O Radio Days

The time I am remembering.....

I was a young wife . . .  very young by today's standards. . . a stay-at-home mom with two children under the age of three.

We'd just purchased our first home in a tiny village in that little corner of the world where Vermont, New Hampshire and Massachusetts sort-of-meet. A mere 300 souls inhabited that quiet village whose life centered around the village green which included a past-its-prime-country inn, the town hall, a general store, post office and library (only opened on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons).

The house had been occupied by the same family for a quarter century and was always called, "the Anderson house" -- even after the Anderson's were gone and we were paying the mortgage, re-roofing, and gardening there. It was a large house; we had little money and were grateful to relatives who offered furniture from their attics which I stripped, sanded, painted, stained and recovered. And so we created a home with an interesting, if eclectic mix of styles that we loved.  Our rooms always brought smiles to the faces of visitors.

Many of our possessions came from the home of a family friend who had lived in the same house all her married life. The home was at the end of a short, narrow lane, a small cottage style house with seven rooms, two large porches front and back, a wonderful grape arbor, pear and apple trees, French lilacs and the tiniest tiniest garage you can imagine. The husband died first; they had no children; the widow became frail and forgetful. The only relative, a New York city cousin arranged for her to live in a nursing home and asked us to house-sit (but that is another story for another day!).

Later when we purchased this house in the little village 50 miles away, they offered the contents of the house to us. That house was packed with the stuff and things of their long life together: Mission and Stickley. Lots of the heavy, ornate oak. The dining room table was claw footed with a matching glass fronted tall chest and buffet typical of the 20s and 30s. Tall, Victorian pressed-back chairs that I fondly called 'vickie chairs'.  We accepted their offer.

Among the furniture given to us was a tall floor-model tube radio from the mid-1930s. It was in pristine condition, it's cabinetry was smooth and glistening without a scratch or a dent. The original purchase papers were folded into an envelope and tucked into the back.  And, wonder of wonders, it played. And so this radio, along with other treasures from the house moved with us to our new house in the tiny village.

The tall radio stood proudly in our house and was often a topic of conversation ~~~ which was, really, all we ever asked of it.

But one day a friend and neighbor who had moved to the village about the same time as we came by for a visit and coffee.  I am certain she had seen the radio before but I doubt she'd ever commented on it.  On this day, however, she asked:

Oh! Does it still play all the old radio programs!

Pleasant memories....

redux....

republished

A Wooly Wedding?

Isn't this great!

The bride wore a wedding gown
made of wool from sheep she raised herself.

This photo ran in the Daily Mail (UK) but I found it surfing the web.  Love it!

Memories

My grandparents lived on the first floor of a neat triple-decker with wide porches and large back garden.

He was Noe Pierre Valois; she was Medora Bond; I think they were a handsome couple. Both were born in central Massachusetts: he in Worcester, she in Holden but they were raised in Leominster and made their home there. Noe's father owned a meat market; Dora's father was a barber.

The Valois family fancied themselves quite 'above' the Bonds: they came to the US directly from France while the Bonds came from Canada.  My recollection is that Noe was rather dour;  Dora on the other hand was extroverted and fun-loving; she loved people, parties and dancing. She loved to laugh. Noe was disabled from mustard gas in the First World War and lived most of his life in and out of hospitals; he was only 58 when he died. Dora was essentially the wage earner as the government did not provide disability compensation for WWI veteran's until the late 1930s.  She lived until mid-way through her eighth decade. 

Their house on Spruce Street was in a neighborhood called, "French Hill", one of several villages that dotted Leominster. By the way, the town is not pronounced: Lem-stah as in the English market town that is its namesake. It is not pronounced: Lee-o-min-ster as the uninitiated want to say. No, it is Lem-in-ster.
French Hill was populated by French-Canadians who came seeking work in the comb and shirt factories there. They proved to be hard and steady workers capable of keeping up with 12-hour work days, 6 days a week and able built new lives for themselves and their families.

Their social life, family and work life was centered in neighborhood.
More specifically around the church. My grandparents home on Spruce Street was only a short walk to Mechanic Street where St. Cecilia's church, school, convent and rectory stood. It was also walking distance to Cluet & Peobody on Water Street where my grandmother sewed men's shirts for the Arrow Shirt Company. In this house on Spruce Street, they raised three sons, Robert, my father and Norman and Richard. This was also the house that sheltered my mother and I during the war years. And, they were still in that house in 1954 when my grandfather died.

My memories of their 'parlor' or 'front room' are dim.  I don't think I ever sat in there and suppose it was saved for some 'state' occasions but what those might have been eludes me. This room was separated by pocket doors from a sitting room that doubled as an office for my grandfather. Here my memories are more vivid. My grandparents had two "easy" chairs in this sitting room, for reading and watching their floor model TV with its tiny screen. By my grandmother's chair was her crochet bag with the current pattern, yarn and needles. From this barkcloth bag emerged socks, mittens, hats, afgans and scarves with a ferocious regularity. Later, her hands deformed from arthritis, she continued to crochet, saying she could not stop, would not stop crocheting for fear of her hands crippling.

Of paperdolls & losses. On the floor by my grandfather's chair was a mahogany-colored basket. It was always there and held an ever-growing collection of Betsy McCall paperdolls that he meticulouly cut for me from the Sunday paper; I loved him for this and so much more.
I loved Betsy McCall; her pretty clothes and accessories always gave me something new to play with when we visited during the week.  

Often I wondered what became of that mahogony-colored basket and my paperdoll collection. I was after all only 10 when he died. But I have no recollection of them after his death. 

My grandmother did not stay long in that apartment after his death even tho' it had been her home for nearly a quarter century; perhaps she moved in haste. Perhaps her married sons and daughters-in-law who helped her move to a tiny place were unaware of the real value of those paper dolls......of how precious they were to me.

My grandmother's jewels. I was often invited to spend the night with my grandmother while she lived on Spruce Street. I loved snuggling down in her great and cozy bed. I loved waking to the sound of her slippers - her 'chausettes' - glide across the floor while she moved about the kitchen preparing breakfast. She always gave me hot cocoa and a 'folded-over' toasted marshmallow sandwich---for which there was no equal in my life!


Her jewelry box was filled with costume baubles and a few pieces of 'good' jewelry. It never ceased to beguile me and I would ask if I could 'clean' her jewelry box which was my way of asking for stories. She allowed me to empty the contents of the box and told me stories about who gave her those earings or that bracelet, or on what occasion a certain piece was worn. In that box was a lovely saphire ring that she always said would be mine 'some day'. I don't know where my ring got to........or who has it.


Ice cream cones and cotton candy.
Their house was three or four doors from the corner on which stood Giguere's Drug Store. In my child's eye, it was a large place, semi-dark, deep, cavernous and always cool . It had a very distinctive smell -- clean but pungent with a hint of chemical. A trip to Giguere's Drug with a nickel to spend was a glorious and grown-up event to purchase a vanilla ice cream cone.


My grandmother's little black book was for recording every expenditure: a nickel for this; a few cents for that. She loved ice cream. And she smoked. The little black book kept on shelf over the stove was meant to note each of these innocent purchases.  I'm not sure whether I remember this or if it was told to me later but this accounting for such small daily purchases was not a task invented by Medora. No. My grandmother would never have dreamed up such a task for herself. Although she was the main wage earner, she handed over her weekly wages to my grandfather. He made all the decisions about what to spend,how much to save. It was he who demanded she account for every penny. Others have called Noe controlling; I don't know this from personal experience. But I do remember the following story of .......

A 1949 Plymouth of which they were quite proud. They purchased it new for $1300 and it was always kept in pristine cleanliness inside and out. I recall its interior: a 'picky' woolly gray upholstery that was wicked to sit upon on a hot summer's day.

Well, the event I am about to share happened on a particular summer day when my grandfather invited me out for a ride to the nearby amusement park. We were to travel by car, his Plymouth. I remember it so clearly and suspect it was a rare and unusual event as he was unwell most of the time. Perhaps on this day he felt strong and happy and generous. Perhaps he just wanted to offer his first grandchild and only granddaughter a summer treat. Whatever the motivation, when we got to the Park, he offered me a cotton candy.

Cotton candy!

He presented me with the great-gooey-sweetness-on-a-paper-cone.

Ahhhhh. I sat in the back seat planning to savor the sensation of sugar melting on my tongue. What happened next is not clear in details. But I do know that somehow I got cotton candy all over his spotlessly clean picky gray back seat upholstery.  Now, I don't recall his words but I do remember his displeasure. His impatience and frustration. Sadly, he probably only had energy for the ride and loved the idea of a treat but was unprepared for the clumsiness of a 6 year old over-excited little girl.

Veteran's Hospitals
My grandfather was not an every-day part of my life. He was wounded in the first world war and spent the remainder of his life disabled from mustard gas and was often in veteran's hospitals for weeks and months at a time. A typical Sunday for my father, mother, grandmother, brother and I was to visit him in whichever Massachusetts VA hospital he was in at the time. The trip usually involved Sunday dinner in a restaurant. My parents tried diligently to make these trips fun for brother and I by planning to stop at historical sites -- Bunker Hill Monument; Old Ironsides; and other important places.

Then he was gone
The phone ringing. A lot of late night activity in the house. My father sitting on the last step of the stairs leading to the second floor of our house on Vine Street. Head in hands, my father is weeping. It's frightening; I've never seen him cry. I learn my grandfather has died. He was only 58 years old.  

Amazing to me now as I am 7 years older today than he was when he died.  And he seemed so old to me then. 

I wasn't allowed to say goodbye; I was "protected" from the rituals of death. 
I don't have a clear last memory of him.

Memories...redux......

republished from an old blog....

November just does that.....

Wise women celebrate

I like spring, but it is too young. 

I like summer, but it is too proud. 

So I like best of all autumn, 

because its tone is mellower, 

its colours are richer,

and it is tinged with a little sorrow. 

Its golden richness speaks not of the innocence of spring, 

nor the power of summer, but of the mellowness 

and kindly wisdom of approaching age. 

It knows the limitations of life and is content."

Lin Yutang

after the heat of summer,

cool bright autumn

after the passion of youth, 

cool, quiet wisdom

november

wise women

celebrate the crone

Watching

the moon

at dawn

solitary,

mid-sky

I knew myself
completely
no
part
left
out

images uploaded by PatStudio from an original altered book entitled,
Singing With A Full Voice, 2006,
celebrating the ages of women

 

A sense of endings

"On a smoke gray afternoon 

in October, 

we sat on the porch, 

wrapped in sweaters 

against the stiff little wind 

out of the east. 

Soon it would bring rain; 

you could smell it coming, 

and there would be a big wind, 

because it was born in the east 

where all the changes get started. 

It would be the end of the lingering, 

muted colors  

and probably the end of the long sweet fall. 

Already we lit the fire earlier, 

and came in out of the purpling twilight 

ready for heat and drinks and hot food. 

But on this afternoon, 

the sense of endings was powerful, 

and we shivered on the porch longer than we might have otherwise."

 

Islands

Ann Rivers Siddons

2004

my love is for lightness.....

 I have been younger in October
than in all the months of spring
walnut and may leaves the color
of shoulders at the end of summer
a month that has been to the mountain
and become light there
the long grass lies pointing uphill
even in death for a reason
that none of us knows
and the wren laughs in the early shade now
come again shining glance in your good time
naked air late morning
my love is for lightness
of touch 

foot feather
the day is yet one more yellow leaf
and without turning 

I kiss the light
by an old well on the last of the month
gathering wild rose hips
in the sun."

W. S. Merwin,   

The Love of October

NH Open Doors

Yes, Virginia, it is autumn in V------

New England.

 

 

cold and damp and getting ready to rain

me thinks

"It's a marvelous day.....for......"

 just about anything indoors like

a cozy fire and a good book

with a cuppa tea

(think i'll use the last of my mint)

but right now i'm in the studio

where i'm excitedly getting ready for Open Studios on November 7

if you're in the area stop by to us at

artstream studios

Rochester NH

What I did . . . . you wont' believe!

For years  when I had a pretty long commute to work, national public radio was my salvation.

It kept me focused on the early morning drives and for the evening return trips.  And, hey, it also gave me lots of conversational fodder for when I wasn't alone in the car.  When I could say with certainty, "Well I heard on NPR.......yadda yadda yadda.......".

Of course, I had my favorite broadcasters  --  people who became almost friends as I drove and listened, smiled in agreement, or shook my head in disbelief.   Among those favorites was --  well, I almost hesitate to say this  -- Bill Littlefield.

Bill Littlefield, you say shaking your head.

But ....but ....

Isn't he all about sports???

"Oh my god, 
is she going to turn this rather nice 
artsy, craftsy blog into a sports rant!" 
  

And just who is this Bill Littlefield anyway, you rightly ask?  Well, he's been on National Public Radio since 1993.  He teaches creative writing at Curry College in Massachusetts where he is writer-in-residence and is the author of several books which I haven't read; they are about sports.  What I like about listening Bill Littlefield on radio is that he talks about sports but in a different way than the heavy testosterone guys who present sports like it is really important to the culture and the fate of the planet.  And what's more he's funny.  Smart.  And, sensitve.  (I don't know if he's a "sensitive new age guy" or not.  He could be.)  And he has politically liberal leanings. Here's what the Boston Globe had to say about him.

“Littlefield isn’t merely a voice of sanity in the overly critical, overly hyped world of sports, he’s also a fine writer whose wry essays explore the pains and pleasures of fandom, the perseverance of great athletes in lesser-known sports like women’s ice hockey, and the intersection of sports and family. Littlefield blends a love of sports with a healthy perspective, a yearning to look at sports as one part of a life, but not the only part. . . . The author’s love of sports is abundant, but it’s an adult kind of love. In his final essay, Littlefield lyrically explains why sports are so beloved: ‘It is for the temporary connection to beauty that the game offers: the beauty of the perfect move, selected and executed for its own sake; the joy of the marriage of talent and skills developed from hard practice. It’s an image that celebrates life.’ Only a Game does the same.”

And anyway, I happen to think that Bill Littlefield is the non-sporting/thinking-woman's sports broadcaster.  I suppose I like Only A Game because I don't really need to know anything about sports.

And I don't.
Nothing.
Nada.
And, frankly, that's OK with me.  I like it that way ....... really I do.

But.

When I heard that Bill Littlefield was speaking in Portsmouth I had to go.  And I did.  Larry and I ate dinner out at one of our favorite Indian restaurants and then headed over to meet and listen to my commuting - radio - favorite. 

I liked him just as much in person as I expected to.

But I still don't know anything about sports.

A sky of stars flung down as daisies

 Late Mowing

Neighbors have come to mow my ragged field,

And three old horses bring the autumn home.

Now the blond waving grasses must come down,

And all the tasseled splendor has to yield.

Goodby to summer's feasts and variations:

Two months ago there burst into great praises.

White as enamel, in rich constellations,

A sky of stars flung down to earth as daisies.

When they went out, the fireflies were showing;

The green field pulsed with intermittent fire,

And the cats crept a jungle of desire

After these softest stars within the mowing.

Goodbye to ringing of the sumptuous changes --

To black-eyed Susans, paintbrushes and plantain,

Clear buttercups and cloudy asters, mullein.

Goodbye and praise to the high-summer ranges.

Now all those stars are altered in their course,

And the rich field cut back to rock and root;

My neighbors with three autumnal horses

Cut down the ghosts of summer with the fruit.

 

Winter, be gentle to the earth you keep,

To buried root and all that creeps and flies,

While overhead your dazzling daisy skies

Flower in the cold, bright mowing that will keep.

May Sarton,  As Does New Hampshire

Around my garden and neighborhood

It is a lovely day here on the southern coast of Maine.

Clear blue cloudless skies.

Afternoon temps around 60 (by my sunny back door, anyway).

Today, I poached a lovely basket of native quince that we buy from a farmer in North Hampton.

The quince will go into the freezer for my favorite Quince and Almond Cake.

Also, made Apple Mint Salsa with the last of the mint that grows out back.

This is a first try with this recipe that is reported to be great with lamb.  I am thinking of a black bean soup this week and this should be fabulous!

2 small apples, chopped

1/4 cup chopped mint

1/2 cup chopped red onion

1/2 cup chopped red bell pepper

2 tsps jalapeno pepper

1/2 cup fresh lime juice

Mix ingredients, chill and serve.

(I have to say how much I am delighting in feeling healthy and strong today after a week of not feeling well.)

Larry has been buttoning up the garden on these nice days

 raking mountains of leaves

digging up gladiolus bulbs for drying in the basement

stowing patio furniture 

battening down for cold weather

we've had our last tomato

and final cucumber and eggplant from the garden

the tomatillos did nada this year anyway

and there is no more fresh corn to be had.

Although I have tried hard to deny it:

we are well in autumn