Tea with a dash of coincidence

My friend Lynn invited me to go with her for lunch on Saturday to The Clipper Merchant Tea House in Limerick.

Lynn had been there for the first time a few weeks ago, wanted to go back, and knew I'd enjoy it, too.

So on Saturday we drove to Limerick, about 15 minutes from here.

I was infatuated with the tea house immediately. It was obvious someone has put much love into furnishing and decorating the place, not to mention into serving delicious teas and luncheons.

Each tea room has a theme; we chose the China Room, which is decorated with many souvenirs from China. The waitress explained that the tea house owners had adopted their daughter from China several years ago, and these are the items they brought home from their journey to get their daughter.

The Custom House Room is the largest dining area with a table to seat several guests.

I wanted to check out The Scottish Thistle Room more caefully, but the tables were full with guests, so I didn't dare disturb them.

Lynn and I enjoyed our lunch and oohed and ahhed over the interesting details of the various rooms.

When I got home, I decided to check to see if The Clipper Merchant has a website. It does, as you can see if you click the link in my first paragraph.

I read about the house, the rooms, the teas, etc., and gradually began putting two and two together.

The tea house owner, Heather, used to live in my hometown when her father was a minister there. This was back when I was 8 or so and Heather was only 4.

My family attended the First Congregational Church, with Reverend Smith as our pastor. I, along with my sister, used to babysit the Smith children.

Then the Smiths moved to Chatham, Massachusetts, and we essentially lost touch with them.

About seven or eight years ago, while I was still teaching, one of my freshman boys handed me a note after class one day. It was from Heather. She said she was now living in Limerick, Maine, and would love to hear from me.

I don't remember why I didn't succeed in contacting her. I know I dialed her number several evenings in a row, without luck. I probably gave up. So I'd more or less forgotten that Heather lived in Limerick. As of this past Saturday, I didn't know that she still lives there and is the owner, with her husband, of the lovely Clipper Merchant Tea House. If I'd realized this while being at the tea house, I'd have asked to speak with Heather. I've since e-mailed her and received a speedy reply. She said she feels "an alignment of the planets or something" has put us back into contact with one another.

I'd always wondered how Heather knew where I was teaching, back when my student brought me that note from her. I think the mystery has been solved: Heather mentioned in her e-mail that she took her mother to my hometown, to visit my mother, about ten years ago. My mother never mentioned this visit to me, but I suspect that during the visit, she told Heather where I was teaching.

What totally astounds me, though, is that Heather mentioned she'll be 60 in October. Sixty? SIXTY??

(The elaborate bird house in my header photo sits in Heather's garden.)

Project

Why do I volunteer to take on projects that I know little about?

The Maine state chapter of Alpha Delta Kappa needs a new banner, because our current one is very old and very tired.

The "Banner Committee" looked into having one professionally made, but the price would be around $400...for a 30" X 40" banner. We don't have that kind of money, and a professionally-made one might end up slick and not "us."

So after some soul-searching, I've volunteered to make our new state banner. I know. I know. I've created this situation all by myself.

I know I can handle the piecing and the quilting; it's the designing that is putting me over the edge. I'm not a designer of anything.

This morning I made a paper template of the banner and began fooling around with layout and design.

I know I want Portland Head Light to appear on the banner, because if Maine has a signature at all, it is definitely Portland Head Light. Also, I've discovered that there are two books of appliqué patterns featuring New England lighthouses, and Portland Head Light in in both books. I've ordered one of them from eBay and am hoping it'll arrive soon. I'm also hoping the appliqué design for the lighthouse will be quite simple, because I'm not into fiddling around with millions of tiny pieces of fabric.
So Portland Head Light will, if all goes according to plan, be appliqued in the upper right or lower left section of the banner. "Maine A∆K" will run kitty-corner across the banner, from upper left to lower right.

But what should appear in the other major section? I've temporarily stuck a cut-out of the state map there, but that's not what I really want. What I really want is a chickadee, which should be easy enough to applique because it's quite a basic, no-frills bird (and our state bird), but I haven't found an applique pattern for one yet and I'm not capable of drawing a chickadee. I'm not capable of drawing anything except, maybe, a stick chickadee, which would turn the banner into a giant cartoon.

And then there are the violets. A∆K's flower is the violet, so violets must appear on the banner.

I think I'll let this project sit for awhile as ideas come and go. If you have ideas to offer, please send them my way.

Out and about

We took a spin in the jitney today, probably our last until warm weather arrives next spring.

This is the 1915 Model T speedster which Ken built from scratch over the past couple of years.

She purred like a kitten today. I think she enjoyed being out on the road and showing her stuff.

Ken began collecting the parts for this auto before I'd even met him. In fact, this steering wheel was part of Ken's living room "decor" when we first started dating.

I was not impressed to see a steering wheel mounted on a wall, but now that I've finally come to understand what this Model T means to Ken, I understand why he proudly displayed it in that fashion forty years ago.

As you can see by our feet, there isn't much room in the front seat of a "T."

If the speedometer just above my feet were totally visible, you might be impressed that it reads "30 mph." The truth is, though, that the speedometer reads 30 mph even when the T is standing still. In other words, the speedometer is there for looks only.

We drove through the countryside of Limerick and came to a field full of ripe pumpkins. When we retraced our route to come back home, the field was full of parents and little children, out to select the perfect pumpkin.

We drove to the top of Horac Mountain in Limerick. I'd never heard of this mountain before, although I'd seen it plenty of times. The view was spectacular, even on a lowery day like today. (I can't find "lowery" in the dictionary, but in this area we use it to mean a day of low-hanging clouds.)

It was a good little excursion. Windy, but good. I do wish the T had a windshield. My eyeballs feel totally dried out.

Finished, or nearly finished, projects

I'm still knitting.

I haven't done an update on my knitting projects lately, and I have no good excuse.

First, though, I want to share the crib quilt I'm making for a friend's grandchild. I used to make crib quilts and do meticulous, unbelievably time-consuming hand quilting. Recently, I've come to my senses. Why spend so much time on a project that will probably be dragged around the house or fed to the dog?

So I'm machine-quilting this one. But I'm discovering that machine-quilting isn't particularly fun. I asked for a new sewing machine 2-3 years ago because my trusty old Kenmore, vintage 1973, cannot be fitted with a quilting foot.

Santa Claus came through, as he always does, and brought me a new Kenmore. It's not half the machine of my old Kenmore, though. Its parts are mostly plastic, it sounds like a car badly in need of a tune-up, and it's so unfamiliar to me that I use it with the directions book open at all times.

I subscribe to the Craftzine blog, and at the end of August this project was featured. It looked simple enough, and heaven knows I have enough leftover fabric scraps on hand to make dozens of quilts, so I set to work. I have the quilt about half quilted but have hit a road block because the sewing machine is acting up. I haven't taken the time to try to figure out the source of the problem, but I need to do that soon because I hate having half-finished projects lying around. (I'm putting a flannel backing on the quilt, thinking that will make it just that much cozier for the recipient.)

Now back to my knitting.

I finished the Mondo Cable Pulli in late July. It came out quite well, but there's a slight glitch on the neck edging, which is the first thing I see when I look at the sweater. I need to take out a few stitches and try to re-do that spot, I know. Or wear the sweater only with wide, wide collars. One or the other. Maybe an Elizabethan collar will do the trick. My dog hates the darn things, though, so probably I would, too.

In mid-August I was getting tired of the monotony of knitting my first full-sized afghan (see below), so I decided to knit a Girl's Ballerina Kimono for a certain little ballerina I know. Then I found out the ballerina is now a former ballerina, as she has opted not to pursue ballet this year.

Now for the afghan. I took photos of our living room rug to Kaleidoscope Yarns in Essex Jct., VT, at the end of July. A kind and creative sales clerk spent a good deal of time helping me select yarn colors to match various colors in the rug.

I came back home, started knitting, and soon realized I hated the afghan pattern I'd chosen. Too many yarn-color changes, too often. Too many loose ends to weave in.

So I switched to this pattern, which still has many yarn changes but not as frequently.

I can't say I'm wildly in love with the finished product, but it's finished, and it'll be warm to snuggle under, with the wood stove doing its part, when I take my afternoon naps this winter.

Finally, there's these socks.
I started them while in China in May, knit feverishly each day and on the flight home,...then set them aside.

I had every intention of finishing them during the ride to Vermont (see above) in late July, but soon discovered an error in the heel and raveled out several rows. Yesterday I decided to face the inevitable, raveled back several more rows, picked up the 60 stitches, and am back on track. I've successfully turned the heel this morning, so the rest of the sock should be smooth sailing. Or maybe it won't, since I've just predicted it will. Whatever. These socks will be finished at some point, darn it.

First job

The Today show has been doing a series this week on the first jobs of Matt, Meredith, Al, and Ann. Matt delivered newspapers on his bike, Meredith taught dance classes (I think; I saw only a brief promo for this and missed the actual segment), Al worked in a grocery store, and Ann babysat.

My first job was picking beans. My father grew green beans for the cannery, so of course we kids were delegated to do the picking. A few "town kids" also picked beans on our farm.

I probably started picking beans when I was around eight. At first the job was fun: I got to hang around with older kids from town and eavesdrop on their conversations, and once I even got to have half of one older girl's cucumber sandwich when we stopped for lunch. I was thrilled. I'd never had a cucumber sandwich before, and to think an older girl offered it to me! I was awestruck.

To pick beans, the picker moved down a long row, usually on her knees, pushing a large wicker basket ahead of her. Once the bag was full of fresh beans, she dumped the contents into a large burlap bag. This bag was used only by her; each picker worked with his or her own bags, tagged with his or her name when full, and helped load them into the truck to be taken to a nearby town to be weighed. That's where it was determined how much each picker had picked in a given day, and how much, therefore, each picker had earned.

I recall sneaking a few leaves into the basket occasionally, thinking the added weight of the leaves might make my bag of green beans heavier and, thus, earning me more money. I also recall eating more than my share of raw beans. If you've never eaten an uncooked green bean, you've missed something. Green beans are sweet, crisp, and delicious.

Scooting down a row of beans was not easy. We worked in the hot sun, and we worked all day. I remember the time I scooted ahead on my row and planted a knee right square on a bumble bee. I probably ran crying through the rows of beans to our house and my mother.

In the late afternoon the bean picking would end, the bags of beans would be loaded into the truck, and my father or a brother would drive the truck to the bean weighing station. I usually rode along, too, because I was excited to learn how much cold, hard cash I'd earned on a given day.

Usually my earnings were between $1.60 and $1.80.

For a full day of hard work.

In the hot sun.

But I was happy. $1.60 to $1.80 seemed like big bucks to me in the 1950's. I saved my money for my fall school clothes and school supplies.

That's how it was done back then. And picking beans surely must have been easier than picking potatoes, which is how kids in northern Maine earned their spending money.

My next job was babysitting. That's a story for another time.

Got back my gardening mojo!

I've hardly dared comment on my vegetable garden this summer for fear the slightest little boast would put a hex on it. Let's face it, last summer's miserable gardening results left me shaken and bereft of gardening confidence.

In June I planted timidly. I didn't bother plant many of our favorites, such as swiss chard and radishes, thinking they probably wouldn't come up anyway. I planted fewer tomato plants than usual; ditto with the green pepper plants.

It's taken me a long while to get back to the confident gardener I used to be, but I'm almost there.

I'm so almost there that I'm going to take a brave step and show you some of my garden produce from the past few days.

My garden is such a happening place that I've been canning tomatoes left and right, using lots of green peppers in making huge batches of dynamites, freezing chopped summer squash and zucchini to sneak into soups and stews this winter, and just plain glorying in the sight of a morning's trip to the garden as it's displayed on my kitchen counter.

Dynamites minus the final step: the meatballs. I made this batch last Saturday, photographing as I moved along. But then friends dropped in, we invited them to stay for supper, and I couldn't bring myself to let them see me photographing the dynamites once the meatballs were added.

So imagine two dozen meatballs nestled in amongst the celery, green peppers, onions, and tomato soup.

As you can see, my vegetables are as happy as I am. I caught a few of them forming this happy face on my counter this morning. Little rascals that they are.

Now there's talk of a possible visit from Hurricane Earl. That could devastate the dozens of tomatoes still in my garden, so if the hurricane appears imminent, I'll just go out and pick them all, bring 'em inside, and let them finish ripening here.

Sisters

My sister Roberta and I, who are only 18 months apart in age, were lucky to have an older sister, Shirley, as we were growing up.

Shirley is 15 years old than I (and almost 13 years older than Roberta).

I've only recently begun to realize and appreciate the kind and thoughtful "second mother" she was to her two little sisters.

I didn't realize it was Shirley, not Santa or my parents, who brought me my beloved doll one Christmas, or my "ox blood red" shoes with zipper closure another Christmas. Once I was old enough to understand the truth about Santa, I assumed it was my parents who'd given me these gifts. Shirley's an extremely self-effacing person who would never brag to others about her motherly acts, so it was only recently that she confessed to me that she'd placed these gifts under our tree.

I met Shirley for lunch one day this past week. We don't get together often enough, and there's no excuse for it. We live only two hours apart, so it wouldn't hurt me to make more of an effort to see her more regularly.

As we sat down to eat at the Freeport restaurant, Shirley handed me one of her photo albums from the 1950's. She told me to go through it and take out any photos I wanted to take back home with me to scan.

I've been having fun looking at these photos and remembering the long-ago days of my childhood on a central Maine dairy farm.

Roberta and I liked to make "birds' nests" from newly-mown hay. Once our nests were nicely shaped, we'd climb into them and sit there. That was the extent of that particular game, I guess. I'm surprised that the itchy hay didn't drive us out of our nests, but I guess we were willing to sacrifice comfort for drama.

There were always baby animals of one description or another on our farm. Here's a photo of Roberta bottle-feeding a new lamb while I hold our puppy. I think the puppy might be our beloved dog Skippy, although Shirley's writing on the photo seems to say "Tippy." Maybe Skippy started off as Tippy.

My parents weren't wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but they funded piano lessons for Roberta and me for two or three years. How we both hated going to Mrs. Barnaby's for those lessons! Mrs. Barnaby was a crabby old lady who heckled us if we didn't know our lessons well. Each of us would be reduced to tears before the lessons ended, which would prompt Mrs. Barnaby to bribe us with a glass of orange juice before Dad arrived to drive us back home. I think she was trying to make us forget her ill treatment so we wouldn't tattle on her. Our piano lessons came to naught, I'm now sorry to say. If only I'd been able to tolerate Mrs. Barnaby long enough to learn to master the keyboard.

As I looked at this photo of Roberta and me at the piano bench, I was reminded of all the clothes Mum used to sew for us. The blouses and skirts we're wearing here were undoubtedly made by her. Anything "store bought" was a real luxury to us. I see we're also wearing the dreaded brown long stockings. We detested wearing the things, because none of our classmates had to wear them each winter. The stockings bagged and sagged and had to be held up with garter belts. It was a joyful day for us when tights came along.

This final photo shows Shirley holding us. I'm on the left, Roberta's on the right. I think it's a great symbol of the love and care which Shirley gave us. We weren't neglected by our parents or our three brothers, of course, but it was fun having an older sister to look out for us as well. We were two lucky little girls.