only needed half of the piece. The bird is not, though, so I did need all of him.

Once I had my large paper template, I dug through my fabrics, finding a great brown for the tree, as well as a mottled green to represent the ground. The reds needed a subtle contrast, and a green needed actual leaf imagery to help give texture to the little leaves. On to the pattern.

This part was a tad complicated. Using a fusible webbing, I had to trace the image of the tree. The tracing part is not hard, but it is ALL ONE PIECE! Hadn’t really thought that one through. It was easiest to trace one half, fold the webbing, and cut in two layers. If you have ever cut complex paper snowflakes, you can understand my dilemma. The darn thing tangles and twists. I had to peel off a paper to reveal the sticky backing, and doing so made all the little bits start sticking together. Solution was to lay it down a bit at a time, smoothing it out as I went.

Now for the red. Not difficult, but getting some contrast and making sure to cover the ends of the various branches turned out to be more difficult than expected. Thank goodness the shapes are basically blobs, and I could cut and trim as needed. And add more blobs, until I felt the coverage was good. Clearly diverging from the “pattern” but the joy of these style projects is that patterns are optional! I am a bit of a “Pirates of the Caribbean” style person: rules are only guidelines…

I confess the leaves nearly did me in. Not only did I need to cut endless little almond slivers, I had to keep them from sticking to each other. And scatter them so they looked right. Which meant cutting a great deal more. Then, to make things more painful, I had to machine quilt around each and every leaf – I did not applique the pieces down in the traditional sense; I use a fusible web that holds the pieces in place. Then I machine quilt, outlining each individual piece, which secures them and strengthens the quilt. Especially for a baby quilt, which should be used and washed, and shoved in bags, and draped on the floor. Those darn leaves felt endless while sitting at the machine, but the result was worth it.  

A Kookaburra is actually a native bird of Australia, and it is sitting in an “old gum tree” in the song. The song was written by Marion Sinclair (1896-1988) in 1934. She wrote it for a competition run by the Girl Guides Association in Australia (Girl Scouts), to raise money for the purchase of a camping ground. While I was never a Girl Scout in my youth, I did attend some camps with friends, so possibly that is where I picked up the ear worm now residing in my head:

Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree,

Merry merry king of the bush is he.

Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra,

Gay your life must be!

Interestingly, this quilt was for a NZ baby, and the land mass of NZ has almost no native mammals. The only ones are bats and marine mammals. And many birds. While the Kookaburra is seen, rarely, in NZ it is not native, but was introduced back in the late 1870s. The tree in this quilt is of the myrtle family, and is an evergreen tree. The tree features in many Maori legends, and has been recovering it’s population with restoration programs. The bird is a Tui in Maori, and also has special symbolic meaning to their culture. It is a national heritage animal of NZ. The Maori associate the bird with life fulfillment, confidence and spiritual harmony. When I made the quilt, I did not know the cultural significance of both the tree and bird – I was focused on the visually pleasing imagery. Now that I do know, I am pleased to send little Jack a quilt full of symbolism offering him a life of fulfillment, confidence and spiritual harmony.

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Athena And the Eclipse

Today is all about the sun. The solar eclipse, happening today, is going to be visible across a swath of the United States. We are not in the “totality” zone, but are fairly close. I have heard total solar eclipse are rare, but it turns out they happen every 18 months. That said, they are not always visible to people. Any given place on Earth’s surface will only experience one total solar eclipse, lasting only a few minutes, every 375 years on average (1).

The next full solar eclipse to be seen in parts of the United States will be August, 2044. As I am not science oriented, I turned to The Oracle to learn a bit more about the “why” of an eclipse. The moon must be positioned directly between the Earth and the sun, blocking out the sun’s light. However, because the Moon’s orbit around the Earth is slightly tilted compared to the Earth’s orbit around the sun, this alignment does not occur frequently. This particular eclipse is also happening during a “coronal mass ejection” (CME) cycle, something that happens every 11 years on the sun. That means these CMEs will be visible to the naked eye during the eclipse, which is a very rare treat.

As I am thinking of the sun, the goddess Athena comes to mind. She is often associated with the sun, due to her connection with agriculture and wisdom. Her origin is complex, and evolved over many cultures, with the Greeks using her to be the protector of their city, Athens. She is a fierce woman, in a pantheon of patriarchal gods, and was “born” straight out of Zeus’s head. She is portrayed in a golden outfit, fully armed, and often used her wisdom to diffuse destructive wars.

This small marble lamp has a paper shade with an image of Athena. I spotted it at a charity shop a few years back, paying around $30 for it. The shade is made of heavy paper, with a wonderful green background. I cannot determine how the image was made; it is possibly a hand done print. The paper was then wrapped around a metal frame and finished off with a rich gold ribbon. Age is unclear, but I would guess 1940s. She lights up each night via a timer, casting a soft light in our home. Though, to be honest, hubby gets annoyed when the time change happens as the light then stays on past his bedtime, grumbling until I adjust the timer to appease his luddite sensibilities.

Athena is often depicted with a bird symbol, commonly an owl due to her association with “wisdom”. This three-dimensional plaque of an owl was found at the thrift store, and had a few companions. The other owls were not as charming, so this is the only one who ventured home with me. Also not signed or dated, but the yellow mushrooms and green plants make me think 1970s. We are very fortunate to have Great Horned Owls that nest around our property, and can sometimes hear them late at night. I have read that as the eclipse blocks the sun, birds and animals will begin to respond as though night has fallen. I will listen for the Great Horned Owls, and be thankful we live in a time that wisdom is available at the click of a few buttons.

(1)         https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/how-ancient-humans-studied-and-predicted-solar-eclipses/

Red Headed Romance

Finding original art at thrift stores is an exercise in perseverance. The old adage “you’ll kiss a lot of frogs” springs to mind – I marvel at the shear amount of stuff I dig through. Because to find a treasure, you most certainly have to dig. And there is a commitment to this process as well – people who “thrift” will go to their favorite haunts a few times a week, as finding that treasure is directly related to “being there” when items are put out for sale. Since most thrift stores are simply in the business of moving items, there is not typically a schedule to this.

I had noticed, however, that my fave haunt was not adding artwork very often. Entering into a discussion with a volunteer, I learned there was a need for someone with an art background to help with the sorting and pricing. I certainly fit that bill! Now I volunteer at the store, sorting through the piles in the storage area to determine what is of value and what is not. Besides the fun of uncovering original art, researching it on the fly, and helping the manager decide what to display, I get to see what is donated first hand. And as a bonus, I get to pick up treasures before they head out for sale.

This charming small oil painting is, to date, the only treasure I have brought home in the past 6 weeks. It was painted in 1972 by Mary Vickers (born 1940), a British artist. There is a charming flyer tucked in the back of the canvas, letting us know Vickers is a “modern day Romantic. No artist paints more eloquently the rejection of drab reality.” The flyer explains she was influenced by studying the art in London museums, particularly of the Romantic movement. This particular painting was presented at a “one-man show scheduled for Paris” in Spring, 1972.

The painting brings to mind my childhood of the 1970s. While the colors of that era were bright, filled with flowers and smiley faces, the reality of the 1970s was a different story all together. Vietnam, political protests, young generations seething with discontent, to say nothing of the significant lack of women’s rights. This artist’s work certainly rejected the drab reality of the times. A brightly lit woman with flowing red hair and blue eyes. She wears a vibrant yellow hat with a pink polka dot scarf, all set against a neon green and yellow background.

My 1970s childhood was very sheltered. My parents restricted television, and we had one black and white set in a basement rec room. We were only allowed a certain amount of tv watching each week, which, I vaguely recall, was two hours total. Books were unlimited – I could read anything I came across. (Those 1970s trashy novels I “borrowed” from a friend’s mother certainly set the stage for a future guilty pleasure!) As we did not have television going during our days, the visuals of the Vietnam War and the protests roiling the country were hidden from me. I do recall I would sneak down to the playroom late at night so I could binge watch television (2 hour limit be damned). As this was the time of traditional tv, limited to the channels received by antennae, that did not include 24/7 news. What played at night were very old movies, Twilight Zone shows and horror flicks. I scared myself to bits, which may explain my continued reluctance to watch anything “horror” based.

I recall a playmate of mine from that time had an older sister who was very active in the anti-war movement, and so I understood to some degree there was discontent, and a war, going on. She had dog tags from a soldier in Vietnam, and at some later point, a young man entered the picture. In my childish perspective I assumed he was her “husband”, though in retrospect, I have no idea that was accurate. I found her fascinating, and she had red hair to boot.

Amusingly, if you turn to The Oracle, you can find may “theories” about the origin of  red hair. It seems it is due to a mutation in the MC1R gene, and originated in Central Asia, or possibly Africa. That said, it is most frequent in areas of Northern Europe, specifically those of Celtic origin. While many of us think those pillaging Vikings were the root, it turns out that is exactly backwards. Scottish and Irish Celts were taken – likely as slaves – by the marauding Vikings back to Norway, adding red hair to that gene pool. As the gene is a recessive trait, it must come from both parents for the offspring to be a redhead. (1)

Having red hair turns out to be rare, as only 2% of world’s population are redheads. In addition, being blue eyed with red hair is even more rare – a 0.17% statistical chance. My paternal grandfather was a redhead with blue eyes (WSH 1890 -1968), and a few of his children were as well, though not my father. In addition, my mother seemed not to be blessed with the recessive red head gene, as 7 children turned up not a single red head.

Back when I was kissing a bunch of frogs, the prince I landed on turned out to be 100% Polish. With brown eyes (dominant). So our children didn’t stand a chance of inheriting red hair. They do, however, carry the recessive gene from my paternal grandfather. And I find it interesting BOTH my sons married red headed women! I’m keeping my fingers crossed for redheaded grandchildren. Romantic indeed!

(1)         https://www.eupedia.com/genetics/origins_of_red_hair.shtml

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

Do I like chickens? Not particularly. But when you own a property that was once a Quaker Oats chicken research farm, it is hard to avoid poultry. Not only gifts, but art in many forms. This collection is decorating a “chicken” themed bathroom, and, before you ask, yes, I did hang the toile wallpaper featuring chickens. I couldn’t resist. In the spirit of “if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em”, I have gathered (mostly black and white) chicken artwork in many forms, and display them in this bathroom.

I have gathered a large collect of Ful-O-Pep brochures, printed by Quaker Oats. Some came with our property but others were purchased on eBay years ago. The two inside the black shelf are some of my favorites due to the amusing artwork, and these images are reduced sized copies of the (larger) originals.  These brochures have provided interesting tidbits of information about the research farm Quaker Oats was running on our property (1922-1965). Quaker Oats was looking for a way to sell the byproduct from manufacturing oatmeal, and the solution was to market it as a fortified animal feed, primarily for chickens. The feed was distributed across the country, and marketed to families that maintained backyard chicken coops. These brochures, as well as a weekly radio show, Man On The Farm, were part of that marketing.

The middle rooster artwork in the black shelf is a small watercolor I found at a thrift shop, as is the framed chicken artwork on top of the display. The black and white oil painting hanging on the wall beneath is also a thrift shop find. He is actually signed “Betty Kingsbury 1987”. Amusingly, the price sticker is still on the back from the thrift store – I paid a whopping $2.00. He is a dapper rooster, nicely done in a folk-art style.

The black framed art work on the top of the shelf is an eBay purchase from years ago. It is a very old photography postcard, with a cancelation stamp saying “Dunkirk, NY April 8, 10am 1906”. For those interested, Dunkirk is up on Lake Erie, south of Buffalo, NY.  The actual stamp has been removed, and the writing is badly faded as it was in pencil. The only word still legible is “birthday”, but in very faint printing, the front says “Easter Greetings” along the top edge. I do not know the type of photographic production used, but the piece is likely from 1890 or so, and has a lovely metallic sheen. 

The middle piece on the shelf was my mom’s, and I recall it was in our kitchen throughout my childhood. I believe it is a Portuguese pottery tile, but I do not know why my mother had it. It is a bit peculiar in its humor – the image is of a cooked chicken “dish” with the saying “when the cock crows our love will be over”. The implied message is the darn rooster is now cooked so not likely to actually start crowing again – but what a twisted comment about love.

This last piece is on the wall in the guest room just outside the bathroom. My daughter created the artwork in elementary school art class. How could I not display this charming rooster awaiting the sunrise?! I paid to have it professionally matted and framed, and each day I see him, I smile at his charm. Thankfully he is not able to crow, but not because he’s been overcooked. He is a silent reminder of my daughter’s childhood joy in the creation of art. As well as the peculiar saying her trainers would chant when she continually won horse competitions: Winner, winner, chicken dinner! According to The Oracle, this originated by gamblers, trying to win $2 to cover the cost of their dinner in Las Vegas. Over time, it became a phrase to use when celebrating a victory. Time to go make a chicken dinner.

My Violets Are Blue

This bunny, a thrift store find, made me think about our yard in the Spring. We are fortunate to live on a property Quaker Oats developed to be a research farm and showcase for the public, between 1922 and 1965. Thus, our place was hardscaped and planted to be a top of the line “family farm” circa 1930. There are wonderful stone walls and walkways. Huge old trees, including a towering basswood. Quaker Oats planted wisteria, which has aged badly. Peonies as far as the eye can see. Climbing hydrangea scaling the chimneys. Massive Oak leaf hydrangea in stands around the house. There are ancient grape vines. A wonderfully fragrant forest of lily of the valley. Unusual white Persian lilacs. A bed of antique bourbon roses. Carpets of snow drops and cilia. Fiddlehead ferns and English ivy (which is a beast to control). Stands of forsythia growing wild. (As an aside, all the plants over here grow “wild”, otherwise our relationship is doomed. My gardening style is colloquially known as “benign neglect”.) And violets all through the foundation beds around the house. Mine are blues and white, not the yellow ones painted charmingly on this bunny.

To say nothing of the myriad of things I’ve added or encouraged, in the spirit of native and maintenance free. Tricolor Beech, Redbuds, and boxwood. Oaks and Walnuts curtesy of the squirrels. Even a Tulip Tree, which mysteriously arrived. A large raspberry hedge. Prolific Sour Cherry tree. Gifts from friends of trillium, bluebells and mayapples. I’m sure I’m forgetting a few things, but I will move on in the spirit of not boring you to death.

And this week, end of March, the cilia are ending their display and my forsythia plants are starting to bloom. That is at least two weeks too soon. Global warming, I suspect. Last night, the weather dropped, from the sunny pretend Spring days of late, back to normal below freezing. And I worry now about the damage to these wonderful old plants

Back to the charming, hand painted bunny. Done in 1982 by “JER”. The bunny arrived in our house from a jaunt to a thrift store – and while he was quite immobile, frozen on the shelf amid a myriad of other tchotchkes, I spotted him immediately. And boy do bunnies reign in our yard. Over the years we have watched baby bunnies literally romp playing across the yard. Uncovered nests, quite by accident. And dealt with a cat bringing a live baby bunny into the family room, with the ensuing chaos of kids squealing in delight, me yelping, the dog chasing the cat, and the cat chasing the bunny. Can’t recall how that one ended, but it still makes us laugh. Those darn bunnies love to eat things, and protecting oak saplings and other plants becomes an exercise in persistence. Sometimes the bunnies win, other times we do.

Our property is also rich in wildlife, moving through our area by the large easement that runs east of us. Deer and coyote are common. Nesting hawks are often around. Great horned owls live nearby. We haven’t seen red tail fox in a while, but over the years we’ve discovered them lounging in the sun, with a den nearby. There was a remarkably fat woodchuck years ago who tunneled endlessly. Fortunately (for our yard) it was not fond of our dog and moved on. I worry about our property’s future. It has such rich history and wonderful old buildings. And plants.

The violet symbolizes “modesty and faithfulness” in the language of flowers. Using flowers to express ideas has been around before Shakespeare’s time, but he used them often. In Hamlet, Ophelia delivers flowers to the court, saying:

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts. ... I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when my father died.

Meaning, of course, that faithfulness died when her father was killed. Unfortunately, our home is in a community that tends to take down old houses, building modern structures. I have had local realtors tell me our property is a “great teardown” since two houses could be built here. I have tried to sustain the place, nurturing plants as I can with my limited knowledge and resources. Struggled mightily to eradicate buckhorn and garlic mustard. We’ve made all the barns sound, and use and enjoy them. But I look to the property’s future and worry, not sure if “faithfulness” will sustain it. And so, I smile sadly when I see this charming bunny, with its sunny yellow violets. Some folks tell me violets are weeds, and I should pull them all out. But I refuse to remove them as I find them a cheerful harbinger of Spring, and hope my faithfulness will be rewarded when the day comes for us to move on.

Warning For 60

I recently visited with my sister in Phoenix, and came home with this charming lithograph. Phoenix thrift stores are not a source of inexpensive artwork – most items I saw were priced beyond my budget. This one, however, eked in under $20, and I loved the female characters, circus theme, and fun vibe. Additionally, someone spent a good deal of money on the framing, using a gorgeous, purple, raw silk matting and rich gold frame. The piece is titled “Cirque” and is signed Tanya Doskova. It is numbered 22/100 (meaning it is the 22nd print out of 100), and is not dated. While I didn’t originally notice, now the number “60” jumps out.

Doskova was born in Bulgaria in 1960, and resides in Arizona. She is known for her magical surrealism, socio-political satire and modern folk tales. I was not able to locate anything regarding this specific piece; however, I’ve decided it is a tribute to women turning 60. Doskova would have turned 60 in 2020,  as we all hunkered down to struggle through Covid-19, and I turned 60 this past year. The artwork brings to mind a well-known poem by British poet Jenny Joseph, written in 1961, entitled “Warning”. Most folks think it is called “When I am an Old Woman” but not so. The opening line has remained a mantra for older women everywhere:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

The poem goes on to describe all the dreadfully inappropriate things she intends to do when she is an old woman (And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves/And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter). I can certainly relate, though I would not survive without butter as I love to bake – likely I would skimp on dinner. Joseph goes on to express how, at her age of 29, she must be responsible:

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

The woman on the right in the lithograph most certainly is wearing a red hat, and while her slinky outfit is not purple, the hat is decorated with a purple flower. She looks out toward the audience, while nonchalantly holding up the leg of her cohort. That performer, who seems half asleep, holds a moon, which casts the “0” shadow on the back wall of the tent. There are touches of purple throughout the work, including the night sky, and the platform with the reclining performer. Oddly, the “6” does not seem to align with anything casting a shadow, so it feels very much an added element.

While the characters are depicted as circus performers, the name “Cirque” is an interesting choice. Searching The Oracle for “cirque” will bring up many Cirque de Soleil sites. However, “cirque” is a French word for “circle”, but specifically a circle formed through the erosion caused by a glacier. “Because glaciers must originate above the snowline, a survey of the elevations of ancient cirques provides information on  climatic change and on the former position of the snow line.” (1) I find it interesting that cirques are exposed as glaciers erode, leaving behind evidence of the earth’s movement. Much like our older bodies show evidence of the years we’ve lived, sometimes to the detriment of current fashions, and our desires. That said, the creases and extra padding I carry exist because I have been blessed with 3 children and 60 years of living. I for one will not moan about my old body– erosion be damned!

In this artwork, Doskova depicts three women performing a Cirque de Soleil style act (though it is a highly unrealistic performance). The women create an internal circle in the work, wrapping around the “60”, with the moon adding to the circular motif. In many cultures, the feminine is depicted as a circular snake, honoring female fertility. The snake, biting its own tale, represents the cycles of the seasons, and the continued renewal of life.  A woman, able to give birth, creates a new generation, continuing the circle of life. The number 60 itself is filled with circles – the “0” being a complete circle, and the “6” looking like a snake beginning to curl in on itself. I am not suggesting “60” means we’re near the end, but realistically, my contribution to the circles of life have been created, and my life has been rich and rewarding. I better start hunting for that red hat.  

(1)         https://www.britannica.com/science/tarn-geology

Not A Chance

This is my first quilt. While I cringe a bit as I look at it, when it was made, I was quite proud of it. I suspect a number of you can immediately identify what decade it was made. For those of  you unaware, peach and green were the dominant color choices in the 1980s. Much like many of you will look back to images taken now and realize “gray” was the name of the 2020s game.

I was a new bride in 1987, setting up home in a city far from anyone I knew. I didn’t have much money as I wasn’t working yet (long story) and Hubby had lost his job in Cleveland a month before our wedding. We sold the home we had purchased 5 months prior in Rocky River, OH and moved to Evanston, Illinois in search of work. I was an avid reader of “Country Living” magazine at the time. I loved the antique, handmade look, and a passion for finding old furniture I could renovate started. While we lived in a second-floor apartment in Evanston, I refinished (striping, sanding and urethaning) a large men’s dresser purchased at a thrift store for $100. Husband still uses it! Thus ensued shopping ventures to flea markets, antique stores and even auctions.

I also began to see quilts, especially at all those antique venues. I immediately loved them, though could not afford the lovely 19th century ones for sale at the time. I discovered a local quilt guild in 1991 by reading of their upcoming quilt show in the “Country Living” magazine, and I am still a member of that guild, Village Quilters, 30 years later! Quilts were often featured in “Country Living”, and I decided to make one when the article included a basic pattern. Believe it or not, I still have the pages from the magazine.

As I had never made a quilt, I found a local quilt store, The Apple Basket, in Evanston. The women there taught quilting the “old fashioned” way - completely by hand. With scissors. And cardboard. And handsewn with needle, thread and thimble. Of course, in 1987, almost no one knew a different way. The quilt is a “wild goose chase” block set with a flying geese border. I baulked at making all those border geese blocks by hand – tracing all the tiny triangles with templates and hand sewing them together was ridiculous. Mind you, I was three quarters of the way through making the quilt by hand when I realized I had a perfectly functional Pfaff sewing machine in my closet.

This machine was my high school graduation gift from my parents in 1982. It had not been used much during the 5 years I had it. Finally, with typical Humphrey ingenuity (i.e. make it up by the seat of your pants but insist you know what you’re doing) I figured out how to sew the thing together by machine and got the top done. Sans flying geese. When the top was complete I realized I had not trimmed the selvage off the fabric and it was exposed on one of the borders. I did not redo it – as one of my quilting girlfriends always says “done is good”. I’ve regretted that ever since.

I realized I should have made the flying geese border, and not have the darn selvage showing. I purchased some additional fabric – I still have it – with the intention of redoing that border. As you can see, that did not happen. That said, making flying geese at this point is ridiculously simple so the creation is not the problem.

This is a bit of a “give a mouse a cookie” problem. I would have to unquilt the borders. And then I would be upset because of course the batting is polyester and I would rather undo the entire quilt and change the batting to wool. Now, once the top is redone and new batting is at hand, I have to quilt the thing. Hand quilting a quilt this size would likely do my fingers in. With all my rock climbing, I don’t know if my fingers could even hand quilt. And contemporary quilting, mostly done on machines, is so lovely and dense, I would struggle to match what my current taste is with doing the quilting by hand. I could simply re-quilt it on a machine, but at that point, is it any longer my “first” quilt?

So, have I changed that border? Not a chance.

To Renovate or Not To Renovate

A good question. There are any number of schools of thought regarding this when it comes to items that are considered “old” or “antique”. The prevailing one is that if you do anything to “renovate” a piece, be it furniture or quilts, the piece is no longer considered “antique”. I grant you there are likely some cases where a valuable piece of furniture has been painted or “modernized” to suit a new generation’s taste, thus destroying the intrinsic value of the antique. That said, is the piece meant to sit, unused and unappreciated? Or is it better to repair something so it can continue to be used and loved? I fall in the second category – mostly.

I bring this up because a friend recently asked if I could repair a quilt that was gifted to her for her wedding in 1993. The quilt was purchased from an unknown maker and was called an “Amish quilt” so most likely it was produced in Indiana by a woman from an Amish community there. This one is a lone star pattern with an appliqued “pillow top” section, and was hand quilted. While the fabric was a quality fabric, some of it did not age well. Typically, browns, burgundies and greens can age badly, especially when exposed to sunlight. They fade terribly, and can rot, leaving holes in the quilt top. The young couple used this quilt for years, but now are concerned it is too fragile to even display. This quilt is an heirloom for them, and as such, it is important to repair the quilt so it can continue to be cherished.

The trick for this quilt will be to incorporate the newer fabrics into the actual pieced parts of the quilt – the three long borders and a number of the diamond sections inside the Lonestar. While the process will not be complicated – I will applique the new fabric on top of the older worn one – the new pieces will also need to be hand quilted to mimic the original ones. Sigh.

So, is it still an “original” quilt of historic value? Likely not, but it was never a rare or collectible quilt. It was meant to offer love to a new couple starting their married life. It has done that for over 30 years, and as such is a treasure for the family.

I was thinking about this process when my friend brought this quilt over because I own an heirloom piece that I did have restored in 2012. The piece is a huge mahogany sideboard, and is known in my family as “The Princeton Sideboard”. It is a “Federal Style” piece, and was made likely around 1800. It came from my paternal grandmother, Katharine Strong Humphrey Osborne (1904-1987). The ancestry traces back to Benjamin Strong (1777-1831) who lived in Princeton, NJ. It passed from him to his son, Oliver Smith Strong (1806-1874), to his son Benjamin Strong (1834-1915), and to my great grandfather Ben Strong (1872-1928). It passed from the Strong family to the Humphrey family with my father (1927-2010), and now onto the Jarrett family.

Unfortunately, my grandmother had the piece “renovated” in the 1950s. This involved “fixing” some of the veneers, rebuilding some legs, and smearing a toxic shellac on the piece, which had darkened to very nasty streaks. The piece is also very heavy, and the “repaired” legs were unstable. I decided the time had come to honor my family and have the whole thing properly redone. This was not an inexpensive process, nor easy to locate an expert to do so correctly. After contacting some historic sites, I was referred to a team in Evanston, Illinois, who documented all the issues and repairs with numerous photos and write ups, which I bound into a book to keep with the sideboard for historic record.

What this leaves is a “renovated” antique which is basically not officially antique anymore. Given the piece’s deterioration, was it better to leave a dreadful 1950s era renovation in place, or fix it to make the piece last for another 100 years or so? I went with the latter option, obviously, and the sideboard sits in my dining room as it had in my parents’ dining room for most of my life. So now I need to stop writing and get to work on my friend’s quilt!

A Paris Confection

This picture makes me deliriously happy. Strong words, I know, but there are so many layers to this painting, it’s like nibbling on a wonderful treat. The first layer, and likely most important, is I found it while hunting at a flea market with a dear friend. Our friendship -deep conversations, treasure hunting and art exploring – is a balm to sooth my soul when I am feeling frayed. She is my “bad influence” friend, encouraging me to splurge on fun treasures we find. This one, fortunately, only set me back $30, so the memories it evokes avoid the guilt of overspending.

The piece is a “paint by number” (PBN) product, dated 1964, and signed by C. Pech. These kits were very popular when I was a child, and I recall painting a few. I so enjoyed following the complex key for color placement, and as an adult enjoyed counted cross stitch for much the same reason. Believe it or not, I did tend to follow the directions, though I cannot swear to it. My quilting friends just collectively raised their eyebrows, as following directions is not my strong suit (though swearing definitely is). I sewed from a young age, and would invariably get in a muddle. When I would ask my mother for assistance, she would get frustrated as I never followed the pattern directions with much diligence. Even now I can hear her stressing how important following directions was. A good lesson, certainly, but not one that seemed to resonate for me. In a Paint By Number project, there are no formal rules – if you feel like painting in blue, off you go, hunting the spots the blue color will go. No one cares about directions!

Regarding the idea of “paint by number” artwork, I wondered about their creation. According to the Oracle, in the early 1950s, Dan Robbins, a Detroit-based commercial artist at Palmer Paint Company, was given a task to find a creative way to sell more paint. In response, he created the first ever Paint By Number kit. My new find, while dated 1964, was done in lovely 1950s colors, and has a sweet, Impressionist imagery.

Much like a candy treat, Art History is the rich center of this find. The work made me think French Impressionist and my curiosity as to why had me recognizing the work’s inspiration. The PBN kit is reminiscent of a famous work of art at the Art Institute in Chicago: “Paris Street; Rainy Day” by Gustave Caillebotte (1848-1894). The piece is huge, gray and rainy, with dark somber colors. I confess that during the many years I toured school children through the Art Institute, I hardly gave this painting a glance. We all have a time in our life when we miss something from our childhood - whether a location now much changed, or a part of daily life now gone. That is what the Caillebotte painting is expressing, the loss of his community. (If you have a spare moment, you should read the Art Institute’s notes on this work:  https://www.artic.edu/artworks/20684/paris-street-rainy-day).

And so, I turn back to my $30 flea market treat. Memories of a cathartic trip to Paris during a very dark time in my life have left me loving Paris. There is nothing to definitively place the PBN in Paris, but I feel fairly certain it is. The composition is similar to Caillebotte’s, with the triangle building slightly left of center, the groupings of people, and the buildings anchoring both left and right edges of the canvas. There is a sole lamppost over the main figures’ right side in both scenes. The PBN adds a tree to fill the canvas, chopping it off at the top much like Caillebotte’s lamppost. And in both, there is a sense of cobbled streets and rainy weather. But the mood is so tangibly different! My paint by number has decided to make the rainy day a lovely Spring, instead of a dreary gray Fall. To offer a warm, inviting scene to step into, instead of a somber scene to skirt around. Spring flowers brighten the sidewalk, and tempting “Confection” is written directly into the work.

The mood of my day just lightened, and my parental worries temporarily took flight. I laughed with my friend as we talked with the vender. The woman had no idea it was a paint by number piece, and my friend proceeded to show her some telltale details (apparently the tree is a giveaway). I happily paid my $30, we picked up our conversation where it was interrupted for our sojourn into the booth, and carted my confection home. Deliriously happy indeed, though I may need to go brush my teeth from all that sweetness.

Russian Rooster Reunion

Sometimes when I am rummaging at flea markets or thrift stores, I find something serendipitous. This charming clay man riding a rooster is one such find. I suspect the work is based on artwork by Marc Chagall, as that was the only “man on a rooster” imagery I could locate either in art or fairy tales. Chagall (1887-1985) was born in Belarus, at that time part of Russia. His art often included roosters, and there is some conjecture he used it as a personal identifier. The rooster symbolizes good luck as well as virility, so my clay man seems to be taking no chances in that regard. Unfortunately, he is not signed, so no idea who made him, why or when. He seems Russian, and the details on his coat create a military vibe. Other than a chipped nose, he is in great condition. When he arrived, it was obvious he was meant to reside by the black lacquer box on our living room mantle.

The black lacquered box was a gift for my parents I brought back from travels in The Soviet Union in 1985. It depicts Pushkin’s tale of the Golden Rooster (not a story for the faint of heart). The box was handmade and painted in Mstoira, Russia, though the artist is not identified. These lacquer works were a huge tourist item in Soviet Russia, and at the time were sold only in government-run stores.

I was living in London in February, 1985 and booked a flight to the USSR on a “tour” program.  I’m not one for organized tours, however, and had picked up a guidebook of wonderful architecture in Russia to explore on my own. When the chartered flight landed in Moscow, no one got up. As a seasoned traveler, I didn’t care for waiting around, promptly disembarked, grabbed my bag, waved at all the guards and sailed through Soviet customs. Then sat for a very long time as every single passenger after me was stopped and searched.

The tour group stayed in a massive Moscow hotel built for the Russian Olympics in 1980. I learned how to navigate the subway system, (involving a lot of hand signals) and meandered around Moscow with my architectural book. I recall one outing with a fellow traveler where we decided to detour to buy cookies. The process was to stand in a line to pay in advance for your item, then take the receipt to stand in yet another line to request them. Not a very efficient process for purchasing food, and not helpful when you don’t speak the language. It turned out I had paid for a ridiculous amount of cookies, and I was handed two large paper bags filled to the brim. After eating a few (they were not up to my sweet tooth standards), I promptly found a young child with a grandmother walking through the park nearby and handed the bags off to them. The look on the child’s face was worth the cost of the trip.

One young man in the tour group, Nick, was of a dubious background – he arrived with many bibles and multiple passports. I did not ask. During one outing, he wanted to buy bread to bring to a family he was visiting, so we crossed a street to enter a bakery. No sooner were we in the shop than a very imposing Soviet policeman tapped me on the shoulder and began speaking (visualize “Starwars Imperial Storm Troopers”). Nick stepped in as he spoke Russian (again, didn’t ask) and we were fined for jaywalking. As we left, I again felt a hand on my shoulder. This time, a young woman, who had witnessed the interaction, was trying to give me her bags of food. Again, Nick translated – the woman was worried we would not be able to buy food as the fine was so large and she did not want us to have a bad impression of Russians.

At this point, Nick went off on an (undisclosed) errand, and I returned to the hotel via a subway, carrying the bread as I didn’t have a bag with me. As I stood in the train, the women around me began to chatter (which was unusual) and eventually one reached out and grabbed the bread. Seriously, I figured, enough already – the bread wasn’t worth the effort. However, as the older women mumbled among themselves, eventually one pulled out a piece of paper, wrapped the loaf of bread, and handed it back to me!

In a peculiar twist of fate, husband and I ended up living in a property in Illinois that had once been a chicken research farm created by Quaker Oats. So now the funny Rooster Man sits next to the Golden Rooster box in our living room and I appreciate the serendipity of their cohabitation.

Heart On My Sleeve

This piece was found at a thrift store in Evanston during the early days of Covid-19. A friend and I had ventured to visit with a potter, Pat Gordon (Left Hand Ceramics). She was a widow, who had enrolled at the Evanston Art Center after her husband’s death. She then found a passion for pottery. Her work is charming, quirky and colorful, and I had been attracted to it immediately during a visit to an EAC winter sale. (As an aside, if you live in the area you really should go to this event each year, held after Thanksgiving, as a huge variety of artists of all mediums display and sell their works). Pat had invited my friend and me to see her work in her apartment, wearing our masks of course, and we both were charmed.

Afterwards, having both purchased a few pieces, we ventured to a nearby thrift store. This artwork, beautifully framed, was for sale for over $100, a rather steep thrift store price. My dear friend and I have been visiting flea markets and thrift stores together for over 25 years, and she is a dreadful influence on my self-control. Of course, she agreed it was fabulous and I needed to purchase it. Something about it appealed to me. The colors are wonderful, and compliment my living room décor. As I look at the picture now, I realize there is a patchwork sensibility to the clothing and bird, so likely that spoke to me as well.

The art is signed by “Alexandrov”, and is a hand colored etching – meaning the artist produced prints, and then hand colored the image. This one is #25 out of a run of 29. Google Image Search again proved itself remarkable – when I searched just the image, very little came up that was relevant. When I added “Alexandrov” to the search, bingo! Mikhail Alexandrov was born in Lithuania in 1949 and emigrated to the United States in 1979. He is known as a “Russo-mystic artist”; an odd way of saying he is of Russian background, and creates artwork with a strong fantastical (or mystical) slant.

As the artist is considered surreal and mystic in his use of symbolism, the artwork tempts us to read into the scene. There is a sense of battle to the image, though other than the peculiar hat and odd box with arrow behind the man (and I do think it is a man), there is no carnage evident. The battle was internal – the man’s face is drawn, his clothing disheveled, and hair a damp, sweaty mess. I cannot say why, but I sense the bird represents the man’s heart.

Our collective imagery often depicts an angel - or a soul – with the characteristics of a bird. Angels have wings, often elaborate feathered creations. We depict Angels flying to the heavens, like birds. There is a steam punk quality to the bird and the man’s chest –his body is literally a cage. And the bird seems mechanical – almost appearing as an airplane. I feel the sense of a metaphoric struggle within the man’s emotions, and what springs to my mind is the idea of “wearing your heart on your sleeve”. The bird, having escaped his chest, literally sits on his sleeve.

The term “wear your heart on your sleeve” actually originated with Shakespeare. It shows up in Othello, spoken by Iago:

“For when my outward action doth demonstrate

The native act and figure of my heart

In complement extern, 'tis not long after

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve

For [birds] to peck at: I am not what I am.”

Iago is implying that by being open with his feelings, he would be attacked – much like a bird pecking at him. There is some conjecture the imagery originated with the idea of a “sleeve” being armor worn during medieval jousts, and a knight wearing a lady’s ribbon on his arm to show which lady the knight favors (or vice versa).  

In our modern world, wearing your heart on your sleeve is used to describe someone who is open with their emotions. This can be both for good and bad. I have been accused by numerous folks over the years, specifically a number of my siblings, as being “too emotional”. In fact one sibling went so far as to dismiss my intelligence, indicating as I was “emotional” I could not be intellectual. And thus, my ideas were summarily dismissed.

The truth is that being emotional is not the opposite of being intelligent, contrary to what one brother said. There is a vast spectrum of emotional expression -from the shutdown, emotionally withdrawn nature of depression, to a hurricane of emotion whirling through your relationships. I cannot say one way or another where I land on that spectrum, and suspect I have seen both ends of it. Feeling deep emotions is not a flaw, but it does require great strength to know how to navigate. Unfortunately, for the majority of my youth, this was not a fostered process; and in fact, was mostly punished with spanking, locked rooms, or withdrawing of privileges (including toys and comfort). A child who finds herself locked in a room, punished for strong feelings, does not actually learn how to navigate relationships, and this was a struggle I had to deal with for years. A long marriage, the raising of 3 children, and the bond of dear friends has managed to help me. As has a great deal of therapy. So, yes, I too wear my heart on my sleeve. And I sense a kinship with this “Russo-mystic” artwork. Please be gentle with my heart. I give it gladly but I’d rather it didn’t fly away.

Pottery by Pat Gordon

Gum’s Gift From Gumps

This ring was purchased by my mother Barbara F. Humphrey (1928-2021) at Gumps Department Store in San Francisco in the mid 1970s. While it is a wonderful token of my mother that I wear every day, the story behind it reveals that sometimes these small family heirlooms can hide interesting tales. If the stories are not passed down, future generations simply think “huh, mom’s ring; not sure it’s my style” and off it goes to some resale location. Mind you, I am ok with that process as no one should need to “keep” every darn thing that is important to prior generations, but the stories are important and should be understood before the treasures wander off.

My paternal great grandmother, Margaret LeBoutille Strong (1874-1905) suffered depression after her 4th child, Katharine (1904-1987), was born. Katharine was my grandmother, and while her family called her Kat, her grandchildren called her Gum. There are no first-hand accounts about Margaret’s postpartum depression, though it was known she spent time in a Sanatorium in Atlantic City after the birth. Unfortunately, at some point after her return to their home, she shot herself when my grandmother was only 5 months old. Sadly, soon after their mother’s death, one of the boys contracted whooping cough, which was fatal to their 3-year-old sister Peggy. During all this, the children resided with a neighbor, and my grandmother was sent to live at a hospital to avoid the illness. Not a great way to begin life sadly.

Margaret with Katharine and Peggy c. 1904

Ben Strong remarried in 1907 when he was 35 and Kat was three. While they had two daughters, it was not a happy union. His bride, Katharine Converse, was only 18, and the couple was mismatched in many ways.  Not least because his new wife was from a very wealthy banking family, and her father strongly opposed Ben Strong going into public service. Ben choose to accept a job building the Federal Reserve, though this did not provide income in the style his wife Katharine was accustomed. They had to give up their lavish apartment on 5th Avenue in Manhattan, and at her father’s urging, she took her two young daughters, Elizabeth and Barbara, with her and left for California in 1916. Ben, it should be noted, had contracted tuberculosis that year, and struggled the remainder of his life with the illness, and the use of morphine to manage the pain. Katharine eventually filed for divorce in 1921, which devastated my great grandfather. He died in 1928, from complications of surgery when he was only 55.

I don’t believe my grandmother kept in touch with her step mother, though she may have communicated with her half-sisters. Growing up, I was completely unaware of their existence. I understood from my mother that Gum was bitter about her step-mother, both for leaving her father as well as herself, as she too was abandoned -again- as a young girl of 12, losing 2 young sisters in the process. Having gone through all my grandmother’s family photos, I only found one photo which included all Ben’s children, with the two half-sisters around age 2 and 4. There is also one set of photos of the girls as young women, likely sent to Gum later as when Ben died, those girls would only have been 12 or so. I suspect Gum got rid of all the others, including any photo of the ex-stepmother. And she did not keep any correspondence with Elizabeth and Barbara, so the state of their relationship remains a mystery.

However, Ben had created a trust for his ex-wife after she left him, which was not really necessary as Katharine Converse’s father was very wealthy. It was not until the ex-stepmother died in the 1970s that my grandmother inherited some of the proceeds from that trust. Mom said Gum decided to gift the funds to her three sons’ wives, as it was money she was bitter about receiving.

My Mom always said this jade ring from Gumps Department Store was a treat she bought herself in honor of Gum. The ring is 18K gold and is set with a cabochon apple jade stone, also known as Imperial Jade. My mother, as was very typical of her, gave the ring to one of her daughters. In this case, my eldest sister, sometime in the 1980s. That sister is 8 years older than I am, and had gone to both boarding school and college, so I had not grown up with her at home. During high school and college, I would visit her in NYC. She was always generous to me, gifting me with lovely “hand-me-downs”, as well as bringing me to many wonderful art shows in New York City. At some point, the Gumps ring was gifted to me.

Here’s where things get complicated. Mom always joked that with 4 daughters, who often passed things around, she could never recall which daughter had what heirloom. In typical fashion, another sister wanted the Gumps ring, and in 2010 I swapped it for a ring with a huge cabochon sapphire. Unfortunately, that ring was more a “statement” ring, not one you could wear daily, as the sapphire was large and the ring not exactly attractive. It also had a tale associated with it that irked me no end. Back in the 1980s, in cleaning out boxes of family heirlooms, Mom came across a gold stick pin marked Tiffany’s which belonged to my great grandfather Ben Strong (1872 -1928). Realizing the stone was likely not glass, she brought it to a local jeweler in Pittsburgh. That jeweler created the large sapphire ring for mom, “melting down” the stick pin and a few other gold heirlooms Mom brought him. I suspect he did NOT melt the Tiffany pin and it was always remarkably sad to me that the sapphire was separated from the original Tiffany item, along with other gold heirlooms lost in the “melting” process. 

In Spring of 2013 husband, daughter and I took a trip to San Francisco, and I thought to see if I could simply buy another jade ring at the Gumps Department Store. Well dang. I soon learned there was a prohibition in place (from 2008 to 2016) blocking the import of Imperial Jade from Myanmar due to the political issues in that country. Myanmar is the main producer of the high-quality Imperial jade. As such, the rings for sale at Gumps were prohibitively expensive (well over $5,000). While at the store, my young daughter said she missed the jade ring. So, how to get it back?!

Unfortunately after my father had died in 2010, there was a bit of drama among my siblings, and I had fractured relationships with a number of them. Jade ring sister included. After some negotiations, a brother coordinated a swap, where I returned the darn sapphire ring and got the jade ring back. I wear it every day, and while it is a simple ring, the tale behind it, of my grandmother and her sisters, reminds me each day that “simple” things can have complicated stories. People often compliment the ring, as its hip 1970s vibe is popular these days. I smile and acknowledge it was my mother’s ring from Gumps. And in my heart, treasure Gum’s Gumps ring.

Dante At The Circus

This charming artwork came home with me from a local estate sale. The owner of the estate had collected a great deal of “modern” art, none of which even slightly appealed to me. This piece, however, was tucked in the basement, and I gravitated to it immediately. It cost me $35 and is signed “Dante H.” and dated 1948. A friend suggested it would need to be reframed, however I didn’t feel the same. Many times, vintage art work is framed in a definable era, and this framing feels very 1970s, not the 1940s era of its creation. As I wanted to hang it in my 1970s Calder Circus room, the frame’s vibe worked just fine.

The art work is an original, made with paint, pen and ink. At first glance the design seems childlike, but is in fact somewhat complex. The “tent” background likely was done first, in the style of Jackson Pollock (1912-1956) – as a splatter painting around three circle items laid on top. This created the sense of the holes at the top of a circus tent. (Pollock’s most famous “drip” paintings began in 1947). Then Dante H. sketched in the edges of the tent, making you recognize you are looking skyward to see the performers. The optics are masterfully done – you see the art straight on, but you realize it is oriented above your head.

Mr. H. then inked and painted in the performers. What fun representations! The two bicyclists have fabulous pink and red shirts with tight brown leggings – why do I sense they are Italian?! Of course, with the name Dante, it may be actually true. Mr. H. even differentiated the skin tones, so each performer is unique. The third performer sits upon a chair, suspended on a bar slung across the bicyclists’ shoulders. Our anxiety ratchets up a tad, and his elongated body creates the sense of distance in the sky above us. And then, balanced on his head, is the wonderful figure of the female performer – wearing a skimpy top and tutu skirt, arms and hair out flying. The artist has created a sense of movement, the bicycles whizzing along the trapeze, the chair sitter stretching upward and the dancing woman spinning overhead.

I do wish I could find out more about Mr. Dante H. from 1948. Google has no idea, and he remains a mystery. His artwork keeps company with my Calder and I suspect the two artists are chuckling in the sky above us at their cohabitation in a quirky farm house in Libertyville!

Wag On The Wall

This clock came home from a local flea market about 25 years ago. I vaguely recall it cost $20. The clock was manufactured by St. Aubin, a now defunct company in Switzerland, and was made c.1940. Its ticking and chimes have marked my children’s lives ever since. 

For those unfamiliar, this is a mechanical clock. The power comes from the heavy weights that drop by gravity, powering the clock’s movements. The swinging pendulum regulates the timekeeping, and every hour the clock will strike the count of the hour, as well as ding once on every half hour. It is an “8-day clock”, meaning if you let it go for more than 8 days, the weights hit the floor and the entire thing grinds to a halt. The raised brass numbers and rings are embedded into the wood, creating the clock face. The movements are enclosed in a wood case behind the face, but the pendulum and weights are exposed. This is considered a “wag on the wall” clock. The term comes from the similarity of the pendulum swinging back and forth to a dog wagging its tale. While the pendulum is original, the long metal weights are new, as about 5 years ago the original ones gave up the ghost.

Speaking of ghosts, this clock most certainly has to be treated by a “clock doctor” to keep up its stamina. Much like a family dog, it needs attention periodically, and every few years has an expensive medical crisis. This clock tends to run slow, but recently it simply stopped running altogether. The pendulum would not keep swinging, and thus it stayed silent. I put up with random issues for a long while, before I finally give up and haul it to my local clock doctor as I was concerned it was in the final stages of demise.

The clock doc, who is Russian, diagnosed significant back problems. The glue holding the casing together along a mitered seam had caused the wood to warp. This resulted in the box going catawampus, putting pressure on the pendulum mechanism where it attaches to the clock gears. Thus the pendulum ground to a halt. The last visit required significant surgery, clamps included. Doc indicated he added pins and new glue and feels it should hold up for another 50 years or so.

But like any dog, my clock demands pampering. Each week the weights need to be lifted back to the top, resetting the pendulum swinging. Sometimes the pendulum does not stay in motion, and requires an annoying readjustment of the hour hands. Other times the chime begins to sound like a thunk, not its typical resonant ding, requiring me to dust it. In addition, it is known to tack on an extra hourly strike. When you’re lying awake at 3:00 am, the sound of the clock ringing gets your attention. Then begins the ring count. Hit or miss if it is accurate, either because I can’t count at 3am, or because the clock likes to mess with me. I tend to think the latter as periodically during the day I will stop to count the rings, and often they are right back where they should be. Kind of like a puppy who innocently looks at you though you know it’s up to no good.

To keep the time accurate, the pendulum needs to be raised or lowered, and for the life of me I can never recall if twisting the nut to raise the round base increases the speed or decreases it. I’ve been known to fiddle around with it, and eventually give up – hauling it yet again for another stay at the Russian Clock Hospital. (Just so you know, that is a jest – the clock shop has a name, but I think of it as a clock hospital, complete with procedural charges not covered by insurance). And, in case you are overly concerned, the Oracle says: “Turning the nut to the right speeds up the clock, and turning it to the left slows it down (in other words move the nut up to speed up, or down to slow down)”. This makes sense from a physics point of view, as the lowering of the nut makes the round weight sit lower on the stem, creating a wider arc which would take more time to swing back and forth. Thus time would slow.

Wonderful idea: time would slow. It seems only yesterday our eldest child came home from the hospital, but in fact it was 33 years ago tomorrow. I read a line in a novel yesterday, and to paraphrase: somehow 33 years have conspired to get past us and leave us looking back, amazed to find so many years stacked behind us (The Book That Wouldn’t Burn, Mark Lawrence). The ticking of a clock tells us time has a set speed at which it will run. Yet life doesn’t seem to work that way. Somehow, as you age, you realize time speeds up. The ability to capture a moment – to stop time and appreciate this second right now – is a bittersweet joy of getting older. The chaotic demands of parenthood, the stress of getting everything done, the endless to-do lists, so like a clock as it ticks: to-do, to-do, to-do. In the end, all those things mean very little, and it is the memories of each moment we hope to hold on to. In some ways it is easier in our modern age with cameras always in our pockets. But it is also harder – if all you do is take a photo, have you really experienced that moment? Capturing memories in writing can preserve them for future generations in a way photos cannot. Having dug through generations of my ancestors’ pictures recently, the reality is those pictures meant very little to me. When a note was found which described the image, it created a more poignant connection. And helped identify the mysterious individuals from the mid 1800s.

The ticking clock lets us know that moment is over, gone into history. And each moment stacks up on another, spinning the hands of the clock ever forward. Take a moment to pause, to recognize that NOW is a gift, a moment that you can stop and savior. It will not come again – but if you are lucky, all those pendulum swings will produce a life you are proud of. And we are very proud of our son.

Appreciating Papercuts

James David, 1990

This piece of art was a thrift shop find a few years back. It is not dated nor signed but I found a few similar ones online that were attributed to a James David and dated 1990. The others are not complete circles, but done in a similar manner. This one seems to be the pièce de résistance of this artist’s work. I could not discover any information about the who, why, where or when, and a common name such as James David will make it impossible to find a specific person. Unfortunate. I would love to know the story behind these projects.

There is a style of art, common in German ancestry, called “scherenschnitte” which translates as “scissor cuts”. This artwork became very popular in the early 1890s in the U.S., and much of it has a primitive, folk style feel. The history (from the Oracle): “[scherenschnitte] often has rotational symmetry within the design, and common forms include silhouettes, valentines, and love letters. The art was founded in Switzerland and Germany in the 16th century and was brought to Colonial America in the 18th century by…immigrants who settled primarily in Pennsylvania.” (1) This piece is composed of cut paper, though not in a folk style, and it requires a moment to appreciate.

From a distance it appears a simple 20” square geometric design in blue and white. With a quick glance, it reads as a printed composition, possibly even painted. However, it actually is a layered construction of cut paper. James David, whoever he is, started with a large square of dark blue paper. He then began cutting cream papers to overlay the blue. The first layer added the vertical stripes to create the 12 arched window silhouettes. After that, James David cut 5 additional layers, with widening openings to create the depth of this piece. 

Now, I don’t have a clue how he did it, but you should appreciate the technical skill in making those lines consistent and smooth. I imagine he used a sharp razor, ruler edge and pencil markings, but any mistakes would be glaring. It reminds me of a story regarding a long-ago neighbor.

A young couple had moved into a house next to us, and the husband started tackling many significant house projects. This included a major overhaul of the small kitchen, and he laboriously installed tiles around the countertops. One day he asked me to come see his handiwork. In typical Erica fashion, I entered, looked around admiringly, and then asked about one small section that looked “off”. Well, yes, he admitted, he had been frustrated in that area, and gave up, simply making something do. Unfortunately for him, my eye immediately saw the dis-symmetry and I learned later he spent hours swearing about me and redoing that section.

While many of us admire applique quilting and oil paintings as being wonderful creations, the truth is those types of construction allow for mistakes to be incorporated. In contrast, a small error can stand out in a way that destroys the overall design in a pieced quilt work, tile work, and, in this case, paper cut art. Yes, the neighbor should be acknowledged for all his efforts. But without identifying a mistake, the project will not read as “perfect”. And that can be just fine. As one of my friends often says “done is good”.

This piece, by James David, is so good it almost seems machine made. In our modern life, things like this often only get a cursory glance, and are dismissed as “yeah, cool but any machine could make that”. But a machine did NOT make this. The point of these treasures, in our ever-evolving world of AI and machines, is appreciating the labor someone spent in the creation. The joy is in the construction, certainly, but also in the appreciation. And I do have to wonder how many papercuts his fingers suffered through. 

(1)         https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scherenschnitte

Five Dollar Flower Girl

This tiny piece of art depicting a literal flower girl was donated to a church rummage sale where I picked it up for $5. She was made by “H” in 1955 and the back states: ”All from nature; made exclusively from natural pressed plant materials”. The artwork is of a girl, with seed eyes and pink lips made from a flower sliver. The voluminous purple skirt is a flower petal, and in her violet hair she wears a charming headband of tiny flowers. She’s holding a bouquet of Queen Anne’s Lace, and she brings to mind my wedding in 1987.

I was not particular about many of the details of my wedding, other than wanting fresh roses. I never even went wedding dress shopping. My sister was married in 1980, and as we have similar body shapes (curves and boobs basically), my mother and she thought I might like to wear her dress. The dress had been “stored” professionally in a dry-cleaning box, and was at my parents’ home in Pittsburgh. I arrived in town, and for reasons I cannot recall, was home alone the day I tried on the dress. As I wiggled into it and pulled up the sleeves, I had to reach behind to do up the zipper. All the lace along the left shoulder and sleeve basically imploded. Oh. My. God. I crumbled into a pile on the floor overwrought that I had destroyed my sister’s wedding dress. As the dress was ruined, my mother, a talented seamstress, used parts of it to fashion a “new” dress in a style that suited me. My sister ended up having 3 sons so her lack of a dress to “pass on” did not cause distress. I have one daughter, who is significantly taller than I am, so my mother’s creation remains in my closet without a purpose. And not in a “professionally cleaned” package I should note.

With the newly created dress, I wore a simple headband in my hair instead of a veil.  The florist embellish the headband with small roses, and my sisters styled my hair. Truthfully they also did my makeup, insisting I wear mascara. I carried a bouquet of lovely blush roses, and the boutonniere on the men’s ‘morning suits’ were roses as well. Another aside – I absolutely love the look of a man in a tuxedo (trashy novels, sorry). My mother, however, insisted the men should wear morning suits instead of tuxedos as the wedding was early in the day. Again, not being too particular, I didn’t stress the idea. Now, though, wondering why the heck that was important to Mom, I turned to the Oracle. Morning dress, or formal day dress, is the traditional attire worn by men at daytime events in the presence of His Majesty The King. The tradition originated from the  practice of gentlemen in the 19th century riding a horse in the morning with a cutaway front, single-breasted, morning coat. I’ll let you google the image to see what it looks like.

Back to my wedding, sans King but with morning suits. I had also requested the cake be iced in a basket weave, with fresh roses placed on top. As we were getting ready to depart to the church, the cake arrived from the bakery absolutely covered in pink icing roses. I was in a bit of a panic – tacky pink icing flowers were not a crisis but certainly ratcheted up my distress. Mom took one look at it and told them to take it away, remove the icing flowers and return it cleaned up. I would love to write all went smoothly from that point forward, but that isn’t how things transpired.

My parent’s home was walking distance to the St. Paul Cathedral in Pittsburgh where we – both raised Catholic – were marrying. My family arrived to a completely empty church. Mind you, as it was a small wedding, we were using the lovely side chapel as the vacuous cathedral was too imposing. That said, no guests were there. 10:00 came and went, and the priest was starting to panic as he didn’t want to delay too long as there were other ceremonies planned for later. But it would be a tad odd to hold a wedding with virtually no guests in attendance. This was pre-cellphone life, so no way to communicate with any of the missing guests. I remember waiting with my family, teeth chattering away with nerves, while various siblings went to speak with husband-to-be and his family in another area of the church. Eventually the guests began arriving, and we learned the roads to the area had been closed for hours that morning due to a city parade. All the guests, staying at a hotel a few miles away, had been stuck in taxis, unable to get to the church on time. Bride and groom got to the church on time but no one else did!

Now we are heading into our 38th year of marriage, and hubby humors my continued hunting for treasures. A recent treasure, this charming flower girl is nearly 70 years old! And as a good friend would say: “bless her heart”- she doesn’t look much older than when she was created. Colors may be faded a tad, and the wrinkles on her face may have become a bit more pronounced, but all in all she’s holding up darn well. She would fit right in with those fancy men wearing their morning suits while visiting with His Majesty The King.

Ruby Ring With Diamond Clusters

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.”

How many of us recall this childhood ditty? Have recited it either to our younger selves or to a child? The saying first emerged in England in 1894, and is commonly used to make children feel resilient in the face of verbal bullying; words are not able to hurt. This is not true. Words carry significant weight. When used by a contemporary bully, words are weapons to shame or embarrass people, incite violence, create concerns about safety, or faith in our institutions. These are pointed attacks, shrugged off with a reliance on “first amendment”, as though the amendment allows us to hurt people since it’s “only words” and we can say what we want. These are delivered daily through loud systems that are hard to avoid. Printed news, news spread through sound waves and through the megaphone of the internet. These words are the weapon of bullies. And I have never been able to stand a bully.

When I was in elementary school in Darien, CT, there was a girl a grade ahead of me with the unfortunate name of Francis Freeman. In retrospect I think she had some significant health issue as she clearly had physical problems and had the added disadvantage of having matured sooner than the rest of us – meaning she was tall, curvy, and had seizures of some type. I was likely in 5th grade – so maybe 10 – when at recess one day the boys had formed a circle around Francis and were taunting her. Childhood is painful enough for young women with the handicaps Francis had, and I was angry the boys were being so mean. I broke into the circle and began to punch them, allowing Francis to get away. I do not recall the likely trip to the school office, but I do know I never was punished. Standing up to bullies is not always easy, as words may not deflate their power. A nice solid punch can certainly do the trick when you’re ten, though at my current age, throwing punches is frowned upon.

And what, pray tell, does this have to do with the charming piece of art portrayed above? This painting speaks to me of childhood, and the recognition that words can both wound and heal. The work is painted on a wood board, and is signed with initials “EDL”. I picked her up at a local flea market many years ago from a dealer who finds wonderful vintage artwork (Dale’s Upstairs Gallery, Racine, WI). I love the remarkably brief use of lines to sketch out a face amid the soft color wash across the surface. It is a face of a young girl with a long pony tail, and a little curl escaping down her forehead. The technique used is not one I am familiar with, though I suspect gesso, and guess c.1920. I could be way off base on this one as it is just a hunch and one that honestly does not matter. It is the little curl that speaks to me.

As a child, I was not known for being particularly cooperative. In fact, I suspect both my parents let out a loud guffaw from heaven at that remarkable understatement. I was a strong-willed child, often in trouble from my not very emotionally-sensitive parents. They had 6 other children, and my siblings for the most part were brilliant students who behaved as required by my very strict father. I did not. My father would say “A’s were average, B’s were bad”: my siblings all got A’s. I went for C’s. Dad would say “go right”, and I would stick out my tongue and go left. I would be spanked, of course, as this was the 1960s, but it never stopped me. What did stop me was my mother’s words.

To encourage positive behavior, she would often site a Henry Longfellow poem from 1887 in a sing song tone (being able to sing is NOT one of our family’s strengths):

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. And when she was good, she was very very good, but when she was bad she was horrid”.  

A peculiar childhood rhyme, and one that does not end well for the rambunctious girl as her parents “did spank her most emphatic”. Mom never cited the last few stanzas, which is ironic as those actually do reflect my childhood experience. That said, mom’s use of the “little girl with a little curl” made me pause.

I didn’t want to be considered horrid, so the alternate path was to be very, very good. Highly unlikely, but an aspiration certainly if I wanted my parents’ approval. I confess this was not often inducement enough, though the fact I still recall it makes me realize it is like a sound worm – something that stays with you, imbedding itself in your consciousness. Let’s be honest here, the words are not actually all that emotionally encouraging for a young girl. Longfellow certainly did not like girls to be exuberant; behavior he indicated prompted spanking.

Another childhood ditty my mother would say does not seem to be a common one. I suspect it was handed down to her from her mother, Frieda Hermes Fallon (1898-1961) – a single mother in the Depression in Chicago who had ridiculously expensive taste. Mom would encourage me to get ready for bed, and then decide what I earned as she tucked me in. I might have earned a “ruby ring”. If I was a bit more stellar in her estimation, I would earn a “ruby ring with diamonds clusters”. The crème de le crème was to earn a “ruby ring with diamond clusters and an emerald on top”. Mind you I was likely 5 as I recall these silly games, but dang did I want that ruby ring with diamond clusters and an emerald on top. 

Amusingly, I have often used a similar phrase with hubby, but with a twist. When we are joking about me having done something he appreciates, I will jest that the diamond bracelet he is getting me for a gift just got bigger. We laugh, but underneath the laughter I recognize the childhood desire to please. Simple words that my children I’m sure have overheard and dismissed as silly. But words are not silly. They have power and can be used as a weapon. Or they can open hearts with encouragement, with humor and with love.