Back in Time: A Story of Home

On a porch near Rowlesburg, WV

These pictures could have been taken many years ago, but all were taken this year around West Virginia, most quite close to home.

Somewhere along Route 33.


At Greenwood Cemetery in Sistersville



Near the community of Gay.

On Joe's Run.

Recently I was talking with a friend who mentioned that although she had traveled widely in her life, she always wanted to come home to West Virginia. I know what she meant. On my porch I have a slate that reads, "If you're blessed enough to live in the mountains, you're blessed enough."

I am always eager to return to my home in the mountains and to my own front porch. My house is small and certainly not convenient. Internet service isn't dependable, the road is in rough shape, mud is a constant enemy, it's a long way to town or to my job. Why does it mean so much to me?

I've lived here for almost 35 years. Prior to when I moved here, the land had a its own history. We found arrowheads in the gardens, testament to passing Native feet. Initials are carved in a tree on the banks of our little run, cut there by my 70-year-old neighbor when he was a teenager.

A different neighbor told me once about a dead baby found under the old schoolhouse on an abandoned road that borders our property. No one ever knew whose baby it was, she said. Later when I asked her about the story, she did not recall ever having told it to me, or even the story itself. Was it true, or did she confuse it with something that had happened somewhere else? I will never know now because she's passed away. But I remember the story, and continue to tell it because her telling was so vivid and detailed. It is true to me.

Over 70 years ago hardworking people used to live in the log cabin on the same abandoned road where the schoolhouse used to be; when I explored the cabin once I found the walls were papered with newspapers from 1938. The people who papered those walls gave the road its name, Bucket Run, because they were paid with buckets of pickled corn and beans when they worked on local farms. Or so another neighbor told me, and I like to think it's true.

No one knows exactly when but certainly before 1900 a family named Fulmer had a cabin on our land. It was below where our house now is; they built a rough cellar house of creek stones too. The creek was just below the cabin. This hollow got its name from the Fulmer's, but only the older people remember it. We did not know there had ever been a house here when we bought this place, and I think how odd it is that we chose to build very near that dwelling site. The Hinzmans bought out the Fulmers and used this side of their ridge land holdings for sheep pasture, and to grow corn, wheat and sorghum. At that time the land was almost completely clear of trees; When we bought the land from a descendant of the original Hinzman owner, it was growing up in brush. Now it is almost all forested.

Along the side of our run and driveway you can still see the faint trace of the wagon road that took travelers from the ridge down to Bucket Run and on to Trace Fork. You have to look close to see it. It's a good place to sit and listen, imagining the rumble and creak of farm wagons, the huffing of horses pulling heavy loads through the mud, and the encouraging words of the drivers.

We've made our own imprint on this land, planting trees, cutting brush, making gardens and putting up buildings. Future generations will dig up marbles, nails, and other oddments when they take on projects and will probably wonder who left these things in the dirt. Like me, they will make up stories and mental images of the people who lived here and the things they did. I hope they paint kind pictures of us.

Family stories like ours are why so many West Virginians who live elsewhere long for home. This is a state of storytellers who pass on from one generation to another the memories of who they are and where they came from. Those memories root people to this state, even if they have never actually lived here themselves.

It’s the stories, after all, that make a place “home.” It’s our history, and the histories of all those who passed before us that make where we live special, a place to return to again and again, even if only in memory. It’s not the buildings, the flowers, or the furniture. It’s the stories that bring us back to the place we call “home.”

Lettuce

The lettuce is up! Planted the first week of February.

And I think I heard peepers this morning.

Before we know it, the lawnmowers will be out and we'll be longing for quiet winter days by the fire.

Ah, humans.

Old-time Downtown Hardware Store

I'd been looking for a source of old-fashioned paste wax for my wood floors. It's not available locally, so I searched online. And found that it's carried by Ace Hardware stores. Which led me to the telephone book to see where one might be located. Which led me to a store I had not visited in years.

Pile's Hardware has been a Charleston institution for years. Located on the west side, it's grown over the years as the west side itself has suffered economic and population ups and downs. Currently the west side seems to be showing some improvement although it still has many issues of crime, poverty and unemployment.

When I opened the door, I stopped in pure delight. This was no ordinary hardware store! Graniteware, stone crocks, galvanized washtubs, kerosene lamps and cast iron lined the shelves. Wood stoves and electric fireplaces were on display. In this store I could buy parts for a hand-cranked meat grinder in the aisle next to the I-Pod docking station.

Washtubs and crocks line the high shelves, while below is stacked everything else an farm kitchen might need--glass and crockery baking dishes, jar lifters, kerosene lamps, chimneys and other lamp parts, ladles and funnels, scales, popcorn poppers, strainers, and on an on.

From mops to fondue sets to oilcloth, deck sealer and paint thinner, toilets innards and nails--it all co-exists at Pile's.

As I checked out, I looked at what other customers were buying: a 5-gallon plastic bucket, a bag of salt, plumbing fittings, a 50-amp electrical box--the clerks were able to advise and assist each one. I picked up a copy of the Old Farmer's Almanac to add to my purchases.

My wax wasn't cheap, but it will be worth the money and effort to apply it. And I suppose a 25% increase in the last 15-20 years is to be expected in a petroleum based product. I bought both the paste and the liquid varieties in case we got tired of being on our knees. We'll see which we like best.

It was a good end to a busy day, and I am glad to know Pile's is still there and seems to be just as busy as ever.

We need more stores like this one--crowded, neighborhood stores with everything you need and a little more, with clerks who know their stuff, and I don't have to walk miles in a huge department store to find what I want. Pile's Hardware rates an A+ in my book for service and style.

Mardi Gras and New Orleans Memories

My father and his father (William I. Connelly Sr), we believe, at 1427 Gr. Rue St. John, according to what is written on the back. I would guess this photo to be late 1920's to early 30's. The wording may not be correct, since the writing was very faded, but this is what Julie thought it said. The family must have lived there for a little while, although I do not recall Dad talking about it. Maybe a family reader of this blog knows more?

It's Mardi Gras! I'd like to be celebrating but instead I will be at work.

Today's photos were found in my father's things when he passed away. Dad grew up in New Orleans on Thomas Street. Miraculously, the house he grew up in was unscathed by the recent hurricanes. As a boy, Dad said, he loved Mardi Gras. They always dressed and marched in the parade. Below are some pictures of those long ago days.

Dad (William Irving Connelly), my aunt Hester Ellen Connelly, and my Uncle Bud (John Wilbur Connelly). I would guess them t


Aunt Ellen, all alone and very cute. I wonder if she is a clown, or perhaps Tinkerbell?


Aunt Ellen, we believe, with her Aunt Mary Charlotte Becker, also known as Sister Veronica of the Poor Claire Cloister in New Orleans. Although my father's family was originally from the Washington DC area, they ended up in New Orleans due to my grandfather's work with the government. When they moved to NO, Grandpa was a lawyer with the government, and I think his position had something to do with trains. Later when the US joined World War II Grandpa became a Commander in the Coast Guard and handled several important cases in his career, the most high-profile probably being the explosion at Texas City in 1947.

The Poor Claires, year unknown. I am not sure which is my great-aunt in this photo. how my great-aunt came to be a nun at this convent I do not know, but she was there prior to my grandparents moving to NO. A bit of serendipity, I think, and probably made living so far from other family members less painful for all. I remember sending letters to Sister

Aunt Ellen as a teen, dressed as William Tell, according to Dad. We are not sure of the date of this photo, but I believe it must have been taken in the mid-1930's judging by her age. Later Aunt Ellen would earn a chemistry degree, among others, and go on to be a food editor for Good Housekeeping. She is still living today, but suffers from Alzheimer's disease. You might run into her name in older copies of Good Housekeeping cookbooks.

Dad dressed as a clown, circa 1926? He was born in 1922, and he looks about 3 or 4 years old here.

Aunt Ellen, Dad and Uncle Bud, probably the same year.

Dad as a teenager, in his favorite costume. When I was young he still loved to dress up as a pirate at Halloween. I think this may have been the same year as Ellen's teenage photo above, probably 1934 or 1935.

The family left New Orleans in 1942 and returned to the northern Virginia-DC area, where Dad enlisted in the Army Air Force that started him on the journey to meet my mother in England.

If anyone can supply additional information about these photos or the family's time in New Orleans, I'd love to hear it.

More for Less? Better than Less for More

This is from the NPR show called Marketplace, an irreverent and usually spot-on business-and-money-show on public radio:

"Bob Moon's final note... Maybe you've noticed packages and portions getting smaller while the price has stayed the same?Those skimpy ice cream cartons, for example, that no longer give you a full half-gallon. Well, seems more consumers have been finding a better value in store-label alternatives. And the big brands have taken notice.The Wall Street Journal reports today that Heinz has increased the size of its ketchup bottles. So you'll see a bigger container for a similar price, sitting next to the private-label offering. Likewise, Frito-Lay, which plans to add 20 percent more to bags of chips, without increasing the price."

http://marketplace.publicradio.org/episodes/show_rundown.php?show_id=14 , 2.23.2009


So the food corporations finally figured out that we're not stupid? I wonder if they will also:

• stop putting things in huge, half-empty packages thinking we don't notice that either?
• quit telling us something is new and improved when it's the same product but in a new "improved" package?
• not call something "natural" when it's clearly processed (like Cheerios--how is that natural? I've never seen oats grow in circles on the stalks.)
• stop trying to convince us that fast food is healthy? We know it's not; the advertisers are the only ones deluded by the ads--if even they believe their own words.
• put some normal-looking people in the ads? but I suppose that would really kill sales. A recent news item on Hotmail showed the "three hottest faces" on this Spring's fashion runways. To me they looked like mug shots of women arrested for meth abuse. I don't mean to sound mean, but I honestly thought that's what the photos were before I read the blurb. Now I am what Alexander McCall Smith calls, in his Number 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, a "traditionally built woman." Which means overweight--and that is not a good thing either. But please don't hold up emaciated women who look miserable as the premium beauties of our day. (I can't find that article right off, but this one shows a model who exemplifies what I mean.)

This move by food processing companies is a step in the right direction; they have a lot more steps to take before they regain my trust in their products or their ads.

This Week's Projects

This should be an interesting week:

Larry finished one project, putting terracotta tiles in the area in front of the most-used entrance door. I like the way this came out, and it blends nicely with the brick hearth in the living room. The tile came from ReStore, Habitat for Humanity's resale store that has all kinds of great building supplies at low, low prices.



Now he's moved on to re-grout the tile on the kitchen counter. A few years back he re-did it with a dark grout and I have hated it. No matter how clean, the grout always looked dirty and it made the counter look darker. The white grout takes more cleaning time but it looks....clean.

My projects this week:

Learning all about BBPs and PPE and MSDS and such things for Staff Development Day training at work. Sound like fun? Hooo boy.

Finishing our income taxes. I got a good start last week, and then just left it. I can only handle so much of the IRS at one time, you know?

Helping Derek and Jared fill out the FAFSA. (This post is starting to look like alphabet soup).

Paying my BILLs. Capital letters because that's how they feel, big. (If BILLs were an acronym, what would it stand for--Busting it & losing lots, sucker? or Bitty income large loans? or But it looks like spending?)

Storytelling on Saturday night in Gallipolis, Ohio. (pronounced, gal-i-poe-LEES, thank you).

And maybe, maybe, if my mind isn't mush by the time all these things are finished, maybe I'll get some seeds started.

(What do all the above acronyms stand for? anyone want to guess?)

It was a wild, snowy day, with bursts of sun and a hard wind that drifted the snow artfully along the road.

On such a wild day, finding things to do indoors is a good idea.

I've been wanting to try making lavender face scrub, and today was just the time to do it.

Here's what I used:

about 1 cup oats (I used quick-cooking variety because we have some that need to be used up)

about 1/4 cup light olive oil (again, because it's what was on hand)

about 5-6 drops of lavender oil

Everything went into the blender, except the lavender oil,

and it looked like this after blending on "liquefy) for one minute.

Then I added the lavender oil, let it blend a little longer, and put it into a jar. My measurements are all "about" because I didn't actually measure the ingredients, I just dumped things in the blender. I doubt it needs to be exact; consistency is what is important.

When I used the final product, oh my. My face feels smooth and soft, and so do my hands just from applying the scrub. I rubbed it gently over my face, then washed it off.

I used probably 2 or 3 tablespoons for my face. You can see how much I have left. Now I'm wondering if it should be refrigerated between uses. Anyone know? Wonder what it would do for my winter legs?

This is inexpensive, quick and a pleasure to use. All that adds up to a keeper in my book. I'm thinking gifts for daughters-in-law next Christmas...

About Dishes

Some Saturday reflections:

1. Using vintage dishes makes washing dishes interesting. The pretty colors and shapes makes the chore, well, not a chore. Now new dishes aren't necessarily ugly, but you revisit family history and old kitchens and women who cooked everything from scratch while you're washing them? Not.

2. Using vintage dishes means some things will get broken. Note the lid on the cookie jar, broken 30 years ago and carefully re-glued. It reminds me of my little sons climbing up on the counter to get to the cookie jar. It was only a matter of time until the lid would get broken, of course. Sometimes the break can't be repaired and an item is gone for good. It's sad, but these things are intended for use in my house, and that's life. Not perfect.

3. Using vintage dishes means more hand washing since some finishes and materials weren't made to survive the harsh treatment and chemicals of the electric dishwasher (a lot weren't made to survive my husband's dish washing either, but that's another story). Since the dishwasher died in November from a water hemorrhage we've been hand-washing all the dishes again anyway.

What we've found is that it takes very little time (there's usually only the two of us here) and the dishes get cleaner. We don't let them pile up as much; with the dishwasher we'd want to make it "worth it" to run a load.

Reaching Back with Old Photos

Here are more photos from my mother's collection. All of these, with the exception of one, were taken during her childhood and teen years in the area around Caldecote, England. Mom's teenage years were defined by World War II, and her future was decided by the placement of an American air base at Steeple Morden.

My mother is the baby in this photo from 1927 (the year she was born) or 1928. I'd guess 1928 would be more likely, because she was born in June and she looks fairly grown in the picture. I don't know who is holding her--Aunt May, her oldest sister, perhaps? or her mother?


At three years old--look at those cute little shoes! The coat and hat look very similar to one I wore in photos from my childhood.


Mom with a favorite pet, Sunshine, in 1936.


And swimming at "Skig Ness" in 1936. I have not been able to find where this place is (but "ness" is surely in Scotland, isn't it?) , but it looks like a beautiful place to swim.

The road to Caldecote in 1944. This would have been the road Dad followed when he tried to find the red-haired English girl he met at a Cambridge tea shoppe. Here's the story:

Dad was a young American soldier stationed near Cambridge with the Army Air Force. He visited a local tea shop on leave one day. My mother and her mum were in line with him, and he started up a conversation. To hear Dad tell it, he fell in love immediately. They invited him to have tea with them; he accepted. Afterwards they went shopping, and he was invited to go with them--and he went, of course.

I asked him one day what they were shopping for, and he said, "Oh you know, ladies undergarments and things like that."

"In front of YOU?" I was stunned.

"Oh no, no," he said. "I mean they were looking at things..."

Ahem.

Anyway, Mom told him about a dance that night in Caldecote, her village. Would he like to come?

Dad was so excited he said yes immediately, and returned to the base on cloud nine. He got cleaned up that evening and headed to Caldecote. It was about that time he realized he didn't know the name of the girl he'd met. He went on into Caldecote, determined to find her. As he entered the village, he met a man and asked, "do you know where a beautiful redheaded girl lives around here?"

"Oh yes," the man said. "Turn right, and it's the last house on the left." Dad hurried down the road and followed the man's directions. When he reached the last house, he knocked confidently on the door. He'd found his English beauty!

But the lady who opened the door...well, she was no lady, or as Mom would say, she was no better than she should be. Dad made hasty apologies and beat a retreat. He was forlorn. He had no idea how to find the girl he'd met.

As he retraced his steps to the main road, he saw her. She was coming down the road with her mother, on her way to the dance.

What intervened to bring them together, I do not know, but come together they did, on August 5, 1944. Their lives changed forever from that chance meeting.

This is the place my mother grew up, a cottage on a few acres called Ashlyn. I do not know how long they lived there; it is where they lived when her father died. They owned the cottage and the land. Her father had been the manager of a "pig fahm" as Mom would say. After his death, her mother became the housekeeper for the farm owner and they moved to the farm, renting out Ashlyn, as I understood Mom's story. I'm sketchy on the details of those years.

For example, my granny was a single mother, raising four children. How did they survive? Mom did not tell stories of great deprivation. She told me once that Granny received money from the government, and perhaps some insurance money? I do not know. What Mom told me sounded like she grew up very happy and enjoying life in rural England.

Mom is on the left, Granny in the center, and an unknown child on the right in this mid-1930's photo. I am surprised my Granny did not remarry for so many years; I think she looks lovely here. But she was 63 before she met George Swindells and married him. I remember when they came to visit us after they were married. I believe I was 12 or 13. He was a happy man who seemed to enjoy being around our large family; he had a thick accent and I would have to interpret for him when we went shopping. Clerks did not seem able to understand that "strawbry ahyce" meant strawberry ice cream.

The back of this photo says "raising money for the Tommies, 1945." I suppose it must have been some sort of play? The X is over my mother's head. At this time, she was already married to my father.

And last for this series, the young couple honeymooning on Skyline Drive in Virginia in 1946, after Dad returned from Europe. How young and happy they look here! Skyline Drive was always a special place to them, and to us as we grew up. When I look at this picture, I seem them as they last were together, old and suffering from many ills, but still just as much in love as they were in 1946.

More About That Diane Sawyer Documentary

I am not alone in my anger about Diane Sawyer's documentary Children of the Mountains." Read here for another perspective:

http://cauldronridge.blogspot.com/

For My Cousin John

These pictures are for my cousin John Hagger in England. Recently John emailed me and I was so delighted to hear from a relative I've heard much about over the years, but never met. John is the son of my mother's brother, Uncle Ted. John, I hope you enjoy these and perhaps can identify some of the people in the photos. We think we know who there are, or most of them, but there are a few mystery faces:

This first one is Mom and her sister Grace, perhaps taken at Caldecote or at their home Ashlynn in 1935 (were they still at Ashlynn then?):

Another photo of Mom with Grace, apparently out to have a very good time:

My mother's mother, Granny (Florence Hagger) came from England to see us about every 2 years, I think--I remember her coming quite often, and she would stay for several months. She always came by ship, even when flying was the more popular mode of travel. That's my oldest brother Bill with them. I don't know where the picture was taken.

This one says "Heacham, 1938." I don't know the lady on the left, but that is Mom in the center and her mother on the right. Note the teacups and Mom's happy face!

Apparently this was taken in 1930, on the day of my mother's father's funeral. That would be my Uncle Ted on the left, perhaps Grace in the center, and Mom on the right. She was three at the time.

This had a note on the back that it is my mother's father, Ernest Thomas Hagger, who died when his bicycle was hit by a lorry.

Many thanks to my sister Julie who scanned these and gave CD copies to all of us. These pictures give us a look back at my mother's family and life as a girl. I'll have more to post in the coming days.

Morning Light

The sun peeked over the hill as I left for work this morning, and by the time I reached Ripley

it was reaching across town to the far hills, lighting the heavy frost on rooftops and trees.

But my destination before I got to work?

Onion sets! Green's Feed and Seed in Charleston, that compendium of all things farming and farming kitsch, had what I needed: yellow, white and red onion sets, some Detroit Dark Red beet seeds and seed starter soil.

(and no, that very-clean car isn't mine! Mine was the dirty blue truck that just didn't make it into the photo for some reason...)

Did I get to work on time? Yep, with a few minutes to spare. A very few. More like seconds.

When I got in the truck this evening, it was redolent with onion. Didn't think of that when I left the bag in the truck this morning. But never mind, I have onions that can be planted...as soon as the ground thaws out again.

Sugar Cookies

The cherry trees are to the right behind us. That's Judy on the left, then Maggie, Theresa, me and Stephen, the littlest one in the photo.

We ran away from home. We ran all the way to the cherry trees at the end of our yard at 514 East Quarry Street in Manassas, Virginia. Our mother had wronged us. We packed our favorite dresses and dolls into brown paper grocery bags and ran away to our usual running-away place--under the cherry trees. But this time, the story didn’t end there.

It was so unfair! How were we to know that our mother would want a cup of tea that afternoon? She had tea every afternoon but children do not pay attention to the habits of adults. Judy and I took the sugar bowl and hid under the front porch to eat sugar one spoonful at a time, taking turns, letting the granules melt into liquid sweetness in our mouths.

The missing sugar bowl pointed immediately to the culprits because we were the only ones missing when Mom made her tea. She knew where to find us too. On a small town lot hiding places are few and there are not many places that escape notice. We had eaten just one spoonful each when Joe stuck his head under the porch and yelled, “Here they are!”

Ah, misery. We had to crawl out, hand over the bowl and be sent to our room. We felt wronged. All we had done was eat a little sugar; the punishment was surely greater than the crime.

“Let’s run away!” I suggested. “No one loves us here anyway.”

Judy sniffed and nodded. She grabbed her doll and pushed it into a brown paper grocery bag. “What are you going to take, Sue?”

I grabbed a bag and began packing too. “They’ll be sorry they were mean to us. We’ll show them.” We slipped down the stairs and out the door.

Mom spotted us from the kitchen window. “What do you think you’re doing? I sent you to your room.”

“We’re running away,” I said defiantly.

“Oh, in that case don’t let me keep you. Have a safe journey, and do write to me when you find a new home. I shall be so anxious about you.”

I felt Judy slow down and tugged on her arm. “Come on! She’s trying to make us feel bad.” Mom waved and returned to the kitchen.

“Where are we going, Sue? I’m scared. We’re not supposed to cross the street.”

I stopped under the cherry trees. “We can stay here.”

“It’s not running away if we stayed on our own property, is it?” Judy plunked down her bag and looked around. Where will we sleep?”

She was right. We would not make our point if we stayed under the trees. I looked up the back street and saw Mr. Knox working in his rose garden.

Mr. Knox was tall, thin and ancient. He had been in the “Great War,” as he called it. He had a German soldier’s helmet in his hallway. There was a bullet hole in the helmet, just above where the soldier’s ear would have been.

Mr. Knox lived alone. His rooms were spotless, the floors shining and the kitchen, old-fashioned as it was with its high-backed enamel sink, gleamed white. In the living room colored light streamed through the stained glass panels to paint the floor with soft hues. He always treated us like ladies when we visited, courteously inviting us to sit on the tapestry sofa.

“Judy, there’s Mr. Knox. Let’s go see him.”

“We can’t. We have to ask Mom first.”

“Silly! We’re running away. We don’t have to ask Mom. I bet he has some of his sugar cookies just waiting for us.”

I could tell that Judy was tasting Mr. Knox’s sugar cookies, just as I was—white, coated with sugar and a single raisin in the exact center, crisp on the outside but surprisingly soft when bitten.

“Okay. I guess we could visit for a little bit.” We watched Mr. Knox climb up the steep steps to his back porch and disappear into its latticed shade.

We crept out of our hiding place beneath the cherry trees and darted into the darkness of Mr. Knox’s garage. After checking to be sure the coast was clear, we ran the short distance to Mr. Knox’s front porch. I felt like a hero, a spy on a mission.

Mr. Knox seemed surprised to see us. “Come right in, ladies, come right in. I was just about to have a glass of sweet tea. Would you like some?” We nodded, not sure what to say now that we were here.

Mr. Knox tottered to the kitchen, talking as he poured tall glasses of cold amber tea that created immediate sweat on the cut crystal. Ice clinked as he talked about the lack of rain and his roses. I tried to look interested but I was not thinking about roses. I was thinking about how much our mother was going to miss us.

“And how is your mother?” he asked. I nearly fell off the couch. “A fine woman, your mother. Certainly does an excellent job with you children. I’m sure she must be very proud of you.”

I stared at Mr. Knox. “She’s fine, sir. She was just having tea and we told her we thought it would be nice to visit you.”

His eyes danced. “Oh, indeed. I’m surprised she didn’t call me, but perhaps I missed the phone while I was in the rose garden. You probably need to get on home before she worries about you. Tell you what, though …” His voice trailed off as he walked back to the kitchen. “…made these this morning and can’t eat them all. Why don’t you girls just take this bag home?” He held out a brown paper bag with grease stains beginning to seep through its sides.

I took the bag from him with mumbled thanks. What were we to do? The bag of sugar cookies would tell our mother exactly where we’d been.

“Thank you, Mr. Knox. Thank you for the tea.” When the door closed behind us, Judy grabbed my arm. “Mom will know where we’ve been. We’ll be sent to our rooms for a week!”

“Why does Mom have to know? We don’t have to give these to her. We don’t have to tell her.”

“But what will we do with the cookies? Where can we hide them?”

“Right here!” I patted my stomach.

Understanding dawned. “I don’t know. What if Mom finds out?”

“She won’t. If he says anything to her about it, she’ll think he’s talking about some other time when we visited him. Old people get confused, you know.”

“Well, all right. Where should we go to eat them?”

There was only one place, of course—under the front porch. I opened the sack. Fourteen three-inch round sugar cookies gazed back at me with their single raisin eyes. I could not believe a day that had been so sour had suddenly become so sweet.

We nibbled our cookies around the edges, leaving the raisin center for last. I grinned at Judy with my mouth full. “Isn’t this great? All these cookies, just for us!”

We concentrated on the task at hand. Judy ate three cookies and then stopped.

“I don’t want any more. I want to go inside. I need to go to the bathroom. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“You have to eat your cookies! I can’t eat them all! If you throw up, everyone will know. Don’t go!”

“I don’t care. It was your idea anyway.” She crawled away.

“Wait!” I yelled, but she was gone. I sighed and continued to eat. Twenty minutes later the incriminating evidence was safely stowed in my bulging belly. I crawled into the late afternoon air and walked to the door. It opened before I touched the knob.

“So there you are, Miss.” My mother did not look pleased. “Where are the cookies?”

“Cookies? What cookies?”

“Mr. Knox called to tell me you girls were on your way home. He said he hoped that we would enjoy the cookies. Where are they?”

She didn’t need to be told. Upstairs, I could hear Judy tossing her cookies into the toilet. I looked down to see that I still held the stained paper bag in my hand.

“Mr. Knox said you left two brown paper bags at his house. He wondered if you were running away.”

I burst into tears. “I’m sorry I ate the cookies. I think I’m going to be sick!” I dashed upstairs and joined Judy in the bathroom.

It was so sad. All those lovely cookies gone to waste. I cried myself to sleep. When I woke, there were voices in the downstairs hall. I sneaked onto the stair landing and listened.

“It was a pleasure to see your girls yesterday, Mrs. Connelly. I was afraid they might need their bags so I brought them over. By the way, I had quite a few cookies left from my last baking. Brought them over for the children.”

I heard my mother’s surprised thanks and peaked over the rail to see Mr. Knox hand her a bulging, grease-stained paper bag. He glanced up and before I could scoot out of sight, he caught my eye and winked.

“Be sure to tell your girls to visit anytime,” he said. “They don’t need to be running away to come see me. I’ll always have cookies for them. You’ve got some good girls there, Mrs. Connelly. You raised them right.”

“I’ll tell them,” Mom promised. She added, “You’re right. I have some very good girls. But I don’t think they’ll be wanting cookies any time soon.”

How the Sun Rose

by Emily Dickinson

I'll tell you how the sun rose--

A ribbon at a time.

The steeples swam in amethyst,

The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,

The bobolinks begun.

Then I said softly to myself,

"That must have been the sun!"

But how he set, I know not.

There seemed a purple stile

Which little yellow boys and girls

Were climbing all the while

Till, when they reached the other side

A dominie in gray

Put gently up the evening bars,

And led the flock away.

Some Things We Just Should Know

I've been thinking about things that I assume everyone knows.

Things like:

• You should always offer your seat to an older person.
• It's not polite to make derogatory comments about someone's home when you visit.
• Never, ever comment on someone's weight unless they bring up the subject; even then, be polite and positive.
• Never ask a woman her age.
• Never ask a man either.
• Hold the door for those following behind you.
• Be sure there is enough for everyone else when you fill your plate.
• Don't ask for seconds.

There are many more of these. What are some things that you think everyone should know?

I am wondering if the "rules" I know still apply. Do parents still teach these to their children? Or is there a new set of rules today?

What prompted my thoughts was the recent documentary by Diane Sawyer that supposedly studies the poverty of the Appalachians. People here are up in arms: she came here, a visitor who was raised in Kentucky, and was treated well. Yet she made a documentary that revisits all the old stereotypes without showing that the many-dimensional face of mountain people. We have poverty; we have problems. We also have lively cities, educated people, thriving industries, and timeless beauty. We have a city with the lowest unemployment rate in the country, and a state that still operates with a surplus.

She missed all of those; I suppose these things are not newsworthy. I think her mother forgot to teach her rule #2 above. Don't visit someone and talk bad about their home. That's bad manners.

Shame, Diane. Shame on you. You missed the real story of the mountains and used your opportunity to drag out the old trash.

Signs of Spring and a Minor Mystery

It's mid-February and this morning the sky is spitting bits of ice and cold rain.

But we can't be fooled. We know spring is coming, even if the feed store doesn't have onion sets yet (what are they thinking?).

There are robins in the yard,

I have forsythia blooming in the kitchen (I cheated and picked it for forcing inside last weekend. My family thinks nothing of it when I say on a cold February day, "I'm going to pick some flowers." They know me well),

...and the paperwork for filing income taxes is all over the table.

My weekend job for the next few weeks is sorting out this mess of paper and figuring out if I can get anything back from Uncle Sam. I am bumfuzzled by how to do Tommy's taxes since I've never dealt with GI Bill, college tuition credits, etc. It's very confusing as to what can be claimed and what can't.

No fun adventures to report this weekend, just calculators and paper, pencils and aggravation. Except for this intriguing little mystery:

My old friend Reta bought out Rachel's Relics antique store last summer. I am still a regular customer (big surprise). Yesterday when we stopped in she showed me this little bottle.

She thought it was from the 1800's, and it had been in her family for many years. What was it for, when and where was it made, and what was its value? That's what she was trying to figure out. Since she doesn't do Internet, I offered to have a look around and see what I could find (a valid excuse to put off taxes!)

The maker's is pretty clear: C M. Looking online, I found that this was the mark of a silversmith from Dublin named Charles Marsh, and based on the I or the H (assay mark, I believe it's called) the item dates to about 1828. The other marks are not as clear--one looks like an anchor, the other? If it's Irish it should be a crowned harp, but it's too hard to make out. It looks more like a head to me.

Other than that, and some general information about Wedgwood (also called jasperware) I didn't find anything else. We wondered what the bottle was for (there is cork in the lid), and more information about Charles Marsh would be interesting too.

Can you shed any light, or point me to a place to learn more? It's a minor history mystery, but interesting. And will help Reta determine the value of her little bottle.