Wiring Not Included

This little guy came home with hubby and me the other evening from a “presale” at a local collector’s sale. I had been to prior sales and his things are wonderful, often handmade, unique and quirky - a vibe hubby and I have always loved. I wanted hubby to see the current sale as we hadn’t been ‘antiquing’ together in a long while. Years ago we would scour antique fairs and stores together, but eventually hubby couldn’t stomach going as he found the markets depressing – piles of old things with people just waiting for a sale. As the recent sale was from a man with very expensive taste – and the money to indulge – I wasn’t surprised hubby loved many things, and we marveled over quite a few. I spotted this little wooden man and decided he needed a home. Hubby fell in love with a lamp, but that’s a later story.

I asked the owner what he knew about the wooden guy’s history. He said he’d picked him up in New England at a sale awhile back, but I didn’t pry for more information (shocking, I know). He is hand carved out bits of wood. His top hat, face (with small screw for a nose) and body are all one piece. I suspect it’s from an old porch rail; the curves and indents remind me of the farmhouse porch we built on our first home in Libertyville.

The arms are carved from a single piece of wood, ‘bent’ at the elbows, with shoulder joints made from metal screws. (Dang what I wouldn’t give for a ‘metal screw’ for a shoulder these days: climbing is tough with old bones and joints.) My wooden fellow’s legs are made of two pieces, hinged at the knee and hip with old screws as well. While he moves and is adorable, his bottom is not exactly flat, so he tends to tilt to the side when seated.

I wish I knew more of his actual history. He is considered a ‘folk art’ sculpture, and I am guessing he was made in the early 1900s. In a rural community, likely in upstate New York or possibly Pennsylvania. Those areas were significantly more ‘rural’ back in that era, and he seems a toy made for a child. He has been handled, his wood is smooth and worn a bit, and his joints are loose. But I sensed he would enjoy a sojourn in our family room with Calder’s circus master and circus theme. Thankfully he did not need any surgery and promptly was placed on a ledge. Unlike hubby’s lamp treasure which is now on my “to do” list.

The lamp was on a ‘project’ table, full of cool old lamps needing wiring or shades or both. Hubby loved it, and I thought the lightness of the glass was cool. As it was wired, I blithely hoped it only needed a shade. The owner gave me detailed specifications as to what shape and size shade I would need. Oddly, I had a silk lamp shade up in the attic closet that fit perfectly. Funny enough I cannot recall what lamp it came off of, but I have a pile of old silk shades stored in that closet as you never know when you’ll find a super cool lamp that needs a shade. If you have never priced well-made silk shades, I promise you would be shocked at how expensive they are. My go to ‘store’ for lamp shades is, not surprising, the local thrift store. In any case, with the shade and some “Edison” lightbulbs in hand I plugged it in. Blew a fuse, with an odd fizzing sound. Uh oh. Now I have to re-wire the darn thing as it clearly has a wiring issue. I am slightly nervous to do so as the lamp has numerous handblown glass pieces, and I am scared to death I will drop something. I will likely set up surgery on a sofa just to be safe.

I wish I could say something about the light, but sadly I cannot find any information about it. It is unmarked, but seems to be ‘Hollywood Regency’ style, probably 1940s, based on the switch and the up-facing light bulbs. Lamps are one of those things people really don’t pay much attention to, so resale of vintage lamps is a limited market. I would mention, however, that lamps can also be stunning pieces of artwork in their own right, as this one clearly falls into the “way cool” handmade aesthetic. Our house is filled with unusual lamps, and now I have to work on hubby’s treasure, which will brighten the dining table where I sit writing. Each time I see it I will remember our fun outing, my charming folk art man, and the dangers of vintage sales – wiring not included!

A Childhood of Books

My childhood was filled with books. Our houses always had a room dedicated to books – the den, the library, the study, the office. Someplace with a lot of shelves and treasured books. The Darien house had a “den”, with built in bookshelves and a quirky 1940s “corner” fireplace. One area contained children’s books, but nothing was off limits. I would climb the cabinets to reach books, and, while many were of no interest whatsoever, others were fascinating. These antique “family” books were on the shelves, and I recall flipping through the blue book Wee Wee Songs for Our Little Pets (1864). While the poems are dry as toast and full of 1860s childhood lessons, it had pictures! Some were even colored in by a childish hand, which amused me to wonder what ancestor had been so naughty.

The books came down from my paternal grandfather’s family. As there are three “Watts S. Humphreys” to contend with – my father, grandfather and great grandfather – discussing who owned what is an exercise in annoyance. The oldest book, dated 1757, is in very poor shape – both covers have fallen off. I will need to hunt down a book restorer (likely an expensive process). The book, Mr. Hoyle’s Games, was gifted to WSH, undated but clearly written in fountain pen so I am guessing it was to my great grandfather WSH (1844-1910). I did look up the gentleman who gifted the book, Colonel d’Autremont, Jr (1855-1919). He was an attorney as well as mayor of Duluth, MN so likely he and my great grandfather knew each other through their legal work. And possibly they liked to play card games!

The 1838 book, The Laws of Etiquette, does not have any inscription. It may have been picked up later, but given the family’s tendency to save heirlooms, I suspect it came down from my great great grandfather Thomas Humphrey (1802-1839) who immigrated to the United States from England. My wistful vision of Thomas bringing it with him on the boat from England was promptly dispelled as the book was published in Philadelphia. Drat. Thomas did not live a long life, but what struck me is the clear error in the dates on the family tree. Thomas could not have fathered WSH in 1844 if he died in 1839! That will require some detective work as it clearly needs revising.

The children’s book I remember from my childhood, Wee Wee Songs for Our Little Pets (1864), likely belonged to Carolyn Magofflin (1861-1946), my great grandmother. She was the second wife of WSH (1844-1910). As she was 17 when engaged to the much older widower, her family sent her to a “finishing school” in Canada for a year so she would be 18 when they married. My hunch is the book was hers, saved by her youngest son WSH (1890-1968) and passed down through our family.

While books are important to my family, I struggled to read as a child. As I was a “naughty” child, my parents thought I was being obstinate, and had me repeat 2nd grade. My father was diagnosed as “dyslexic” in the 1930s. Unfortunately in the 1960s I was not. The root problem with dyslexic children is their difficulty learning to read (and spell for that matter). And while I had all the telltale signs, back in the 1960s dyslexia was considered to only affect boys. I should note the term is no longer used, falling under the umbrella of “learning disabilities” now.  And it is only recently that girls are diagnosed similarly to boys.

I was in college when I realized I was “dyslexic”, though no medical doctor has diagnosed me. Even I could not make heads or tails of my college class notes, with all the flipped around letters and truncated words! I was lucky the Darien schools utilized phonics to teach all children during the 1960s and 1970s, so I was taught in the way still recommended for teaching dyslexics to read. Of 7 children, I was the only one who struggled with academics, and spelling was a lifelong annoyance. When I would ask my mother how to spell certain words, she would always say “look it up in the dictionary”. How, pray tell, is someone to look something up when they can’t spell it in the first place?! In high school I would write long papers, leaving blanks when I did not know how to spell the word I wanted to use (a curse for someone who reads a great deal but can’t spell worth a damn). Amusingly, I recall sometimes forgetting to revise the “blanks” with actual words, and one inspiring teacher wrote me a review saying he liked the paper, and gave me a “----” on it - he left the grade blank! Ok, fine, I learned my lesson, but it remains a challenge to spell.

One of my sons is “dyslexic”, we got him help throughout his school years, and he became an engineer. One nephew similarly struggled and also became an engineer. My father was a successful engineer, so I wonder about a correlation between dyslexic brains and the need to organize things logically. I studied literature, art and history in college, but landed in banking which was a rather rude left turn. I caught on, but never enjoyed the work. I realize now that my dyslexia created a strong need to “organize”, and thus quilting suits me perfectly! And the idea of using visual images to spin stories also fits my nature to find meaning and make sense of things. While my father wrote over a dozen books, I promise they are mind numbing unless you enjoy software engineering. Possibly someday I will add a book to the family archives, but as yet undecided. And for those of you worrying, the owl was a thrift store find that I could not leave behind. He is a heavy clay sculpture and keeps his eyes on me as I sit typing. Owls symbolize wisdom, intelligence and protection. I’ve decided his 1970s vibe and huge eyes wanting to understand things around him reflect my childhood, and thus I will name him Humphrey.

Weïrd Women

I picked this sculpture up at a quilt guild garage sale event recently. The work is considered a “soft sculpture”, made of cloth, clay and yarn, with each figure embellished with various fabrics, ribbons and fantastic flyaway hair. Boy can I relate to that crazy hair! It seems the older I get, the more weird my hair becomes. The artwork is signed by Gretchen Lima and dated 1998.

Ms. Lima has been making doll sculptures for over 35 years. She explains on her website how these works come to be (https://www.gretchenlima.com/pages/about.html). Her pieces begin with a sketch, then a rough prototype is cut out of muslin. Using Sculpey clay she creates the faces, and often hand knits or hand dyes the clothing. She states: “My work is not only an expression of what I see, but of what I feel. I create the messages and give a voice to a girl inside who has patiently waited to be heard…Artwork is a process of discovery, for the artist as well as the observer. What you discover is in harmony with where you are on your voyage of life”.

There is something that drew both me and my quilting friend to the sculpture. My friend picked up the work at an art fair back in 1998. She noted she is one of three sisters, though these do not reflect her sisters specifically. While I do have three sisters, that was not what came to mind when I saw the work. I loved the details, the handmade quirkiness, and the slightly creepy sense the three females evoke. While a group of three women can refer to the Three Graces, the dark colors and weird hair of these made me think of Shakespeare, and his three witches.

The Sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,

Thus do go about, about,
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine

And thrice again, to make up nine. MacBeth (Act 1 scene 3)

The play, written in 1605, was based on an earlier work by Raphael Holinshed “Chronicles of England, Scotland and Ireland”. In that work, the 3 females are not called witches but are “weird sisters”, or goddesses of destiny. Much earlier in England, your fortune was considered the workings of “wyrd”, a mysterious force. Over time, the term became “weird” and was more associated with destiny, similar to the ancient Greek idea of the female “Fates” who decided your life’s journey.

A search on Google landed me at the Shakespeare Globe Theater website, which provided a bit of these tidbits (https://www.shakespearesglobe.com/discover/the-history-of-the-witches-in-macbeth/). I also learned that in his First Folio, Shakespeare referred to the 3 women in MacBeth as “wayward” (also spelled “weyward” and “weyard”) instead of “weird”. The early audiences understood “wayward” as a term applied to women “who were perceived to be outspoken or quarrelsome (cardinal sins according to the misogynistic theories of Shakespeare’s England). Women who asserted their wisdom and knowledge…[were] castigated as “wayward”.  By combining the ideas of “wyrd” and “wayward”, Shakespeare created the concept of powerful women but also dangerous and marginalized women. Thus was born the familiar stereotype of  “poor, disregarded and insulted old women whose wisdom, if acknowledged at all, could be understood only as witchcraft” and thus were dangerous.

It should be noted that the horrific witch trials in England were at their crazed peak in the 1600s. Roughly 500 people were killed as witches in England, 90% of which were women. King James VI, crowned in 1603, changed the English Witchcraft Act which created “witch hunters”. Their favorite target? Old women with cats.

All I have to say is thank god I did not live in the 1600s in England – I would have been WAYWARD in a bold, capital letter kind of way. While Ms. Lima feels her inner child waits patiently to be heard – and created – I confess I’m not quite so passive. And thankfully no cats around at this point in my life. These three women make me realize the complex, rather patriarchal attacks against women have been the underpinnings of our society for centuries. Cat ladies indeed.

Whimsical Window

As I sat here this evening, I felt as though I had not spent much time of late writing. Usually I have 6 or so essays I have spun out of my thoughts, and saved in a folder on my computer. Some blog posts are created one night, reworked slightly and posted the next day. Others spend a bit of time being mulled, either researching ideas that percolate, or doing draconic editing. The sentences get parsed, snipped, rearranged. I whittle my thought down to a written version that has no fat (ha! If only I could say that about the rest of me). As a long-ago college professor insisted, a sentence isn’t finished until there is virtually nothing in it that can be removed.

Of late, though, my well of “to work on” essays has dwindled. When I sat down tonight I felt uninspired by the “works in process” staring back at me from my computer screen. So, I hunted through my photos looking for inspiration, and landed on this one. I took it a number of weeks ago, as I loved the rosy pink tint coming in the antique window from the late afternoon sun. I love the blocks of colors – red, blue green, and the foliage of the ancient Basswood tree through the window. The charming elephant  catches your eye – I mean quite literally, it is as though that black bullseye snags your attention. And then the ideas began to flow.

The very large green vase has sat on this window for a while now. It replaced a much loved TJMax Christmas gift from my children – a ridiculously large glass chicken on spring legs. My children would go with hubby before Christmas to do their “mom” shopping, and often a chicken would be found, mostly as a long-standing joke. Sadly, the chicken sank as it aged, and eventually needed to be retired when the springs gave out. The green vase resembles the chicken in size and coloring, actually, so I snagged it at a thrift shop for a few dollars.  It is hand blown, with a pontil mark on the bottom. The black organic vines are a raised design twining along its surface. Even more interesting are the free form red shapes which are imbedded in the glass. I do not have a clue how any of this is done. But the thing weighs nearly 14 pounds, which I cannot imagine is easy for a glass blower to manipulate at the end of a very long rod. I am rather disappointed I cannot find a thing about it online – nor are there markings to help identify. For all I know it was purchased at TJMaxx and made in China recently. However, given the absolute lack of anything similar in a google search I am guessing not.

The piece sat alone for a long while, but eventually this adorable child’s toy joined it on the window ledge. Also a thrift store find, and just too bright and fun to pass up – well, at least for a woman who decorates her family room with circus and elephant images. Oddly, my next oldest sister collected elephant statues for years, back in the 1970s (there were 7 of us, she is 3rd in the lineup and I’m 6th). I have absolutely no idea why, but she had shelves of them in her room, which was connected to mine via a “Jack and Jill” bathroom. I loved playing with them, as she was away all year at a boarding school and then college. Unfortunately, my relationship with that sister was badly damaged after my father’s death in 2010. But elephants always make me think of her, and our connected lives and rooms during my childhood.

This elephant is a toy made by a French toy company, Djeco, which was started in 1954 and is still in operation (https://www.djeco.com/en/games-toys). I considered reselling it as their toys are fairly expensive, beautifully designed and well made. But I couldn’t part with my treasure – the jaunty bird on the tail, the zany details and fun colors are too dang cute to pass along. I love the idea of a grandchild spotting it, a treasure made just for them amid all the art. I have always felt antiques and treasures – even special quilts! – should be used and enjoyed, creating a visceral connection. Sometimes thing break, but I would rather that than have a sterile collection to be “seen” but not touched. And we can all appreciate a bit of whimsy in our lives.

“E” Is For Erica

I found this pencil in my father’s desk sometime between 1980-1988. Don’t recall specific details, but I was in search of a pencil, and his desk drawer was always the place to find one. What turned up was this Cross mechanical pencil, emblazoned with a large “E”. My Dad always had a collection of “professional” writing implements in his desk, gifts from myriad businesses that he worked with over the years, though I never did think to ask him what the E was for.

The pencil most certainly came home with me. I have had it on my desk ever since, and my kids know of it as “mom’s pencil”. It does not migrate. At all. It is basically an unwritten rule in our family, and the irony is not lost on me given I assisted in “migrating” the pencil from my dad.

Time passed, and the pencil languished unused for a long while. When I dug it out a few years back, I could not get the darn thing to work. The lead wouldn’t turn. The eraser was shot, and I couldn’t locate ones that would fit correctly. And the top would not nest onto the base. It was, in short, a mess. Where the heck would I take a mechanical pencil from the 1970s to be repaired?! I was stumped - not a single idea surfaced. I considered my clock repair guy, but eventually I googled the Cross Company to see what my options might be. Low and behold Cross has a lifetime warranty on any of their devices. Who knew?! I called a few times but was unable to reach a person via phone. I dutifully printed off the company’s repair form, added a check for $20 processing fee and mailed it off.

Seriously, modern society says, just order some pencils from Amazon. Would cost a lot less than $20 plus shipping. But truthfully this pencil has become more than just a desk item. It connects me to my father. He had a long, productive career, literally working until the week  he died at 83. His work rewarded him with money, travel, and awards. He deserved what he earned but unfortunately, I had not taken much interest in his many projects. He was a lot. Very focused. Very driven. Caring but not at all emotionally aware. Inflexible in his routines (dear lord, the time I ate his last Dutch Apple yogurt for lunch one visit – when that was HIS lunch). But my father had a kind soul with a small boy at heart. He wanted to please, and in his childhood world, that meant capturing his father’s attention. Dad’s early elementary school in Bronxville felt Dad was “slow”, and my grandfather angrily moved his family to Litchfield CT where his 3 boys all attend the local private school. That school, The Forman School, is now famous for its work with dyslexic children.

The school diagnosed Dad as “dyslexic”, and that is actually how Dad met my mother. He was taking graduate classes at night at MIT while starting a career at General Electric in Boston. As he was incapable of spelling his way out of a paper bag, he hired a tutor to help him with his papers. Which was my mother. Dad ended up at IBM, and he and Mom raised 7 children. He started a second career in his mid 50s working at Carnegie Mellon’s Software Institute, which flew him all over the world. He received a Presidential Medal of Science in 2003. Somewhere along that trail Dad was gifted this Cross pencil, which I adopted.

After the sad pencil was mailed off the Cross, I received a quick email saying it was received. I would guess this was June of 2023. Sometime about December I called Cross, and finally got a young woman. I learned a heck of a lot more about the inner workings (or not so much) of the Cross company in NYC. She was new. Pencil was here - yeah, the 10K gold one. Wait. WHAT?! The pencil is actually SOLID GOLD. Gulp. She informed me, again TMI, that the old repair guy retired and they don’t have a new one, and that my old pencil needed a pro to fix it. She could mail it back unrepaired or they could hold on to it to see when someone can attend to it. Ok, I requested they keep it.

And then last week – end of August 2024, a small package shows up in the mail box. Not a clue what it could be so I check the return address. Cross in NYC! And thus my dad’s “E” pencil is good as new. Perky pink eraser (with a few extra thrown in). Lead works like a charm. I was using it this evening when I realized I really should polish the thing. Took out a polishing cloth and began wiping it. Suddenly I noticed very faint writing along the shank. My father’s initials “WSH” are engraved in lovely old script. I have had the thing for low on 40 years and I only now see he is here too.

I have yet to figure out what the “E” represented for my father. A company name? An organization? I literally have no idea – I suspect something in late 1970s or early 1980s. Which meant dad was still at IBM, which had him travelling all over the world, but basically for IBM. I can’t say he didn’t meet with another company – one that starts in an “E” – but I will never know. I have loved having it – with the mysterious “E”, the unexpected glitter of gold. And the faint shadow of my Dad resting under my finger.

The Warmth of Clay

This little girl came home with me the other day from the thrift store. As she was priced $2.00 I did not “look her up” on Google Image Search as I didn’t care. She was charming, I could tell she was vintage, and knew she would fit right in on my bedroom fireplace mantel. Once I got her home, I noticed the bottom was signed “Johan Krukmakaren”.

Unfortunately, as a “signature” this is fairly worthless. “Johan” is John in Swedish. And Krukmakaren simply means “potter”. John Potter is not much to go on. Might as well be “Mary Painter” for all the good it will do. While there are a myriad of similar pieces for sale all over the internet, they’re all claimed to be made by “Johan Krukmakaren” as though that was his name, and with no detailed information about our potter Johan. After a great deal of searching, I learned quite a bit about Swedish potters in the 1960s and 1970s, a boom time for art pottery in Sweden (see prior blog:  https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/letting-go). Unfortunately, I was unable to locate a Johan whose work resembled this little girl. She is made of dark brown clay, fired at a high temperature, making her a “stoneware” piece. The artist then added color glazing for the child’s blond hair and orange teddy bear. She has scuffed knees, but being a little girl who quite often had cuts on her knees, I could relate. She has a charming button nose, slight indents for eyes and adorable naked bottom.

That evening I put ointment on my sore hands (climbing) and picked her up to show her off to hubby. As I did, I began rubbing her, and discovered the joy of holding an item made of unglazed clay. It is warm! And the process of “oiling” her with my hands covered in cream seemed to bring her to life. She had been charming, but when warm and imbued with oil from my hands, she fairly glowed. To be honest, it was also remarkably soothing to rub the charming sculpture in my hands. Holding a small curved clay figure that fits nicely in your hand is a novel sensation. Much art we don’t “touch” as we worry about fragility and damage etc. But I suspect she was meant to be enjoyed through touch.

As there are a number of other old sculptures on my mantel, I decided to “oil” them as a comparative exercise. The young girl and goose statue (see blog post: ericas-heirloom-treasures/composing-in-triangles) was carved of wood circa 1930, and while rather dusty, it did perk up quite a bit when I added some “oil” to it. Honestly it did not “feel” quite as soft and comforting as my clay girl, but the wood looked much better after its spa treatment. Nearby is the cast metal sculpture of a woman by Paul Herzel, and I confess it was most jarring. While the statue seemed happier to have a bit of oil shine it up, it most certainly was not sensual – more anti-sensual if there is such a thing. Harsh, cold, and very unforgiving. In this case, the tactile sensation of holding a warm and rounded item made me recognize that potters must enjoy the warmth of clay as they create. I heard the local community college offers pottery classes – might be in my future!

Glass From The Past

I have become weirdly attracted to vintage art glass of late. I say “weirdly” because if someone had told me 20 years ago I would find the art form of glass intriguing, I would have thought them nuts. To me, glass was a “functional” thing – windows, vases, jars; practical and necessary items in our everyday lives. But, much like quilts, just because something is used for practical purposes, does not mean it cannot also be a form of art. And this is an artform of which I have virtually no knowledge.

As I often do when curious, I turn to The Oracle and hunt for information. There is naturally formed glass, and these have names depending on their creation. Volcanic molten rock turned into glass is called “obsidian” (or “volcanic glass”). Meteoritic impacts on the earth millions of years ago created “tektites” (also called Libyan Desert Glass – I’m guessing that’s where they first were found). When lightning strikes sand, “fulgurites” are created – brittle tubes of melted sand. Oddly, some marine creatures have silica skeletons which are also a form of natural glass. (https://whatson.cmog.org/exhibitions-galleries/glass-nature).

Humans began making glass objects around 4000 years ago, and there is debate as to whether that began in ancient Egypt or Near East (near modern Iraq). This may be due to the dry conditions in Egypt, near perfect for preservation, which allowed ancient glass items to survive. The prone to flooding regions of Near East degraded ancient glass, leaving a flaky powder which was often overlooked by early archeologic explorers.  I will allow you to research to your heart’s content, as it is fascinating but not pertinent to my thoughts this morning (https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/a-brief-scientific-history-of-glass).

I think my favorite line in the research was learning what exactly glass is. Crystalline quartz, which seems similar to glass in many ways, is composed of silica atoms that are regularly spaced in a repeating pattern. Glass, however, uses the same material, but the atoms “are arranged topsy-turvy” (see prior Smithsonian article). Topsy-turvy! What artist cannot be attracted to topsy-turvy?! The idea of using a basic item, atoms of silica, and stirring it all up to create something wonderful and new lays at the heart of creative expression. Glass making adds the rather dangerous element of fire, making my frequently nicked fingers from rotary cutters used for quilting seem rather childish.

This vase, a recent thrift store find costing a few dollars, spoke to me immediately. The thing is 12” tall and weighs nearly 6 pounds. It is not signed, but has a pontil mark on the bottom (see prior blog for explanation: https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/primary-colors ). It has a wonderful 1970s vibe, and the dark brown swirls set against an opaque white base appealed to me. I originally place it in a corner cabinet in our family room, but the piece fades to boring when set in a dark corner. I carried it around the house a few days back, and when I set it on this window sill, it lit up. So there it stayed. Even hubby noted how cool it looks with the sunlight behind it, and hubby noting anything “new” is noteworthy (I frequently say to him “if it ain’t naked, you don’t notice…”)

While my piece is unsigned, it looks strikingly like the work done at Mdina Glass, a company started in 1968 on the island of Malta by two British artists. It is still in operation (https://www.mdinaglass.com.mt/en/home.htm). An early pattern produced in the mid 1970s was “Earthtones”, later called “Earth”, and is made of a brown and sandy opaque Maltese glass. While the coloring is identical, none of the pieces I could find showed a spine design similar to mine. I have contacted the company to see if I can get a definitive yes or no, but I actually do not care all that much.

The piece is fun, offering a variety of interpretations due to its patterning. Its warm colors offer a feeling of grounding, as “Earth” might. And, given that it is a simple vase by design, I have come to realize that the human spirit likes to create beauty even for the most simple items in our lives. Much like a quilt, the utility of the object is only enhanced by the desire of the creator to offer a sparkle of design. I confess I am now rather attracted to the handmade glass items of yesterday. Likely more to follow.

Full Circle

This is a story about a personal heirloom - a Tiffany’s & Co Elsa Peretti 18k snake ring with a diamond tail. The ring was a gift from my husband, though honestly, neither of us can remember when exactly he gifted it to me. I think it was “early children”, in our first home in Libertyville. Hubby thinks it was earlier, in the apartment we rented for 2 years in Evanston. We had moved there from Cleveland right after our wedding. After selling the first house we owned for less than 6 months, we schlepped all our stuff and a 6-month-old golden puppy to a second-floor apartment while both unemployed. This was roughly 35 years ago, making the ring an early 1990s design.

I grew up with the understanding that gifts from Tiffany’s were “The” gift to receive. My father would gift my mother Tiffany jewelry, so that little blue box elicited a great deal of excitement. More importantly, my mother wore an antique Tiffany & Co. diamond engagement ring that was a family heirloom. The ring belonged to my grandmother’s mother, Margaret LeBoutillier (1874-1905) – her engagement diamond from my great grandfather Benjamin Strong (1872-1928) purchased in New York in the late 1890s. There is even a portrait of her wearing the ring – which is slightly odd, come to think of it, as she is surrounded by her parents and brothers but not her fiancé. Since she died while suffering postpartum depression, the ring was saved and my grandmother, Katharine Strong Humphrey (1904-1987) gave it to my father for his fiancé, Barbara Fallon, in 1954. Mom wore that ring until the 1980s, when she passed it on to my brother. At that point mom found two antique wedding bands – one ruby and one diamond – she wore until the day she died.

Here’s the tragedy, and I confess this one still makes me so dang verklempt. My mother gave the ring to my brother for his (first) fiancé, back in 1986 or so. That marriage went sideways fairly quickly, and I believe they divorced in 1991. After the young woman gave my brother back the Strong engagement ring, HE SOLD IT. Ok, I have vented. I simply cannot believe that ring left the family. Realistically it could be said to harbor negative karma – the first bride that wore it died tragically. The second bride – my mother – wore it and prospered for near 30+ years. However, bride #3 did not have a happy ending. I will get over it but not likely any time soon.

All of which circles me back to my Tiffany gift from hubby. I have loved the symbolism of snakes since college. I took classes on women’s history and the symbolism of mythology. The pre-Greco cultures thriving in early Europe. And the symbol that shows up most often in those studies was a snake. Modern culture immediately sees a snake as bad. The serpent in the garden of Eden is deeply embedded in many of our beliefs. And yet, originally, a snake was a symbol of rebirth, of the imagery of life continuing in a circle. It was a powerful metaphor for the female of the species. It is interesting that early Christian theology turned that symbol into a significant evil. And do not get me started on the early Christian attacks against female healers. In any case, I love the symbol of the snake but that is not to say I actually like living snakes.

For many years I wore my hubby’s beautiful gift on my right hand, as I had a very traditional “Tiffany setting” diamond engagement ring and simple gold band on my left ring finger (seriously traditional for someone so free thinking but this was 1986 so cut me some slack). Eventually I ended up with other wonderful rings, (see blog posts gums-gift-from-gumps and all-you-need-is-love), and the snake went into the jewelry box as I stopped wearing it. 

The problem with being a rock climber, especially a middle-aged rock climber, is it takes a toll on your hands. While I can give killer back massages and open most any stuck container, I can hardly get my rings on and off. I have had rings enlarged numerous times over the years, and recently gave up on wearing my wedding rings. Just a week or so ago I realized the snake ring is a perfect solution! As it is “open” it actually has some give to it. And I can get it on over my sadly large knuckles. I now wear it as my wedding band on my left hand. Seeing it reminds me of history, both cultural and personal. I suspect you will not be surprised to learn I studied a variety of topics in college: English Literature, Political Science, Mythology, Astronomy, Art History, European History and Women’s Studies. I wrote a thesis about the butterfly representing the psyche in both the poetry of Spenser’s Fairy Queen (which I studied in the original Old English while at Kings College London) and John Keats (Ode to Psyche). Odd choice, and nearly didn’t pull it off, but I loved the dive into those worlds. Now I get to wear a snake ring – fat knuckles, extra wrinkles, and larger worries be damned – that brings my life full circle.

On A Beach in Libertyville

One of the more difficult aspect of sharing my treasures is getting a picture – with an iPhone – to look halfway decent. These paintings, hung in a corner of a basement room, were a challenge. It is hard to grasp exactly how large they are as these images of them do not show the scale. I found them on Market Place in 2020 while I was trying to create a serene space to practice yoga at home during the Covid crisis. While they seemed a perfect solution for me, I really had not considered just how large they are. The canvases are 5 feet tall, with the larger one being 6 feet across. After driving to the woman’s home and realizing there was not a chance in hell they were going in a car, I was able to borrow a friend’s pick-up truck to schlep them home. Installing them in our not fancy cellar was another project, and they are certainly not moving any time soon.

Living in a house built in 1930 in Illinois does not include fancy high-ceiling entertainment areas in the basement. Truth is, we are lucky if it is dry, because the state of the art “sump pump” system available when the house was built was a trough around the perimeter. Inside.  With a few drain openings here and there. More “there” than “here” – meaning where the water ends up is not always anywhere near one of the damn holes. On top of that, the floor is a fairly thin coat of concrete over a much older sandy floor. This is noticeable where the ancient furnace was removed which was done when we first bought the property.

We knew the furnace was ghastly and would need to be replaced, but moving in May meant it wasn’t on our to do list immediately (and it was a heck of a long “to-do” list. And we had a baby and two young boys). Until it roared to life early one morning in September and scared the heck out of us. The whole house shook. It seemed there was no “off” switch. Removing that monstrosity took 5 men a full week. It was originally an oil burning beast and had been converted to gas at some point. Since it was red, I called it Marianne (children’s’ story…). The workmen said thing was older than the house, and the verdict was the house was built around it.  Quaker Oats had torn down a house on the site in 1930 to build our current home, so likely Marianne was a remnant of that building.

Quaker Oats hired a scientist named Dr. Kent to conduct the research for the chicken feed farm. He relocated his wife and young son, Junior, to Illinois in 1922 from Cornell in NY. For two years they lived in Lake Bluff, until QA purchased a property that would work for the new research facility: a 65-acre property in Libertyville, a mile from the train, with a huge barn and two houses. I suspect the two houses were key, as the farm foreman lived in the cottage, while the Browns were in the main house. How it transpired that Mrs. Kent pitched such a fit that QA agreed to remove a large farm house and replace it with a Colonial Revival per her demands I will never know. 

Very early on in our ownership of the property I had tracked down Junior. I only spoke with him once by phone. He answered a number of questions I had, and kept insisting he should dig through all the family papers in his basement. As I was exceedingly anxious to know what was in those papers, I tried to reach him again when I had not heard back. His phone was disconnected and I even went so far as to call the local police station. I don’t remember all the details, but the conclusion was Junior was likely demented and had either passed away, or had been placed in a care facility. I determined he was born in 1920 so he was in his 80s when I spoke with him. He is the one that told me about his mother, and her insistence the home be a New England Salt Box. I also learned she hailed from Michigan, his parents were first cousins, and for some odd reason sent Junior to Switzerland for boarding school. This was corroborated by a local newspaper (library microfiche!) article from some time in the 1940s about him coming home prior to the start of WWII.  

So back to my cellar. I have painted the walls and floors, trying to brighten the area and banish the myriad of creepy crawlers (my children have acquired a very specific dislike of massive centipedes. Interestingly they are actually a predator of spiders which is another bane of my house’s existence.). I hired a painter many years ago to spray paint the “ceiling” – all the floor joists and pipes and wires – a dark blue. He did – and when he came upstairs and took off his glasses I laughed hysterically. He literally was blue from hair to shoes with only the area of his glasses showing his skin. Needless-to-say I have never tried to “touch up” the ceiling paint.

And while I have had numerous decorations and large chalk boards on the walls for the kids when the space was a massive rec room, almost all those have moved on in the world. When Covid happened, hubby and I began to spend more time in the cellar, mainly for exercise options. Our children’s teen tv area became the streaming area for “in house” Covid exercise classes. But the space was depressing and dingy. A mirror helped, but I wanted a large piece of art to bright the area. Searching on Marketplace, I came across a woman selling  these two canvases of a beach scene. I figured they were vinyl or cloth, but for a super cheap price, I didn’t care.

I was a bit gob smacked that they were actual paintings, done by her uncle (no idea name or date). I recall someone in her family commissioned him to make them for an office room, and she ended up with them. As she didn’t want them, she sold them to me for $40. Both. Once I got them home, the realization that I couldn’t just tack a nail in the wall to hang them up became obvious. First, the walls are concrete. And the canvases are huge. Hubby and I ended up using chain and hooks and hanging them from the ceiling. They are lovely and peaceful and do an amazing job brightening a cellar. So, apologies for the terrible photograph, but as I sat doing some shoulder exercises tonight I couldn’t help but think how being by the ocean has resonated in my life.

As a child, my family lived in a town on Long Island Sound, and we spent days at the beach. As a teen, the beach was a hangout area much like malls were in my children’s teens. My parents retired to a beach town in Florida, living in a community with a private beach a short walk away. My children grew up vacationing there, running after gulls, watching dolphin, collecting shells, and playing in the waves. I am most certainly not a “sit on the beach” type but I made an effort to enjoy the beauty, find peace in the sound of the waves. None of us enjoyed 2020, and the impact of Covid. But having these painting brightening my online yoga classes most certainly helped. As being by an ocean -whether real or painted – does help calm the soul.

Grandmother’s Moniker

I have not decided if the IRS needs to know I received this quilt as “payment”. A thrifting girlfriend asked me recently if I could clean an old quilt she had found. Certainly, though I was a tad worried what a thrifted quilt purchased by the pound was going to look like. Honestly my heart stuttered a tad when I pulled this out of her bag. The quilt is pristine. Colors are bright. Binding was unfrayed. And while it needed to be washed to remove dust and brighten the yellowed tone of age, it was hardly used.

And no wonder. It is remarkable. The pattern is called Grandmother’s Flower Garden and is composed of hexagons. The pattern originated in England in the 1700s and was called “honeycomb” due to the design’s similarity to actual honeycomb. The yellow centers are a traditional choice, referring back to this origin. The pattern became popular in the United States in the 1930s during the Great Depression. As the pieces are quite small, this pattern helped utilize scraps of fabrics from clothing making. The entire quilt is hand done. Take a moment to look at the flowers. The artist used the traditional yellow piece in the center of every flower. The second “round” on each is done in a solid color fabric. And then she “fussy cut” fabrics to highlight an image and repeated that design around each flower’s third ring. It is hard to explain so here is a close up of two:

I have made virtually every type of quilt imaginable over the 35 years I have enjoyed quilting. But I have never tackled a crazy quilt (though now have 2 wonderful ones -see prior blog posts: https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/wisconsin-crazy and https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/jeannies-crazy-quilt). Nor have I tried to make a Grandmother’s Flower Garden. I am a grandmother now, but confess the idea of gardening is remarkably low on my to do list. Thus, my garden is not something to have as a moniker. Much more likely I would be “Grandmother’s Baking Treats”. Or “Grandmother’s Snuggly Quilts”. To say nothing of the daunting task of hand piecing a flower garden quilt. Each flower is composed of 19 pieces. On this quilt there are 248 blocks, meaning you need to cut and hand sew 4712 pieces to simply make the flowers. (Hubby wondered how I got that figure: math, dear lol). To say nothing of all the white “setting” blocks. I admire the perseverance. And in this case I also admire the workmanship.

As I lusted after the quilt, my girlfriend asked if I could repair another item she had that needed a hole darned. I joked that I could repair a pile of clothing (for her to resell) in exchange for the quilt. She thought that a fabulous idea!! So now I have a 1930s stunning Grandmother’s Flower Garden to admire while I nibble on chocolate chip cookies with my granddaughter.

Wisconsin Crazy

This quilt came home with me last week from a crazy thrift store outing in Wisconsin. A girlfriend invited me to go the “The Bins”, an “outlet” thrift store in a Wisconsin town north of us.  It is a vast warehouse where everything is sold by the pound. The cross section of people there is astonishing: women with young children; young men of every color trying to score vintage concert tee shirts; teen girls in packs looking for fun outfits; middle aged folks of all walks of life hunting for items to resell for profit. I can’t say I enjoyed the “thrifting” aspect as it was exhausting (and dirty!) digging through mounds of everything imaginable. After three hours of hoisting mounds of clothing my rotator cuff had enough and is still annoyed with me. My favorite part, though, was people watching with scoring a treasure a close second.

This quilt was in my friend’s cart and I was seriously covetous. When she sorted through all her “finds”, she decided the quilt had a hole, and handed it to me. The hole she noted was something I could easily repair, so I happily brought it home. Based on weight it probably cost $6.50. The process I then submitted the darn thing to made me think of the museum exhibits I attended years ago to see the Gees Bend quilts (https://www.arts.gov/stories/blog/2015/quilts-gees-bend-slideshow).

Those quilts, made by poor black women in rural (and isolated) Gees Bend, Alabama were showcased at national art museums in 2002, garnering the women and their community fame and opportunities. As artwork, I appreciated the talent of the women to create warm bedcoverings while also making art with what they had. As a quilter, the quilts were hard for me to appreciate as my very OCD brain just wanted to wash them, square them up, re bind them and generally change them entirely. Well, my recent quilt find wasn’t going in any museum so I was free to do as I desired!

The quilt I picked up is a crazy quilt, and boy was it dirty. I would guess it hadn’t been washed since it was made in the early 1970s. While the top was sturdy, with nice embroidery done on the patches, the finishing left a lot to be desired. The backing fabric was pulled to the front and tacked down, making the edges bunchy as well as wonky. After disassembling, I threw the backing fabric into the wash, washing it multiple times to stop the fabric from bleeding color. The front, being more fragile, went into the bathtub. I used shampoo to wash it a few times. One purple velvet fabric continually bled, so I eventually stopped when all I saw was red dye and not filth in the wash water. Drying the thing was an exercise – towels, sheets in the sun, drying rack, ironing.

Then began a complicated process of squaring up both the backing and the top. As the top did not have a square edge to be found, I used my kitchen floor boards as a level guide. After lots of crawling around on the ground, cutting and sewing -voila!- I reassembled the piece. In fact, it is slightly larger now as the originally sewer had turned under about 4” on all sides of the top when finishing it. The last step was mending  the few fabrics that had some damage. A red synthetic I was able to patch using cut off pieces of the same fabric. The green wool I backed in felt and darned in place. The out-of-place cotton calico I simply zig zagged frayed edges and left it alone. Now I have the quilt on the guest bed in my sewing room, and I find myself fondling it with a smile every time I walk past.

Hubby is also a fan, and neither of us can understand why our daughter doesn’t want to hang it on her vaulted walls! Sadly, I think this is a case of “parents being so weird”, but honestly this quilt is such a testament to the colors of our childhoods. It also speaks to the hard work of some woman to make a bright bedcover for a loved one during a very chaotic period – Vietnam, social unrest, huge economic changes. I do not know anything about the maker – what color, religion or social slant. I do know, however, that this was a Wisconsin woman who saved, made do, and tried to brighten up her home.

Believe it or not, the majority of these fabrics were from 1960s and early 1970s clothing. Hubby and I have joked that the quilt would survive a nuclear explosion as there is almost nothing natural on its surface. These fabrics were absolutely cutting edge: synthetics, rayon, nylons, and probably a few I can’t even identify. I absolutely can see bell bottom pants. Crop tops. Velvet blazers. Funky mini dresses. This was the vibe of society in the late 1960s, and this quilter has compiled a testament to that generation as told through her family’s clothing.

As a child, my mother often made items of clothing as gifts for us for birthdays and Christmas. Knit sweaters, dresses, jackets and skirts. These were not my favorite gifts to receive when I was little, and my family took up my comment “oh it’s a clo” as an amusing refrain. As an adult Mom would make whatever I requested: wedding dress, maternity business clothing, adorable baby outfits, stunning sweaters. I miss her and would give anything to have a quilt like this one composed of all the fabrics she used over the years to make wonderful clothing. But Mom was not a saver, and all those scraps and outfits are gone, other than a few memorialized in family photos (or saved in my closet). The Wisconsin woman who created this crazy quilt was someone who, like Mom, loved working with fabrics. And making treasures for her family. Sadly, the generation that came later either didn’t appreciate the quilt, or the story of its fabrics and family tale was lost. I for one appreciate it, loving the reminder of the 1970s’ crazy styles, and hope it doesn’t get thrown away again. Because, honestly, what’s not to love about it?!

Letting Go

Sometimes a treasure comes home with me and I struggle to let it go. The idea is I should resell things – for a profit – as it is silly to hold onto every single adorable item I pick up. Otherwise, my children would be stuck dealing with way too much stuff when I am no longer around . Hopefully my blogs will help them recognize the importance of some things, and the emotional connection of others. These ramblings are in a sense my attempt to capture those connections.

I helped my mother through the painful process of slowly discarding her life’s collection of “stuff” after my father died in 2010. She moved into a community where she would stay for 11 years, with each subsequent move into a smaller space as her care needs increased. And each time I was the child who did all the work to move her, assessing what to keep and what to surround her with as she declined towards her death in 2021. It is a difficult process to let go for some people. My mom not so much – she did not place much sentiment in things. I, however, seem much more inclined to like Stuff. This statue is a case in point.

I picked her up at an estate sale recently, which of course indicates some other family was starting that process. Realistically I should not refer to it as “her” as it is actually a couple, but the busty woman most definitely spoke to me. I love her strong woman vibe, hoisting that prim and proper guy over her head. The top hat man spoke to my circus themed room, which has a few “ringmaster” men on display. There is something about the piece that makes me smile, and of course makes me think of relationships in general. I had no idea “what” it was, did not ‘google image search it”, nor did I actually care and happily paid $16 for the piece. Turns out, she is valuable.

The piece is called “Public Debate” and was made by Lisa Larson in 1968. Larson (1931- 2024) was a Swedish ceramist and is much beloved in her native country. (Read a lovely blog post about her here: https://fishinkblog.com/2024/03/12/lisa-larson-world-exclusive-interview-for-fishinkblog-3/). While teaching ceramic at the College of Crafts and Design in Gothenburg, she was invited to work for a year at the Gustavsberg porcelain factory in 1954. She stayed until 1980 when she began working freelance, eventually founding her own studio in 1992. Her pieces are highly collectible, and too numerous to count. This one seemed to be worth a good deal more than $16. The debate in our house was the need to sell her.

I didn’t want to, obviously, but as I don’t actually “work”, bringing in money to offset my thrifting addiction is a wise idea. And the fact that items I find do not have an emotional connection in my life – other than the appreciation of the work done by an artist, the enjoyment of their beauty and humor, and the curating of our home with treasures. My children will not be pleased if every single item I love ends up stacked deep in our barn. Sadly, I sold her – mind you at a great profit, but still it was a sad day when I shipped her off.

Sometimes you must though. Life has a way of throwing things at you, and sometimes the best thing to do is spend time with those you love, not cling to found treasures. I am sad at the moment, which is never a good place to start writing, but the reality is life is transient. We hold onto the people we love, the treasures we collect, the spaces we reside. But sometimes you have to let go. It is good training to let go of stuff, as letting go of loved ones is a much more difficult process. Watching my mother go through her final years was a painful reminder that relationships are truly the most important thing to cultivate in your life. Holding Mom’s hand in her final hours -during the depth of the Covid crisis – was profound, and difficult. Her life had dwindled to a single room, isolated due to the Covid restrictions, as well as her struggle with dementia. As I looked around her room I realized how few things remained of the life Mom lived. A few important pieces of art. Family photos. A few collected treasures and mementos. I am sorry to be so maudlin, but I am struggling with letting go – both figuratively and literally – and I realize that the important thing is to love.

Channeling Frida

I picked this artwork up at an estate sale recently, and it made me think about the purpose of art. The piece is likely a pen and ink with a bit of watercolor, though I am not 100% sure. It is not a print of any type (no Benday dots) and is on a piece of paper with a watermark saying “Hamilton Ledger”. Undated and unsigned, but titled “Le Suen” (translates as “Sound Familiar”). The back of the old frame has a note saying “Borda Gardens, Cuermuaca, Mexico”.

Borda Gardens was once part of a remarkable property created in the 1780s, with a garden design by Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel (of Eiffel tower fame). The estate is now a public park and museum, with cultural events hosted in the park. My guess is the artwork was created by a local Mexican artist who exhibited at a show in the Gardens, with my piece being purchased by visiting Americans. I would say 1950s due to style of paper.

I suspect any number of people would not find it attractive. Nor want it on their wall. The vibe is a bit “creepy” and the black bird doesn’t help the situation much. But the purpose of “art” is not always “decoration” – sometimes it is about noticing your response. This work creates a bit of unease, and made me think of the famous Mexican artist Frida Kahlo (1907-1954).

First let’s figure out what is making us uneasy. The perspective of the piece is a bit challenged, though possibly on purpose. The angle of the chair is distorted, and while the detailing is impressive, the artist pitched the chair in such a way that the piece doesn’t seem quite “right”. Also note the chair’s Victorian style clawed feet which adds to the ominous avian vibe. The scale of the girl to the chair is also off, as is the perspective of her sitting in the chair. She seems to be a young teen aged girl, but if so, the chair is huge as it dwarfs her. The dark hair, while likely culturally appropriate for someone of Mexican heritage, seems a bit sinister splashed against the pink chair. Then we add a black bird, freed from its charmingly detailed black cage, and calmly resting on the girl’s chest. Black birds are often a bad omen in popular lore. Like many things, however, there are other interpretations and black birds can also symbolize a new phase in one’s life. The title of the piece “Sound Familiar” certainly makes this a mystery.

I sense the work is inspired by Frida Kahlo (https://www.fridakahlo.org/frida-kahlo-paintings.jsp). Kahlo grew up and lived in Mexico City. Much of her work is autobiographical, and tends to be portraiture. She had polio as a young child and suffered a horrifying accident at age 18, derailing her medical training, and turned her to artwork. It also left her virtually crippled and in pain the remainder of her life. Her artwork reflects this, and much of it is disturbing (to me anyway). The small piece I purchased made me think about this because it made me question the “purpose” of art. Often times we use art as “decoration”, trying to complement our home with something pretty. While we seem to be ok reading books or watching movies full of disturbing issues, we shy away from hanging “creepy” things on our walls. I do wonder what the artist of “Sound Familiar” was trying to say, and I will continue to reflect on the power of art to cause us discomfort. Sometimes that’s not a bad thing.

Jeannie’s Crazy Quilt

This week has been an astonishing whirlwind of quilts. I am a bit giddy, actually, and have 3 stories based on three different fabulous quilts buzzing in my brain. I do feel, however, that Great Aunt Jane is going to the front of the line. You know how I feel about history, especially when it involves heirlooms and ancestors. Jane Strong (1866-1955) was my father’s “great aunt”, and her quilt landed on my doorstep this week.

While I have made many types of quilts in my life, I have never attempted a “crazy quilt”. I have collected wonderful silk fabrics and antique lace for years with a notion of creating one as I love the look of them, but thus far have not begun. The typical process is to start with a base square of fabric – muslin most often – and jigsaw puzzle fabric pieces together to fill the block. In antique crazy quilts, the fabrics were often from worn clothing, and often included dress-making silks. These fabrics are prone to deteriorating over the years. Silk is inherently fragile, but it did not help that during the late 19th century, silk fabrics were “weighted” with lead to make the fabric stiffer and more costly. After the individual blocks are patched together, the quilter begins to “embellish” them with embroidery stitching and fancy images. Then the blocks are sewn together, backed with fabric and left unquilted.  While the construction is simple, I am daunted by the steep learning curve all that embroidery would require. Now, fortunately, I don’t have to make one as I have Great Aunt Jane’s to show off!

Jane was the second of five children of Adeline Schenck (1844-1933) and Benjamin Strong (1834 –1915). Interestingly, my family has always referred to her as “Jane” but the family archives indicate she was “Jeannie Schenck Strong” when born in Redbank, NJ. Unclear when she became “Jane” in family lore. She was the only daughter, and her brother, Ben Jr. (1872-1928), was my father’s grandfather. Jane did not marry (nor did two of her brothers). Her nephew, Ben Strong III (my grandmother’s eldest brother) wrote a family memoir and says Jeannie “devoted herself to looking after her mother and father in their later years. In addition, she had great artistic talents, doing beautiful painting. She was for years a member of the “Shut In Society” and carried on an active correspondence with shut-ins all over the world”.

My Uncle B in New Zealand remembers his Aunt Jane well, as she was very close to his mother, my grandmother Katharine Strong Humphrey Osborne (1904-1987). Aunt Jane came to help her neice when the family lived in Litchfield, Connecticut. Katharine was struggling to raise 3 boys while her husband, Watts Humphrey, commuted into NYC for work. Now, there’s an interesting aside – Watts would fly a biplane off a lake near their home, landing on the East River to get to Wall Street. For reasons unknown to me, he would spend the week in New York, returning to CT for the weekends. Thus, my grandmother was left alone to raise 3 elementary-aged  boys, and her Aunt Jane came to stay for a number of years.

My Uncle mentions Jane was a unique woman, walking around the house reading a bible in Italian out loud. No clue why, but it made an impression on him. He stayed in touch with her throughout her life. When she died in 1955, he received a number of her things, including a wood trunk with the quilt top stored inside. Jane’s companion said Jane had started the quilt around 1910. My Uncle and Aunt moved to New Zealand (her native home) back in the 1970s, carefully storing the quilt in Jane’s wood trunk. My Aunt’s New Zealand relative “finished” the crazy quilt top, thus helping to preserve it. This involved adding the black (cotton) border and burgundy backing and binding. The piece was then “tied”, using an embroidery thread to tack the top to the back. Fortunately, she did a lovely job, and the crazy quilt can safely be handled.

Back in October, one of my New Zealand cousins began reading my blog and we started a correspondence. He shared with me a catalogue of family heirlooms the NZ Humphreys have been treasuring. Among the pages was a picture of Jane’s quilt. I wrote a blog about my coveting the piece, and my charming relatives decided it needed to fly across the world to live with me! (https://www.ericasheirloomquilts.com/ericas-heirloom-treasures/forget-the-silver-i-covet-the-quilt)

When my doorbell rang on Friday, I was working on a different quilt and almost missed the bell. The postal worker had a thin package for me that needed my signature. It was from New Zealand. Great Aunt Jane’s crazy quilt arrived and I held my breath opening the package. The work is lovely, the fabrics are stunning and in remarkably good condition, and I was speechless when I laid it out on a bed. I can hardly believe a woman born in 1866, as the Civil War just ended, the sister of my great grandfather, made this work using fabrics culled from the family’s clothing. Honestly, while I cannot point to any in particular, I suspect some of Benjamin Strong’s clothing is entwined in the blocks. It is a treasure of beauty, and the joy of writing about my family and recording these small miracles of history remembered brings me such pleasure.

Jane Strong in the family’s summer home on Woods Hole, MA (notice the sewing machine!)

My Grandmother Kat

When I was born only one of my grandparents was living, my father’s mother. Katharine Strong (1905-1986) – called Kat by her family – was my “Gum”. Realistically, I hardly knew the woman, and now, as a grandmother myself, I wish I could ask her about her life. While my family would visit with her, it was not frequent and, being near the youngest of a large gaggle of children, I did not engage with her much.

My parents would take all 7 of us kids to Florida every other year. There are videos of us, all dressed up in our fancy clothes, being escorted to the airplane by my grandparents (we considered her 3rd husband our grandfather). Dresses, hats and the whole shebang. In addition, they would visit our home once a year or so. I do remember the childhood Easter Egg hunts in her yard on the inland waterway on Siesta Key. Her husband, my “Pop-pop”, would hand out prizes for all the egg hunters, and his charming “categories” became a tradition I carried on with my children. When we visited Florida, we stayed in a rented beach home or motel, though I believe my older sisters would stay with Gum or with an aunt nearby. 

Being the 6th of 7 children made me a bit of extraneous energy, and I recall my father would propose “the quiet game” whenever family visited. The idea being the younger kids – me included – would lie quietly on the floor. Whoever lasted the longest would win a quarter. I think it likely I never won, but can’t swear by it. In any case, my interactions with Gum were not particularly memorable, and I have no close anecdotes to share.

Looking back, I would say I did not get the warm and fuzzy vibe from Gum, partly due, I suspect, to my being a rambunctious child, with many siblings vying for her attention. And, realistically, she was more the stoic, New England, Presbyterian type – raised in a very high socio-economic class in the New York City area. While her life was one of upper class, her tragic childhood likely had a significant impact on her.

Her mother suffered postpartum depression, and stayed at Glen Hall Hotel and Sanatorium while Kat was an infant. Upon returning to the family, she used her husband’s revolver (for his work with J.P. Morgan ferrying money on the streets of New York City) to commit suicide. Tragically Kat and her siblings were at home at the time. Soon after this her older brother came down with whooping cough, infecting a little sister Peggy. Kat was sent to a hospital (though possibly more like a sanatorium than what we think of as a medical hospital) to avoid infection. She was away for an entire year, and Peggy died during that time. Eventually Kat returned to her home with her father and two brothers.

Kat’s father remarried when Kat was 4. Two girls were born to the couple, but the stepmother (Katharine Converse) did not remain, leaving Ben Strong for California with her two daughters in tow when Kat was 12. In addition, there is a family story that Kat’s nanny got pregnant (though I do not know if this was before, during or after her stepmother was around) by the butler (of course). The nanny was fired, but not the butler. Kat told the story to my Mom, who in turn told me, making sure I understood how bitter Kat (or Gum as I called her) felt about the loss of the woman who cared for her.

What does this have to do with the charming carved clay sculpture I found at a thrift shop for $1.99? This little lady made me think of grandmothers, both my own and my being one. Really, it made me sad to realize I didn’t know my grandmother, nor recall her with the kind of charm this little lady possesses. The figurine has an apron embellished with a “K” so I named her Kat.

Kat – the clay one – was made by “VH” on 4-18-1972, according to the back. It is possible she was a school art project, but I cannot help but think VH made it as a gift for grandmother “K”, depicting an actual woman. She has very specific details. Her tight curly hair. Her wire-rimmed reading glasses. Her trimmed out apron, over a collared dress, with the back showing the apron ribbon tied into a bow. And her mixing bowl – she was a baker!

Being a baker as well, I have included my granddaughter in various baking projects. Wearing my apron and reading glasses of course! I want to build a connection with my little one so as she grows, she knows her “Nana” loves her. I am sure my Gum also loved me, but she was a complicated woman from an era that was more reserved. She grew up with horse drawn carriages, household staff, and owned a car in 1918 (I have a photo of it!). She attended Smith College, and traveled internationally (by boat) with her father, Ben Strong (1872-1928) for his work with the Federal Reserve. She received the right to vote just as she became an adult. She married at 20 and promptly had 3 sons a year apart. She lived through 2 world wars, with her brothers and her first husband entering both conflicts. She was divorced at a time when that was not the done thing, having to travel to Nevada in the 1940s to accomplish it. She raised three teen boys alone, without financial assistance from an ex-husband, with no work experience to speak of. While I want my grandchildren to know me as a loving Nana, I do not want Kat’s life story to fade away either. Complicated women seem to run in my family.

American Dream

Sometimes when I research a found treasure, I learn interesting tidbits about the artist as well as the art. Sometimes I find absolutely nothing. And others? I find a person with a lovely voice and learn a great deal about many things. This charming artwork by Tom Marrazzo dated 2/16/1936 falls into the last category.

I picked up the piece at a local thrift store for $2.99. The artwork puzzled me as it does not appear to be a print, more a pen and ink work (no Benday dots). But it also feels much like an old etching, in the style of Rembrandt, with the busy town scene of a butcher working in the open air, while the charming local folks, chickens and dogs mill about. I put it up on my display shelf in our dining room and left it to be admired.

Recently I decided to research the piece. Google Image Search was useless, and a name search revealed almost nothing, other than learning “Marrazzo” is a family name from Naples, Italy. I did, however, find a contemporary artist with a gallery called “Marrazzo Art”, run by Cindy Marrazzo in Tennessee (https://marrazzoart.com/). As the name is slightly unusual, not a “Smith” anyway, I figured no harm done in reaching out to her to see if she had any familiarity with a Tom Marrazzo. And boy did I discover a wonderful story!

Tom Marrazzo was her father, born 1919 and died 1988. Her note to me is a lovely tribute to him, a man who lived a very American tale of immigrants, family love and creativity.

July 17 CM to EHJ:

“Dad was the first son born here in 1909 in Long Island, NY. His 5 older brothers and sisters were all born in Naples, Italy. Two more brothers were born after him here in the states. I believe that piece was inspired from trips they made back to Naples, Italy. He was a very talented artist and could also sing and dance. Wow could he sing! I still miss him, 35 years later.

However, as you probably know, making a living as an artist in the 1920s and 1930s, wasn't very profitable…Dad got his degree in architecture to work for his dad…who owned a construction company in Long Island, NY. Architecture was his way of being practical. However, he wouldn't marry the cousin brought over for him to marry from Naples, Italy, chose to marry another and was disowned. The family was very Italian in traditions.

Dad's first marriage didn't work out, but it did bring him to Chicagoland.  He eventually married my mom, and I was born when he was 47 years old.  Dad was a Korean War Veteran - Army and Air Force…He was also a great bowler with a 190 average, a professional baseball player and Mom and Dad would jitter bug up until a week before he left this earth.  I should also mention, when 3 art teachers came to the house to beg my parents to let me go to the Art Institute on a full scholarship, my dad was adamant that it wasn't practical. Denied my dream at 16, I went into the service at 17 and then engineering school. 15 years ago (36 years later), I started painting again, and I understand why he did what he did for me. Although I sell almost everything I've ever painted, it is very hard to make a living as an artist.

Whether you write about him or not, thank you for the memories and letting me talk about him. I miss him to this day and still ask him for help in my art.  Sometimes I feel I get answers from him. For example, I was about to quit painting for multiple reasons. I looked up to where I'd consider heaven and begged for his help in finding some direction. The next morning, I received a letter from AAPL that they were featuring me in September's Landscape issue in American Art Collectors magazine. In the following weeks I was accepted into Artsclamation art show in Knoxville, TN - where I had in the previous year been wait listed. Sometimes I hear his critique while I'm painting. I just wish he could have physically been here to see what I have accomplished with my art and living both our dream.”

I love the journey that created this artwork. A family with 5 children leaving Italy on a boat in the early part of the 1900s. Setting down roots in Long Island, but traveling - with 8 children - to see the family “back home” in Italy. A young man, capturing the scenes of that life, so foreign to his experience in the United States. And his choices regarding careers, marriage, and creativity. The majority of us are the descendants of a story like this: my father’s Pilgrim and Dutch ancestors in the 1630s; my mother’s German ancestors in the 1890s; my husband’s Polish ancestors in the 1910s. While the details may vary, we are all lucky the American Dream allowed them to thrive. As Cindy Marrazzo will be in the Chicago area in the fall for an art show, I will give her the piece I found as it really should find itself back  home with her and her family.

The Path Ahead

This artwork reminds me of my college’s original 1867 colors: pink and gray. The students selected the colors to stand for “the rose of sunrise dawning over the gray of women’s previous intellectual life”. While the artwork actually has a brown cast to the dark colors, it spoke to me today in a way it hadn’t before, mirroring my feelings. I purchased it a number of years ago from a local thrift shop, framed as it is in its 1970s gold frame and brown matting. It is number 180 of 275, is undated, and is signed by Diane Vidito. The work is a lithograph and is entitled “The Fenway”

A fenway is a path through a marshy area. The word is old English, and originates from the idea that a murky, difficult area in the landscape is called a “fen”. In ancient England, filled as it was with bogs and marshes, arriving at the entry to a frightening landscape meant finding the way through was critical. Thus, the search for a fenway. Amusingly Microsoft doesn’t like the word “fenway”, thus my writing is currently covered in red squiggles of editorial warning. All of which really does feel apropos for the sense of doom and despair I have been wallowing in of late. I needed a way through a bad case of anxiety.

This work offers a glimpse of peace on the horizon. The dark tree in the middle plane, and its corresponding inky shadow most definitely put you on edge. Especially as the shadowed ground is so undefined - oily with a sense of menace. And damn it girl, you have to schlep through it. However, the rose of sunrise dawning in the sky offers a glimmer of safety. The water is clear. And the distant shore is pink! Comforting, and tinged with the color of life. Up in the far-left distance is a building. Unclear what the white mausoleum structure is meant to be – it hardly looks like a house, with its formal white pillars. But it too is bathed in a pink glow, though it is somewhat hidden behind a growth of trees. It takes more than a cursory glance to notice it.

So much of our lives are spent with cursory glances. But spending time with a piece of art, like with this painting, you can reflect parallels to your life. While the life that is burbling around you can feel overwhelming, appreciating something of beauty can offer a path through the muck. It does not need to be “official” art, or even art per se, but when you begin to build an awareness of why a piece affects you, the story you discover can be a surprise.

It was only as I was enlarging this work on my computer that I began to notice things missed over the years I’ve owned it. I got so entangled in the big scary tree, noxious oozing slime, and unattainable distant safety, I missed something critical. Take a moment and go back and look. I’ll wait.  

Tucked behind the behemoth, grabby, decrepit tree is a small tree. And it is pink. There may just be a fenway ahead, to that great white house in the distance.

Lily of the Valley

This Lily of The Valley art made me think of my mother, Barbara F. Humphrey (1928-2021). It is actually a large pin, mounted on green velvet, inside a well-made box with a glass lid that slides out. I found it at an elderly woman’s garage sale this past weekend. She wanted $8 for it, and told me it was from “the last century”. Turns out it was made in New York City in the early 1990s. The artist Michael Michaud is still active (https://www.michael-michaud-us.com/). The piece is hand cast bronze, painted in green vermeil, with fresh water pearls that dangle down off each tip. It notes on the back that is it number 393 out of a run of 750.

The pin itself is actually close to life-sized, which I should know as our front yard has a large area thick with Lily of the Valley. When the flowers bloom in May, the smell is astonishing, and the little white bells create a dainty carpet across the whole area. Over the years I would pick a huge bouquet and overnight ship them to my mother, as they were her favorite flower. She carried them on her wedding day on May 22, 1954. Now whenever I see something with a Lily of the Valley image, I think of her and the woman she was.

Mom was a complicated lady, raised by a first-generation German woman, Frieda Hermes Fallon (1898-1961). Her father, Martin Fallon (1893-?) was born in Ireland and raised in Boston. He inconveniently had a prior marriage and 3 children he neglected to mention to his new Catholic bride. When this came to light, Mom was around 8 and her sister Lois two years younger. Martin left Frieda and the girls, and moved away from Chicago. My grandmother moved in with her eldest sister Frances’ family, with Mom and Lois in tow. There was very little money as this was during the depths of the depression in the 1930s, and Mom had to take care of her sister and attend school. She became a “parentified child”, and simply got things done. She earned a scholarship to Mundelein College in Chicago, and won awards for her debate performance, particularly being part of the first women’s debate team to go up against West Point. (My children all just went “ah-ha! Yes, that must be where my genetic tendency to debate things came from.)

Mom had a strong belief in helping women, likely formed by her close attachment to her Aunt Frances who offered support during a difficult time in her childhood. Mom told me many stores about Aunt Frances, who seemed a remarkable character. As an adult, Mom volunteered at numerous organizations, including League of Women’s Voters, Planned Parenthood, and reading literacy groups, teaching adults how to read. She also would help women she knew who were in a bad situation, including daughters, daughters-in-law, nieces (and nephews), her sister, our old nanny, and numerous international women trying to immigrate. Most of this was financial and given as a gift.

Lily of the Valley is often considered an invasive weed as it is not native to our country. The plant can spread quickly, choking out weeds, like Creeping Charlie and Garlic Mustard. In my mind managing to smoother nasties is a fabulous side-effect of allowing Lily of the Valley to flourish. And, besides, none of us are native either, and growing roots in this country is what our ancestors have all done.

Whenever I see Lily of the Valley it brings a joy tinged with sadness. Sadness from losing Mom due to dementia during the horrid Covid-19 epidemic and missing her wisdom. Joy in the memories of Mom, the beauty she was, and her strong sense of supporting women. We need more women like Mom

Primary Colors

In a prior blog post I noted my attraction to triangles, and the degree to which they impact our appreciation of art (ericas-heirloom-treasures/composing-in-triangles). All well and good, but people don’t tend to shop by “shape” – more likely you head to the store looking for that perfect pink dress. Or red. Or black. Or whatever color floats your particular boat. Colors are trendy, and believe it or not, there is actually an institute that predicts color trends: Pantone Color Institute (https://www.pantone.com/about-pantone). This is a for-profit consulting company that started in the 1950s standardizing colors for the printing world. It has a huge impact on designers as well as clothing, housewares, and decorating trends. Not surprising “Ultimate Gray Pantone 17-5104” was the “2021 color of the year”, and gray is everywhere these days. But the basics of all color we see are primary colors: Red, Blue and Yellow.

This gathering of glass vessels has been in flux on the mantle in our Calder family room  for a number of years (see ericas-heirloom-treasures/calders-rewarding-circus). I did not have a “vision” of any type, simply would pick up interesting hand-made glass when I came across them at estate sales or thrift stores. I only just realized I had collected primary colors! With a lot of circles thrown in, all of which directly reflect the Calder work.

The wonderful red-orange jar was found at an estate sale years ago. Its color and shape are a great compliment to the orange-red circles in the Calder lithograph. The piece is a three-sided vessel, with a distinct circle indent on each face, a helpful means to hold the piece when pouring. I hadn’t researched the work as I didn’t think I could discover much about a vintage glass vessel. How Google Image Search has changed that!

The piece is a Blenko art glass decanter from the 1950s. Blenko Glass is an American art glass company started in 1893 in West Virginia, and is still in existence (1). This piece was designed by their first “resident designer”, Winslow Anderson (1917-2007). He began a residency at Blenko right out of college in 1946, though it is unclear when this piece was designed. It is described as having a “trefoil top” and both the jar and the glass stopper are hand-blown.

How to tell if a glass piece is “hand blown”? The most obvious is to feel for a “pontil” mark on the bottom of the work. This is a small ring-shaped divot in the middle of the base, which can be felt by running a finger across it. This comes about due to the artist using a long metal pipe, with a thin layer of glass on the end, to handle the hot glass during the shaping process. “This handle will often leave on a small amount of glass when separated from the hand-blown glass. The pontil mark confirms that the glass is blown by hand. However, this mark can be polished away to hide the irregularity” (2). A pontil is a term from Italian pontello  or ‘small point’, a diminutive of the word punto – point or spot.

The term “trefoil” is also a Latin-derived term, relating to Christian symbolism. It is a “pattern of three interlocking circles that was used as symbol in church architecture…A trefoil is meant to represent the Holy Trinity” (3). (As a complete aside, I find it cosmically ironic that the trefoil symbol “evolved into the radioactive symbol and biohazard symbol…that represent hazardous material” (3))

The other two vessels are more recent thrift store finds. Both have pontil marks and were hand-blown, but very little other information was forthcoming. The blue is a cobalt blue satin glass, made circa 1940. The piece has a charming ruffled top, sweet dimpled curves and adorable blown-glass ball stopper. I feel like I’m describing a grandchild, but Google described it as a “cruet”. My curiosity got the better of me, and off I went to research (etymology, for anyone wondering, is the study of the origin of words and the way in which their meaning has changed through history). “Cruet” is also a religious word, deriving from German “kruche” or pitcher, and originally referred to the vessel used to hold wine during a Catholic service. Now we understand it to be a bottle, with a stopper, for serving liquid condiment during meals. This particular cruet is simply on display, no salad dressing in sight. And the rich blue is an exact match to the blue “tent” lines on the Calder.

The gold decanter (missing its stopper) is a very 1960s design, and makes me think of a childhood television series “I Dream of Jeannie”. In retrospect, that show is a bit disturbing, but as a 1960s child, it seemed magical. The “I Dream of Jeannie” bottle, however, was a 1964 Jim Beam “Christmas special” bottle filled with bourbon, and used as Jeannie’s home on the show. My gold decanter doesn’t look much like it, but its coloring, brass handle and wicker wrapped neck certainly feel very 1960s, and it creates yet more circles. These compliment the Calder’s large arching swath of yellow, which defines the circus ring.

I have a strong urge to move the 3 bottles around so that the red is on the left, with the yellow in the middle and blue on the right. This reflects my ocd focus on “roygbiv”, or the order of the colors of the rainbow (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet). But these particular glass vessels are rather stubborn, and make it quite clear they look better aligned by shape. The weight of the largest, red, vessel on the outside anchors them, with a triangular slant downward toward the lighter, yellow glass. The yellow compliments the antique frame of the large oil painting is rests against, and all those circles create a pleasing softness, offering a bit of a reprieve for your eye, even as you continue to argue they’re in the wrong order.

(1)         https://blenko.com/pages/blenko-history

(2)         https://www.dickinsonglass.com/blog/hand-blown-glass

(3)         https://study.com/academy/lesson/trefoil

Sargent In The Park

This artwork was at my local thrift shop for $35. It is large – measuring 24” x 32”, and nicely framed. I really had no idea where I would hang it, but it spoke to me of the New York City of my childhood. It ended up in our basement stairwell, which actually makes more sense than you might think. The tan walls, black stairs and tunnel-like space suited the artwork, causing a moment’s pause as I head down to the basement.

So, what about this piece made me pause? Really, the picture itself somehow makes you pause. It drags you back into a past world, creating an atmosphere of somber majesty, with an undertone of nervousness. The soaring trees, overwhelming the walkers? The imposing, but obscure, building looming in the background? The gray tones? Or the trees, casting reflections on sidewalks that somehow feel a tad sinister – like skeletal hands stretching across the plane of the artwork? All that, but also no phones in hands, no strollers, or electric scooters or roller blades. There is only feet, and hands and a sense of ages gone by.

A photographer friend suggested that laying a glass framed artwork on the ground and shooting a picture of it from above was a way to avoid the glares and reflections the glass can create. Having done this (success!), I was not optimistic about learning anything, as the artwork has no visible signature or date. But Google Image search had no trouble! The work is a lithograph, dated 1980 by Harold Altman (1923-2003). 

While I had no discernible way of knowing, my instincts said the work was of Central Park in New York City, likely in the 1980s. Turns out I was completely correct! Altman was a well-known NYC artist, with many pieces owned by The Whitney, Museum of Modern Art and Brooklyn Museum among others. He is famous for his 1980s lithographs of Central Park, though later he did work in Paris parks as well. While he was a prolific artist, he spent a great deal of time working in lithography. There is a website dedicated to his work and it describes his lithographic process:

“Lithography is a method of printmaking based on the opposition of oil and water. In lithography, a design is drawn with a greasy crayon on a thick slab of polished limestone... It is then fixed — or prevented from spreading — by applying a chemical mixture of gum and nitric acid. The surface of the stone is then thoroughly dampened, since the key principle behind a lithograph is the natural antipathy of grease and water. When ink is rolled over the dampened stone, it attaches itself only to the greasy areas of the design. When a piece of paper is pressed against the stone, the ink on the greasy parts is transferred to it. To create a color lithograph, a separate stone is used for each color and must be printed separately.” (https://www.haroldaltman.com/) I find such trivia fascinating.

While I visited NYC quite a lot in high school and college, with different sisters in very different times in my life, I also spent time there as a young girl. Mom would put me on a train alone – mind you I might have been 10 – to head into Grand Central Station in Manhattan to meet my mother’s college friend HJS. HJS had been widowed after only 8 years of marriage, and lived on the upper west side in a large, stately apartment overlooking Central Park. She would bring her daughter “L” and me to incredible NYC experiences in the 1970s. I recall Hello Dolly with Carol Channing. Art exhibits, including Calder. Dinner at unusual restaurants or friend’s homes. The family had a boxer name Sargent, and the idea of having such a dog in an elevatored building in the heart of the City seemed odd to a suburban girl with a big yard. The dog, however, was lovely, and in fact had been awarded an honor from the City because it defended L from a wild dog attack in Central Park.

The part of this meandering that springs from the artwork is the association of these visits with Central Park. The apartment looked over the park, and L and I would often go out to play nearby, dog in tow. We would scamper around the park’s paved paths, and play in an old metal playground situated beneath the apartment’s window. While the park may have been perfectly safe, I suspect, in mid to late 1970s this might not have been the case. There was a sense of danger, so while the area was lovely, I was always slightly on guard. Knowing their dog had to save the daughter from a crazed dog didn’t help my comfort level. But the lithograph speaks to that childhood sense of awe and majesty, with a serious case of danger lurking like a gray mist.