Covid Journal, Day 90: Roses and Memories of Mom on Her Birthday

56 this morning, absolutely lovely day ahead.

On the corner at the top of our drive,

a patch of wildflowers has taken hold,

and along the road, wild roses, tiny little pink blooms, spreading along the edge of the road for many feet, surprising with their color and beauty in the shade of the overhanging trees.

Which put me in mind of this poem by Wendell Berry.

The Wild Rose

Sometimes hidden from me

in daily custom and in trust,

so that I live by you unaware

as by the beating of my heart,



Suddenly you flare in my sight,

a wild rose looming at the edge

of thicket, grace and light

where yesterday was only shade,



and once again I am blessed, choosing

again what I chose before.


Roses always remind me of my mother. Yesterday was Larry's mother's birthday, today is my Mom's birthday, would have been her 93rd. She too was a lover of roses, especially those with a good sweet scent. I remember she had one that she called her "old English rose". I am not sure what it's true name was, but it was a many petaled flower with the best scent. Not a fancy tea rose, this one, but an old-time, ragged-bloom pink that only bloomed in June.

Mom's childhood home, Ashlyn

Mom was a true English gardener, with borders, as she called them almost all around the yard of our home in Manassas. Many of those plants made the move with her to Warrenton, where she developed new flowerbeds and herb gardens around their smaller new home. I don't think she could have lived anywhere that she was not surrounded by flowers. She had them on her clothes, her teacups, her handkerchiefs.

She passed her love of flowers and gardens on to her daughters, and even to some of her sons. Many of us have large flower and vegetable gardens, and her name often comes up in conversations about our plants because she gave them to us.

We all wonder, I think, what legacy we will leave, what we will be remembered for, what of our traditions will pass down to future generations. Mom would not have been surprised to know that she left us this gift.  I am not sure we have been as successful passing it on, although it hasn't been for lack of trying. I will hope that her love of green living things continues in our family, as we pass around plants, advice, and the produce of what we grow.

So here's another birthday greeting, this time to my mother, who resides with great joy, I am sure, in the greatest garden of all.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Hankies, Handbags and Memories

Ironing hankies for the booth this afternoon gave me some quiet thinking time. Ironing really is a zen thing, isn't it, especially when it's something simple like handkerchiefs.

The hankies reminded me of my mother, who always carried them tucked up her sleeve, in her apron pocket or in her purse. Hers were usually scented with Yardley's Lavender, and yes, she always ironed them, at least the ones I remember. As children, hankies were one thing we could afford to buy her for her birthday or Christmas so she was always well supplied. And when our granny taught us to sew during one of her extended visits from England, she started us out with hankies. I admit my first effort was nothing that would win a prize, but I was so proud of it. Eventually we graduated to making dolls clothes and later to using the machine to make skirts and dresses.

But I preferred to buy hankies for my mother rather than give her the clumsy ones I made. The five-and-dime store had such pretty ones, and they were only 19 cents. Printed with wildly colorful bouquets of flowers, they held me mesmerized just looking at them. Then there were the gorgeous flocked floral ones made of see-through nylon that were totally useless but so very elegant. Those were 39 and 49 cents. And the top of the line, the boxes sets of four, folded into fans inside of gold gilt boxes, some with embroidered flowers, others with monograms. Elegance times three, and only $1.19. But for a child of the 50's, that much money in our possession was as rare as having ice cream in winter.

Remembering Mom's hankies in her handbag got me to thinking about how different her purse was from mine. I wrote the other day about the odd collection of things in my handbag when I cleaned it out--everything from a pocketknife to pegboard hooks. Mom's was nothing like mine.

Peeking inside her purse was one of my childhood guilty pleasures. It seemed so grown-up and ladylike, two things I surely was not. Besides a pretty floral (and scented) hankie, there would be a round gold compact with a mirror inside, and a puff for applying the powder. The compact had a lacy etched design and closed with a most satisfying snap. In the same compartment of Mom's purse would be her lipstick, bright red hidden inside a smooth gold tube. So sensual!

Her glasses, a lady Buxton leather wallet (I never dared to touch that), a little vial of some Avon fragrance, tissues, a pen, and a comb inside a little case of its own, and that was it. None of the mishmash of screws, pencils, markers, measuring tape and other junk that occupy my bag. Even the purse itself looked lady-like, a good leather exterior with a gold clasp, and a handle that was NOT a shoulder strap. This bag closed with a lovely, solid snap.

Mom and me, 1988. She was so thrilled with the way I looked that day of my son's wedding. 

I wonder sometimes what my mother must have made of her rough-and-tumble oldest daughter. I wonder what she thought of my skinned knees and elbows, my harem-scarem rollerskating, my headless dolls and broken tea sets, and my choice to be called "Uncle John" in many of games with my siblings. I was a far cry from my English mother's idea of what a young lady should be. I know that my decision to move with my first husband to the "wilds of West Virginia," as she called it, made her very unhappy.

But today she would have been proud of me, as I carefully starched and ironed the handkerchiefs, aprons and other linens for my booths. She would have liked how neatly I folded them and hung them on a little rack for display. She would even have liked a lot of those hankies. As I grow older, I find myself surprised by the ways in which I am like her--my love of flowers and tea and of lace and soft pretty things, my pleasure in babies and china tea cups. So maybe the wild girl grew up to be more like the lady m mother so wanted me to be. I wish she was here to enjoy it; I am sure she would have heaved a sigh of relief that all her teaching was not in vain.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Graniteware and Wooden Spoons

When I make soup, I want my gray grantiteware pot. And I have to use a wooden spoon.

I have bigger pots, and probably better ones. Lots of other spoons too. But soup, or chicken and noodles must have these two ingredients to make it right. At least, that's how it is in my house.

I grew up in the 50's and 60's. Mom used stainless steel utensils and aluminum pots usually, although she did have one nice big wooden spoon that was used all the time. Our kitchen was pretty old-fashioned when we moved in: one of those old gas ranges with the top thatfolded down over the burners and with little legs that kept it up off the floor. It had to be lit with matches. The sink I can barely recall, but I believe it was a white porcelain single bowl with an old arched faucet. Above the sink I remember well--large, tall brown cabinet doors with deep shelves inside. I think there was some glass in the doors. Under the sink were more of these doors, with those little twist-open latches so common on old cabinets. It was scary under there--dark with pipes and the faint smell of mice that never went away.

These cabinets were gone within a few years. Dad tore them out, put in a double-bowl sink with a deep window over it for Mom's African violets. He built another cabinet with sliding doors for the dishes on the wall to the left of the sink. The old stove left pretty soon too, to be replaced by a more modern version. The Hotpoint refrigerator with its domed top and small freezer compartment was around until I was in my early teens, I believe. We broke the handle and Dad replaced it with  a pipe bolted to the remaining stub. I seem to recall that he put a latch of some sort on it too.

The kitchen had only those big brown built-in cabinets by the sink when we moved in. Mom got a pantry cupboard--a double door flatwall cabinet-- and a smaller single-door white metal cabinet for storage. Later Dad added a cabinet for pots and pans beside the stove, and he built in spice shelves, shelves for bread and bowls and a pretty corner cabinet for Mom.

But I do not recall Mom having many vintage dishes or kitchenware. We drank out of Jadeite mugs but she didn't like them, thinking they looked like restaurantware. Dad probably got them out of the dump at Fort Belvoir, where he worked. Later we had white Fire-King mugs and some brown Army mugs, and then Melamine replaced most of our dishes. Ugly stuff, I thought then, and my opinion hasn't changed. Eventually, after I left home, Mom got Corelle. She got into gadgetry too, always wanting to try the latest things to hit the market.

She also had one yellow Pyrex mixing bowl that I can remember but I don't remember any other Pyrex or even neat-looking old bowls. By then, with 13 children, Mom was going for functional and durable, I guess. The china cabinet in the dining room, however, was a different story. It was filled with pretty English cups and saucers. crystal serviing dishes, and delicate wine glasses. Those things were used only on holidays and very special occasions. The door locked, and it's a good thing because we spent a lot of time looking at all the pretty sparkling glass and painted flowers.

My china cabinet is almost identical to my mother's and like hers, it is filled with sparkle. My kitchen, however, is in many ways far different. It's full of things made in in the 20's, 30's and 40's with a few later items in the mix. I love bright flowered bowls, chalkware, painted metal canisters and ball pitchers (we had one of these when I was young, a white one for Koolaid). I use old utensils and have only a few modern gadgets. I just prefer the old things. They work well and last longer. And look way cooler, at least to me.

I wonder why I am attracted to a period of time older than me. I guess it has to do mostly with Aunt Eva, my ex-husband's great aunt. She had an almost perfect 1920's-1930's kitchen, complete with Hoosier cabinet, old timey sink and all of the most glorious dishes and kitchenware. I still have her old red Ransburg cookie jar, and it reminds me of the brisk, busy lady who lived alone in her own home until she was 97, always keeping a male boarder for whom she cooked the most delicious food. I loved her kitchen, and admired her.

Whatever the reason, my kitchen is about as un-modern as they come. But the soups I make, stirred with a wooden spoon in the gray grantiware pot, taste better to me than if they were made in any efficient white kitchen. That is probably all in my mind, right?

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Listening to Mom

Mom, always the English lady. 

"Marigolds are pretty, but they have a terrible smell."

"That Lucy and Desi, they're so common. I don't want you girls watching that show."

"Tea must always be served in an English teacup, dear, with a saucer. And milk and sugar. And brewed in a teapot."

"Depression glass is just cheap glass."

"China made in Japan is no good. Not worth wasting money on."

"Wrap that baby up! Poor little thing is freezing."

That was my mother talking. Her opinions, lightly and carelessly dropped, shaped my view of the world, of housekeeping, gardening, and child-rearing. I followed her rules and her lead,  and only recently realized how much she influenced my own likes and dislikes.

My English granny, Naomi Florence Hagger, who was visiting us in Centreville, VA, on her 60th birthday when this photo was taken. Granny's tastes and opinions probably had just as strong an influence on my mother as Mom's did on me. 

Take silver for example. Mom loved silver. Looking back, I bet she would have adored having a real silver tea service but that never came to be. She also like brass and copper, and there were certain pieces that we kept on display in the house for years, polishing them for the holidays. Two crystal decanters sat on either end of the buffet in our dining room; one held port, the other sherry. I do not remember anyone ever drinking those dark red liquids, but I do recall washing up the decanters along with all the other sparkling serving dishes for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter.

This was taken at our second home, in Manassas, on the occasion of Mom and Dad's 35th wedding anniversary. I do believe this is the on;y photo I've ever seen of her drinking anything but tea!

It was surprising to realize when she passed away how many of her likes and dislikes she passed on to her daughters. We all love crystal, silver and flowery English teacups. We all grow flowers, have an apron tucked away somewhere in our kitchens, and most of us still drink tea with milk and sugar. For a long time I did not watch the Lucy show or the Mary Tyler Moore show either ("Common," Mom sniffed). To this day I cannot watch movies with violence or children being hurt, and I'm a fan of happy endings.

Mom with her siblings, gathered around her mother, probably sometime in the early 1980's

I was surprised when I found that I actually liked the smell of marigolds, and of a bruised tomato leaf, another scent my mother did not enjoy. And I left the delicate English teacups in favor of the more substantial and, I think, just as pretty German-made cups and saucers. I have never been a big fan of pale pink and green Depression glass, but when I found I really liked the pale yellow version, I felt guilty for years!

My sisters and I in 1991, at my brother John's wedding. As usual, the photographer had a rough time getting us organized.

My tastes began to become my own when I left Virginia and moved to the mountains of West Virginia. I became intrigued by handmade art-pottery, quilts, and baskets filled my home. I wore jeans and seldom put on makeup (Mom put hers on daily, and "freshened up" with new lipstick and a clean apron just before Dad came home from work). My mother visited my mountain home only rarely, and for the first few visits was visibly upset at the hard path her oldest daughter had chosen. I did not think it difficult at all--to me it was all a great adventure, a challenge to learn how to provide for ourselves in this then-remote place.

Mom and I, 1988, at my son Jon's wedding. (and I thought I was fat then! Geez,)

Over the years my tastes gentled; Mom was surprised on her last visit here in 2003 to find air conditioning, lace curtains and a more civilized way of life--at least to her way of thinking. I went from minimalist to an eclectic, comfortable style that includes all of the things I love in a glorious mishmash that is still orderly--unlike my mother, I do not want "everything out where I can see it, dear." I still recall how quickly she could trash a place, scattering belongings hither and thither, filling a dresser top with makeup, medicines, lotions and creams and completely covering a countertop in less than 10 minutes. She was happiest with a comfortable clutter, as she called it. I can deal with clutter for a limited time but then it has to get organized and cleaned up.

Dad in the comfortable clutter of Mom's kitchen. Note the teapot (aluminum, she liked those kind best for some reason), the spooner, magnets on the fridge, tablecloth, etc. There was seldom any clear space on the counters of her kitchen but she cooked easily without it, an accomplishment that always amazed me.

Every now and again, I'll start to say something, and I'll hear my mother talking again. I have to smile because even though she's been gone for eight years, her opinions live on in her daughter's subconscious mind. It makes me wonder if I influenced my sons in the same way. Is it this way with all mothers? Do you still hear your mother's opinions coming out of your mouth?

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

England: From Plane to Thatched Cottages

 I wondered what it would be like. For years I've wanted to see England, to walk in the places my mother walked, to find where she and my father met and fell in love. I wondered if it was really as beautiful as she described it and if I would feel at home there.

We began planning this trip in February. Our oldest son surprised us at Christmas with a gift of tickets to any place in the world we wanted to go (with a certain dollar limit, of course!). I knew immediately where that place was: England.

When to go? That's a problem when you have a garden, critters, and storytelling to consider. Spring would have been nice but I needed to get my ID documents in order--starting with an official birth certificate, replacement Social Security card and updated driver's license that showed our new address (we didn't move, but all roads were named and addresses assigned as part of a project to make emergency services faster). Once all those papers were in place, we needed to get our passports, and allow time for them to arrive.

We considered traveling in the summer but with the gardens in full swing and my usually hectic storytelling schedule, we ruled out summer pretty quickly. Fall then? Friends and relatives advised that after mid-September prices on fares and hotels dropped. October is usually a busy month for me, so we finally zeroed in on late September-early October.

Getting ready for a trip is a process, isn't it? Get all the bills paid up, as much laundry done as possible. Pack and weigh and repack suitcases (I did mine at least 10 times, trying to get the right combination as I watched weather reports for Britain). Hold the mail. Get someone to take care of the animals and watch after the place. Notify our booths that we'd be gone and couldn't be reached for prices, etc. Arrange to get booth rents paid. Clean the house, because there are few things worse than coming home tired to chaos. Write down phone numbers. Print travel information, tickets, etc. Double-check flight times. Arrange to be dropped off and picked up. Figure out what money is needed and how to access it.

Lots of stuff on that to-do list. And if you're wondering why I wasn't sharing all this on my blog, it was because in these times it didn't seem prudent to let the wider world know our house would be vacant. So I tried my best to keep it quiet, although I was bursting at the seams with joy and anticipation.

The day arrived; Derek drove us to the airport for the red-eye flight. We were traveling first to Charlotte, NC, then to Dublin, Ireland, and then catching a flight on a discount line to London, saving about $500 on our tickets this way. The red-eye was no fun, I can tell you. Cramped, noisy, uncomfortable, but we were so excited I think we'd have sat on the floor.

We landed in Dublin at 7:00am, just as day was beginning to break so we could see little as we flew over that island. But as we flew over England, little glimpses of a green, green land began to be visible.









When we arrived at Stanstead Airport near London I wondered if my cousin would have any trouble finding us. No worries--he was there as soon as we came though the doors.

What a pleasure it was to see Les again after 30+ years! Talk came easily and quickly; it seemed like we'd just seen each other a few days before.

England was everything I expected, and more. I was surprised by the traffic, and even more by the roundabouts! I was glad that Les would be with us to do the driving because I think there would have been some bumps and bangs if I had attempted it. I knew England would be green and well-kept, but to know something and to actually see it are two different things. The gardens were like little jewels of green and color. I recognized many plants that also grow here, but saw many that were new to me. Another surprise was the apples, growing wild along the roadsides and loaded with fruit. Blackberries and elderberries were also profuse and ready for the picking, and we saw several people out gathering them.

There were lots of little things that were markedly different from the States. Coffee, my sister had warned me, is completely different from American coffee. It's stronger, more like espresso and seems to be made usually in a machine like an espresso. We stuck mostly to tea--guaranteed to be excellent anywhere we went. Bathroom light switches in the homes we visited were a string that ran up the wall to the light--effective and simple. Many items, from appliances to vehicles, seemed designed with an environmental viewpoint: England is not just physically green, it's mentally green too. People recycled, rode bikes or walked, drove small, efficient cars. Many homes had solar collectors on their roofs and we saw several wind generator farms.

 I was impressed by how fit the people were; even people of my age were out riding their bikes or walking briskly.

There are many public walking and bridlepaths providing beautiful scenery, and these seem to be well used. It made me wonder what we're doing wrong here, with the obesity rate being what it is. I think it is a combination of inactivity, large portions, a corn-based diet, and reliance on fast foods that cause the problem and  we resolved to return home and make some changes in our own lifestyle. Even active as we are, the Brits could walk rings around us.

I've often seen photos of picturesque villages with half-timbered houses, thatched roofs and quaint stone and brick buildings, and I assumed that these were photos taken in a few "tourist" villages and were not the norm. It's never good to assume; these kinds of buildings were everywhere and people were still living in some homes that are well over 500 years old. We even saw one thatched roof in the process of being repaired. These homes are taken care of and repaired as needed and continue to be viable, comfortable shelters.This was the first of many I saw, and I was so excited I asked Les to pull over so I could take a picture. Later I was to see many more, but I never got over the amazement at seeing old technology alive and well and continuing to be part of life in the garden that is England.




Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Pearl Harbor: A Different Kind of Story

Today is Pearl Harbor Day, a day to remember the many Americans whose lives ended or were forever changed by the bombing at the Hawaii base. My life, however, is a direct result of that horrible day.

 

My mother was a young girl of 14 at the time of Pearl Harbor, growing up in the small village of Cambridge, England.

Dad grew up in New Orleans, and at the time of the bombing his family had moved to Washington, DC when his father was transferred there by the government. When the bombs fell, Dad, like many other American men and women, signed up to fight. He was sent to the Army Air Force for training, and then to Steeple Morden Air Base near Royston, England. He wasn't happy to be there--he wanted to be in Europe fighting the Nazis or in the Pacific fighting the Japanese. Life in England wasn't all that easy, though; it was the Battle of Britain, when bombs fell nightly, blackouts were mandatory and the air raid sirens frequently sent out their alarm. But Dad chafed at not being at the front; his letters home were at first full of vigor and excitement about being in the war but gradually shifted to impatience at being only support for the US bombers and not being in the action itself.

One day while on leave he visited a local tea shop on leave one day. My mother and her mum and sisters were in line in front of 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 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 and then realized that he didn't know her name or the name of her village! Another soldier told him that there was a dance in a little village seven miles aay called Caldecote every Saturday night. Perhaps he'd find his girl there. With no other choice, Dad got on his bike and headed to Caldecote.  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. She was wearing a skin-tight dress, flame red lipstick and her hair was bright, bright red.

 

"Hel-lo, Soldier," she crooned. This was not the girl he was looking for! Dad made hasty apologies and beat a retreat. He was crushed. How would he ever find his girl? 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 forces 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. Dad wrote home  intended to marry. Grandma wrote back that he would do no such thing, that he would return to America and attend Georgetown University like his siblings.

He never did go to college. Instead, he married his English girl at the Church of the English Maartyrs on January 11, 1945.

He was sent to Germany at the end of the war, and Mom was sent to one of the interment camps for war brides, at Royston. Dad returned to the US on November 18th; Mom had to wait to be declared legally married, healthy and fit to travel by the authorities at the camp. She left England in February 1946 and arrived at Ellis Island on March 8th. From their marriage came 13 children, much love and a story that started with war and ended after 61 beautiful years together.

You can hear this story on my upcoming CD of family stories, which will be published by March 2013.

Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

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.

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.

Scones

When I buy scones at a coffee shop, I am usually disappointed. The "store-bought" scones seem heavy with fat and sugar and bear little resemblance to those I remember my English mother making.



Maybe Mom's scones weren't made with the "right" recipe, but they are the ones I love. My sons referred to them as "stones" after they cooled--Mom's recipe does get pretty hard after cooling, but a few seconds in the microwave or toaster restores their moisture and softens them perfectly. I made a batch yesterday, just to enjoy with a cup of Constant Comment tea.

I posted the recipe last year; here it is again for those who might have missed it the first time:

Scones
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

2 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 c. sugar
pinch of salt
1/4 c. butter
2 c. raisins
enough milk to mix the above ingredients.

Mix together the flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder. Cut in the butter with a pastry blender. Add raisins.

Add milk and mix into a dough to about the consistency of biscuit dough. Pat out to about 1" thick on a floured pastry board and cut into squares.

Bake in a 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes.

Yum.

Mom's Trifle Recipe

One of the favorite recipes of all my family was Mom's trifle dessert. Mom wrote the recipe down for Cathy, and she offered to share it with the rest of us. Cathy scanned it in her computer and emailed it to us, and my sister Maggie asked me if I could blog it. Sure! I said.

What is trifle? It's hard to describe. Basically it's a layered dessert, made with ladyfingers, jello, pudding, fruit cocktail and sherry. We loved it when we were kids--well, it's full of things that aren't good for you, so of course we loved it! There are many other recipes for trifle, but just reading the recipe brings back memories of the amazing taste of this dessert, and of my mother's face when she carried it to the table.


It turned out to be more of a challenge to post the recipe than I thought--my computer decided that my printer no longer has a scanner, so I could not scan in the PDF Cathy sent by email.

So I took a photo of the printed copy of the PDF that Cathy emailed that is a copy of the original recipe in Mom's handwriting. (This is beginning to sound like The House that Jack Built!) Here it is:

Now a photo of a copy of an electronic copy of an original isn't ideal, but better than nothing. It's hard to read, although if you click on it the print may be big enough to make out. But here is the recipe, typed out:

June's Trifle

1 package of plain lady fingers, split
Raspberry Jam
1 package raspberry jello
1 small can fruit cocktail
1 cup water
1/2 cup good sherry
1 package vanilla pudding
2 cups milk
1/2 pint heavy whipping cream
2 tsp sugar
Maraschino cherries for decorating top
A few mint leaves if available
Large glass bowl

Spread the raspberry jam between the ladyfingers. Place in the bottom of the bowl. Drain fruit cocktail-save the liquid. Place fruit on top of the ladyfingers Pour sherry over this and let soak.

Meanwhile boil 1 cup water. In a small bowl make jello with the boiling water. Add enough cold water to reserved fruit juice to make one cup; pour this into the jello and stir well. This is then added to fruit and sponge mixture in the bowl. Refrigerate 2 hours until set.

In pan (or bowl if it's instant) make pudding. let cool. Pour this over the jello-fruit in the glass bowl. Refrigerate.

Just before serving beat whipping cream until stiff peaks can be formed, adding sugar as you beat. Put this on top of the trifle.

Drain cherries on paper towel. Place on top as decoration with two mint leaves beside each cherry.

10-12 servings.

I seem to remember that Mom made several layers with the lady fingers--perhaps one of my sisters can recall if she did that, or if it's my imagination. I do remember this beautiful dessert shimmering in the glass bowl, crowned with whipped cream and cherries. When she made it for us as children, of course, she skipped the sherry! It was still delicious, a treat we had on rare, special occasions.

There are many other trifle recipes; many that call for fresh fruit, some made from chocolate, pumpkin--you name it, someone has tried it. The basic recipe is the same--layers of cake, pudding, fruit, alcohol to soak it and whipped cream to top it. Check out Cooks.com for 145 different trifle recipes!

In my mother's childhood, canned fruit cocktail was a delicacy (heck, it was in my childhood too!); especially during World War II it may have been one of the few kinds of fruit available. I do remember Mom making this with fresh strawberries, blueberries and bananas.

Let me know if you try it. I'd love to know how it turns out.

Thinking About Coffee and Tea

I love good coffee. Especially hazelnut coffee, and especially freshly made with good cream. I'm not a diehard coffee drinker, but sometime over the years I've become picky about my coffee. I will travel miles out of my way if I know a place that serves good coffee. I will walk extra blocks at work to get to Ellen's Ice Cream because she always has fresh hazelnut coffee (from organic, free-trade beans, no less) ready made.

Coffee cups are important to the flavor of the coffee to me. Who wants to drink really great coffee out of a mug advertising Mike's Lube and Brake Shop? Not me. I select a cup to suit my mood and need for caffeine. Big, small, pottery, china, flowered, plain, clear glass, large, small, or very cool shape--all are important to finding the right cup for the brew. Weird? I thought so, but recently learned that I am not alone in this persnicketyness. My sister Maggie stood contemplating my rows of cups and said, "Hmmm, which one is the right one this morning?" It must run in the family.

My favorite coffee mug

I'm a tea drinker too. My English mother taught us to make proper English tea, and it ruined me forever for getting hot tea when I'm out. Tea, you see, is best when made with loose leaves. A teaball is acceptable, but loose leaves are better (use a strainer when pouring, unless you like straining through your teeth!).

The water must be boiling, not just hot (which is why she harrumphed at hot tea machines--the water in those is never boiling). Good tea leaves is a must --she liked a brand called PJ Tips and ordered this English tea through a place in Texas. Mom finally began using teabags as she got older, but she was adamant about using good tea. I am not so diehard about it--but I do like Earl Grey or English Breakfast the best, and don't often use anything else.

I also do not like drinking tea out of a mug (Mom's influence again). I need a teacup with a saucer, and bone china is preferred. When we were children, we looked forward to our 12th birthday because that meant we got our very own china teacup and could have tea at the dinnertable with the grown-ups. It was a rite of passage at our house.

My kitchen shelves--my dishes don't go in cabinets, because I like to look at them.

I realized this year that several of my grandchildren were twelve or older and I had not given them a teacup. I am rectifying that, finding beautiful cups in antique shops for each child who has reached the milestone age. The tradition is being passed on and I hope some of the grandchildren will continue it with their children.