The Beauty of Remembering the Past

 

 

 

 I had a friend who lived down the street from me when I was in grade school. Her parents had an old travel trailer parked on the side of their house. It was great fun to use as a play house. It was never used for vacations or any sort of travel.  The years took their toll. The sun, rain and snow beat down on it turning it from a shiny silver to a dull grey. The girls in the neighborhood cooked up many imaginary meals and traveled thousands of miles on pretend trips. The door did no close properly and the benches around the table had torn upholstery. It definitely had seen better days and had not been loved.

Move forward to 2016 and you might see that poor neglected tin can in the modernism trailer show in Palm Springs. The first generation of small RVs has found new life through the clever hands of restorers. I find it interesting that so many people, myself included, are drawn to the things of the past. Is it because old is new to us and the nostalgia of a past we can only imagine peaks our curiosity? Perhaps, the past helps us make sense of the present.

The simple little camp trailers brought the post war generation of the 50's and 60's to the road and the travel bug and the desire to explore has continued on. Many of those first homes on wheels have been saved and lovingly restored even down to the dishes and period fabrics. Unique in their simplicity and functionality they are a curiosity. I find myself thinking of families that vacationed in these small units and how they opened up the world of travel.  Parents were able to show their children the  sights of the of the United States in an affordable and exciting way.

The oldest trailer at the show this year was a 1948 tear drop, which happens to be the year I was born.
The wood was polished and the bed covered in a simple cotton fabric. The basic of the basics, but a darling loved once again by an new generation. Today's road homes are without a doubt more livable, beautifully equipped and comfortable.  I have to explore the question--are they as charming and endearing. The answer lies with restorers who take their old ladies on the road and experience the past of trailer life. Ask them how they feel about traveling with the old, newly refurbished charmers and the answer is always the same--I love her. Fortunately, the old and the new can co-exist together and both find travel companions to continue the quest of travel and adventure on the road.

 

 

 

Small Pieces of Beauty

 

 

Small perfect pieces of beauty surround us and go unnoticed, perhaps we forget to look or we take them for granted. The orchid reaches perfection without shouting and drawing attention to itself. No hurry--no push--just a gentle, slow journey to completion. The end result is a bloom created in pastels;  pink, lavendar, and yellow. It has become a perfect flower.

Maybe perfection arrives as a rare day in January when the cold lifts and the sun shows its face to warm the air. Hope starts to spark and you know that winter will pass in its own time and patience settles in to wait for longer days.

The old farm left much as it started; sheds and out buildings storing history as keepers of the past. All reminding us what was and how far we have journeyed. To appreciate the present we must know the past. These simple things ground us in a world of turmoil. Looking out of ourselves and reveling in the  renewal of of our soul, we find a place to rest and find that perfect moment.

   

Fall Arrives on the Sly

Fall was sneaky this year. It arrived with very little fan fair. No early frost in September and muted colors mixed with temperatures in the 80's. October came in quietly and let September leave behind its warm weather.

The pumpkins and fall arrangement on the porch seemed out of place through the month of September. Only now, with the cool mornings are they finding their comfort spot. Petunias and geraniums still fill pots with bright colors and give the mistaken idea it is still summer.

Soon I will wake up one morning and find that frost has done its dirty work. Pots will have to be emptied and put away, leaves raked. The resting period will have begun, allowing the perennials to sleep so they can once again give their summer gifts.

Story of a Hope Chest

Stefanie called me asking for my opinion, which as mother of grown children I'm more than glad to share. "Would I be crazy to paint Grandma's cedar chest?" she asked. Grandma's chest is 70 years old and we lovingly call it 'the coffin.' Stef has tried to make it fit in with her décor and has been creative in trying to bring it from the 40's.

We discussed its integrity and the value the old chest may hold. Seventy barely meets the criteria of being an antique. It is simply old and not crafted by any well known furniture maker. Stefanie reached her own conclusion after a little bit of thought and shared her view about its true value. She said, "It has sentimental value to me because it was Grandma's and I'll never part with it. Painted or untouched the value remains the same and its true worth will not be compromised." I assume that in the near future I will get a call from my daughter and she will say, "Mom, check your text messages and tell me what you think."

Cedar chests are a part of history meant to hold hand embroidered pillowcases, crocheted dollies and quilts. All these collected items were meant to be saved  and used when a girl married. A cedar chest was also called a hope chest. I'm sure Grandma received her hope chest as a high school graduation present, which was a common gift in the 1940's. She most likely filled it with various home goods necessary to set up housekeeping and in the corners she tucked in a little bit of hope. Eventually the hope was fulfilled and the linens found a permanent home. With the passing of time things change. The carefully stored items were used and discarded and the chest was no longer needed.

It may be time to give this box a new life. There are no quilts to put in it, and the hope has been used. Perhaps, this relic from the 40's would appreciate a face lift and a place in the 21st century. Its true value will not be lessoned and paint might be the chance for a second life. Stefanie will love it even  more after she puts a little of herself into its renewal. The part of herself that will go toward making the cedar chest fit into her home will fill the empty spaces once occupied by hope and dreams of a young girl.

Across the Pond



The Royal Princess

This beauty took me took me to the British Isles. An adventure that will be hard to top. A special friend and I called the floating city home for twelve fantastic days. It is hard to pick just one spot to call a favorite. Ireland, Scotland, Isle of Guernsey, Wales and France each have something different to offer, but there is one commonality they share and that is a long, rich history.




Scotland---many buildings are older than USA

The small towns I find the most interesting and enticing. Its where you meet the people,  have conversations, share common interests, ask and answer questions, and find out how much we all have in common. No matter how far from home I venture I always find commonality and good in the people I meet. Never be afraid to ask questions. Most everyone I talk to too is interested in sharing information as well as gathering it. "Why does your Schnauzer have a tail?" I asked a man in Scotland. "It is against the law to dock tails here.  A rather ugly tail isn't it?" he replied. We both
laughed and moved on, me a little guilty for once having a Schnauzer with a docked tail.




Isle of Guernsey-- St.Peter Port 

There is always a side street to explore where you might find an old church with a tiny garden, a forgotten cemetery or house built a few centuries earlier and is a home for a 21st century family. The old is fascinating. My curious mind wonders who built the house on the hill, what were the people like who lived in the house.

A woman sitting at the table next to us in a Belfast pub was as interested in the two American women as we were about her. She wanted to know what our view of Belfast was. Her fear was the possibility of all the turmoil the city had experienced throughout the years had painted an ugly picture in the minds of visitors. We were quick to assure her our impression was just the opposite. Belfast is a lovely city with a calm easy sense of well being. It is a small city and does not have the intensity of Dublin. The people of Belfast are eager to let you know it is only a small portion of the population that choose to see the tensions continue.




peace wall Belfast Ireland

Through travel you see things with new eyes and expanded vision. What has only been a picture in a book turns to reality--becomes tangible; you feel as well as see. When you know some of your ancestry, all the books, stories and photos begin to live when you actually visit a place where family members lived. Part of my family came from Scotland. I most likely, will never know in what part of Scotland they lived, but the short visit was enough to satisfy my curiosity and complete my connection. I saw the green rolling hills and came home with a ball hat that says 'Scotland'.



Scotland on a not so clear day



A short trip into a corner of Wales

You always see a place the intrigues you. Vivian and I picked out houses that looked like a cozy warm home and  agreed that we could live there. Found too many houses and too many places. You can't have it all, but you can have a piece here and there. That is what this trip gave--pieces of adventures, postcard reality, gracious people and an expanded self awareness.




A little bit of the Irish




La Havre, France--Pure class

Travel gives back on a continual bases. Images pop up from your mental library uninvited and give you a special treat. You get to relive the experiences all over again. It is the gift that keeps on giving.

The Waiting Game

Summer is in full swing. The sunflowers shake their yellow heads in the warm wind, tomato plants are heavy with yet to ripen fruit. I have waited for the summer blooms that arrive in such a blaze of color. Along with the floral treats comes the realization that summer has passed its longest day.

The vegetable growers have also been playing the waiting game. The hot days and warm nights push their produce forward. Now is the time to enjoy the true fruits of their labor. The seeds planted in early spring survived the windy days and buffeting rains. Every summer the story is repeated. The seeds grow, the perennials come back and the cycle continues on. All that grows is once again giving back.

In a former life I tried to be a vegetable gardener. I planted the seeds and looked forward to having fresh vegetables. Along with this I planned on teaching my children about the positive aspects of growing our own food. I had been told or heard somewhere that a garden taught children about work, pride in that work and satisfaction when they picked and ate what that had grown. No so! I learned about the hard work because children whine when they are in the sun on their knees pulling weeds. Not only do they whine, but they have poor eyesight and cannot see the weeds. Children also waste large quantities of time doing nothing.

Gradually the garden began to shrink in size. Grass seeds replaced green beans, beets, carrots and the corn stalks became perennials. I have found more joy in picking flowers than beans. The flowers just sit on a table in a pretty vase and make me feel good. They don't scream at me to can them. I will be forever grateful to those individuals born with the gardening gene. Thankfully these hardy souls plant large gardens and find joy in the caring and nurturing of their gardens. Not only do they find joy in growing vegetables, they love to share them. I wait for their patches to give forth and hope that they have grown more than they will ever be able to eat.

Summer is a short season in which much happens. It is a period of waiting and watching. Everything about summer is good. I love the flowers and the gracious people who so willingly share their summer harvest with the lazy and inept.

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always a summer delight

I picked a large bunch of lilacs and brought them in the house. The bold scent filled the kitchen. I love the strong smell they emit. Lilacs stir childhood memories of the overgrown bushes in the backyard. They were never trimmed or cut back, but allowed to grow and send up shots from their roots. Always profuse bloomers, the blooms begged to be pick picked. My mother kept a vase of freshly picked blossoms on the kitchen table, replacing them as they wilted and dropped their purple flowers.

Mom and her sister worried about the lilacs blooming too early in May and not being bright and new for Memorial Day. They had to be part of the bouquets that were assembled to take to the cemetery. Iris, peonies and snow balls were packed into buckets along with the lilacs. The metal buckets were filled with water so the mason jars could be filled when the flowers were arranged in them. Coat hangers were an import part of the equipment because they were bent and inserted in the jars and  the opposite end was pushed into the ground to anchor the bottles.

Mom and Aunt Myrtle never missed a year even if the early blooming flowers were less than perfect. For them it was the carefully tended flowers from their own gardens that carried love not plastic wreaths or flowers. As a child I could sense the importance of this ritual. It was a shared duty they faithfully fulfilled. They took their bouquets to the cemetery rain or shine. Memorial Day could not be missed. I remember rain, wind, and cold and yet they carried on.

When I smell lilacs I remember buckets of colorful flowers, mason jars. metal coat hangers, and me in the backseat of the car. It is my own little bush that stirs these memories and reminds me of the lessons I was quietly taught by my two favorite women.