Some time ago I saw a picture of a bench overlooking a pond, with a question beneath it. "If you could spend an hour here, talking with anyone at all, who would it be?" What a difficult question to answer! I put much thought into it, mulling it over, going through so many faces and personalities in history and life.
Would it be Jesus, who could inform me of what He plans for me? Could I choose Helen Keller whom I've always admired for her determination and spirit? Would it be one of my ancestors who could fill in the blanks for me and tell me about their lives? What a difficult choice to make!
Finally I decided that I would choose my Mother's father. When I could pick anyone at all, why would he be my choice, you might ask. Because I know so little about him. I have my mother's stories, I have a few remembrances from my aunt, but since he passed away when I was less than two years old, I have no remembrance of him.
Grandpa Loper was a small man, about 5 ft 5 in. I know he was thin and slight, because I own one of the jackets that were a part of his Coast Guard uniform. It's surprisingly small! I have many documents of his time in the service, rescuing those from the perilous seas. I see there his height, weight, eye color and when and where he was stationed during his long time of service.
I have read the account of the 'last whale taken off Amagansett' in February, 1907. My grandfather was in one of the boats on that day. He was a very young man at that time. I would like to know what his thoughts were as he took part in that adventure with some of his family members.
From the stories I have heard, he had a quick wit and a keen sense of humor. "He wasn't around much because he was stationed in different places" I have been told. That would have left my Grandmother to raise her 4 girls alone, for the most part. However, the girls knew their father, and loved him enough to have fond memories of their time with him. I only wish that I did.
I feel that not knowing my maternal grandfather, my life is a rather incomplete picture. If I could spend just one hour with him, I would ask him one question. That would be this, "Grandpa, please tell me everything about yourself, your family, your life, until our time runs out?" And I would not speak....I'd only listen.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Sunday, February 2, 2014
The Stories Behind the Visual
What do you see when you view this photo? You may guess the approximate time period, but it would be only a guess, unless you knew the people there. Do you see a young girl and an old lady? It's obvious that it is just that, but there are so many things that the camera's eye...or your own....cannot know when looking at this photo, and any other. Let me tell you the stories in this one.
The picture was taken when the little girl was about three years old, which would make it 1950 or perhaps 1951. The child is donned in a long cotton, striped skirt, which was wrapped, probably at least twice, around her tiny waist. Her Aunt Anita had been playing dress up with her, and the woman, 18 years older than the little one, had chosen her own skirt to put on the child. Then the Aunt had placed many bracelets on the tiny arm, and a string of beads around her neck. A touch of lipstick and a hairbrush completed the look, before the loving Aunt brought her niece to the front porch to join the preschooler's Grandmother.
The older woman sat on the top step of her front porch with her first grandchild. She was enjoying a bit of the afternoon sun. How is it that I know that the time of day is the afternoon? I know because the woman is dressed in something other than a 'house dress and her apron' which was her before-noon attire. She did her housekeeping in the mornings, then she laid down for a rest after lunch, coming downstairs afterward in clothing and jewelry fit for guests, should they stop in. It was her daily routine. I know, too, that it's afternoon, probably mid-afternoon, because the shadows tell me that the sun is in the southern sky. I'm guessing that it is Springtime, because the woman and the child do not have outer garments for warmth, but the wooden storm door is still on the front door. If it was Summer, it would not be on the house, and if it was Fall, it would not have been put on yet to shield the entry from the cold.
Some things are not obvious when we view photographs. Sometimes there is more to the story. I hope you have enjoyed the explanation of the hidden things that this photo tells me. How do I know these statements are fact? Because I was the little girl sitting with her beloved Grandma in the sunshine.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Generation Gap?
Yesterday I was visiting with my Mom, and I noticed that she was wearing a pair of brown, orlon socks. Those socks had been my Dad's. That may not seem significant to you, but my father left this earth in 1985, twenty-eight years ago! I remember him wearing those socks, that were probably bought at Brill's store, on N.Main Street in East Hampton. The store is long-gone, but those socks live on, albeit with a hole in the toe!
I came home to remark to my husband about those socks. As one thought lead to another, we both remembered learning how to darn socks. Nobody knows how to darn a hole in a sock any more. Mom taught me how to do it, I think when I was in the Girl Scouts and working on a Homemaker's badge. Mike's Grandmother taught him the skill, although, having seen his mending of old jeans from his days as a single guy, I can't imagine how skilled his work was! There was a tool ....little wooden 'eggs' on a handle...called darning eggs. It would be placed inside the sock behind the hole. First you would surround the hole with small stitches. This prevented the sock from 'unraveling' further, and secure the place to begin the darning. Then you would begin the 'patching of the hole' by passing the needle, loaded with 'darning cotton' thread from one side of the circle to the other without pulling the hole closed. After the circle had been covered with these threads going in one direction, you would turn the hole, so that the threads ran 'top to bottom', and you'd begin to weave the needle through the vertical threads in a horizontal manner. When you were done, the hole was patched.... not terribly comfortable to wear, as I remember, but patched, none the less.
The 'darning' gave us conversation of other things. My Grandma had a 'rag bag', a handmade fabric bag which held bits of old clothing, soft cloths, etc. which was used for cleaning or dusting purposes. It was hung on a hook on the inside door trim of the living room closet. Sometimes I'd be sent to fetch a rag from it for some household job. Other times, I'd pick through for a pretty piece to practice sewing stitches on.
There were rag rugs in my Grandma's house, 'scatter rugs' they were called then. They were about the size of a door mat, made of strips of cotton fabrics that had been rolled to give them body, and then stitched together to form small rugs to put in doorways or in front of the kitchen sink. They'd be taken outside daily and shaken to free them of dust and dirt. I don't remember, but I would imagine they were washed now and then, and hung on the line to dry.
Oh yes, and clotheslines! They are nearly a thing of the past. Many subdivisions don't allow them, which is an awful shame, I think. There is nothing like fresh air drying for things like bed sheets! Everything smells better when hung outside to air in the breeze, and white things are so much whiter when hung in the bright sunlight! Grandma had a clothesline in her yard....a square that was formed by four old tall posts, which were probably once growing locust trees. The rope was hung high on those posts and strung from one post to the next, and tied taut. Since the rope always seemed to stretch under the weight of wet clothing, there were long poles that had a fork at the top to catch the ropes and were then propped on the other end against the ground, lifting the clothing to prevent any reaching to the ground. We kids learned early to stay away from the clotheslines! Dirty hand prints on the newly washed sheets was frowned upon.
Laundry day wasn't as easy as it is for women today. There was a galvanized wash tub on Grandma's back porch wall. It was filled with boiling water and things were scrubbed clean on a wooden framed, rippled glass, 'scrub board'. Not only did the wash get scrubbed, so did knuckles!
Grandma had another large kettle that was placed on the stove, and in it went white things to boil. When they were clean, they'd be lifted out with a long stick, and rinsed a few times in the tub of clean hot water, then wrung out by hand, and hung out to dry. When it was dry, the wash was folded and most things had to be ironed. Grandma had electricity, and an electric iron, but whatever was in the basket to be ironed had to be 'sprinkled' . There was a bottle used for that purpose, with a cork at the top, with a cap with small holes in it. You shook the bottle upside down, allowing a 'sprinkling' over the items, then they were rolled, so that they were damp, but not wet, all through the item. Then they'd be unrolled on the ironing board and pressed free of dampness and wrinkles.
Things aren't the same today, for sure. For all our complaining, women have it easy today. We throw holey socks away. They don't even go in the 'rag bag'. Who even HAS a rag bag for cleaning? We have paper towels, or Clorox wipes to do the job of a rag. We rarely do hand washing, and almost never hang laundry outside anymore. Would a teen of today know what a 'sprinkling bottle' was used for if they saw one? Do they ever iron anything these days? Life moves on.... bringing new gadgets that kids adapt to quickly, amazing things that some of us 'oldies' wouldn't know what to do with....or want to. Generation Gap... well, I'll say!
I came home to remark to my husband about those socks. As one thought lead to another, we both remembered learning how to darn socks. Nobody knows how to darn a hole in a sock any more. Mom taught me how to do it, I think when I was in the Girl Scouts and working on a Homemaker's badge. Mike's Grandmother taught him the skill, although, having seen his mending of old jeans from his days as a single guy, I can't imagine how skilled his work was! There was a tool ....little wooden 'eggs' on a handle...called darning eggs. It would be placed inside the sock behind the hole. First you would surround the hole with small stitches. This prevented the sock from 'unraveling' further, and secure the place to begin the darning. Then you would begin the 'patching of the hole' by passing the needle, loaded with 'darning cotton' thread from one side of the circle to the other without pulling the hole closed. After the circle had been covered with these threads going in one direction, you would turn the hole, so that the threads ran 'top to bottom', and you'd begin to weave the needle through the vertical threads in a horizontal manner. When you were done, the hole was patched.... not terribly comfortable to wear, as I remember, but patched, none the less.
The 'darning' gave us conversation of other things. My Grandma had a 'rag bag', a handmade fabric bag which held bits of old clothing, soft cloths, etc. which was used for cleaning or dusting purposes. It was hung on a hook on the inside door trim of the living room closet. Sometimes I'd be sent to fetch a rag from it for some household job. Other times, I'd pick through for a pretty piece to practice sewing stitches on.
There were rag rugs in my Grandma's house, 'scatter rugs' they were called then. They were about the size of a door mat, made of strips of cotton fabrics that had been rolled to give them body, and then stitched together to form small rugs to put in doorways or in front of the kitchen sink. They'd be taken outside daily and shaken to free them of dust and dirt. I don't remember, but I would imagine they were washed now and then, and hung on the line to dry.
Oh yes, and clotheslines! They are nearly a thing of the past. Many subdivisions don't allow them, which is an awful shame, I think. There is nothing like fresh air drying for things like bed sheets! Everything smells better when hung outside to air in the breeze, and white things are so much whiter when hung in the bright sunlight! Grandma had a clothesline in her yard....a square that was formed by four old tall posts, which were probably once growing locust trees. The rope was hung high on those posts and strung from one post to the next, and tied taut. Since the rope always seemed to stretch under the weight of wet clothing, there were long poles that had a fork at the top to catch the ropes and were then propped on the other end against the ground, lifting the clothing to prevent any reaching to the ground. We kids learned early to stay away from the clotheslines! Dirty hand prints on the newly washed sheets was frowned upon.
Laundry day wasn't as easy as it is for women today. There was a galvanized wash tub on Grandma's back porch wall. It was filled with boiling water and things were scrubbed clean on a wooden framed, rippled glass, 'scrub board'. Not only did the wash get scrubbed, so did knuckles!
Grandma had another large kettle that was placed on the stove, and in it went white things to boil. When they were clean, they'd be lifted out with a long stick, and rinsed a few times in the tub of clean hot water, then wrung out by hand, and hung out to dry. When it was dry, the wash was folded and most things had to be ironed. Grandma had electricity, and an electric iron, but whatever was in the basket to be ironed had to be 'sprinkled' . There was a bottle used for that purpose, with a cork at the top, with a cap with small holes in it. You shook the bottle upside down, allowing a 'sprinkling' over the items, then they were rolled, so that they were damp, but not wet, all through the item. Then they'd be unrolled on the ironing board and pressed free of dampness and wrinkles.
Things aren't the same today, for sure. For all our complaining, women have it easy today. We throw holey socks away. They don't even go in the 'rag bag'. Who even HAS a rag bag for cleaning? We have paper towels, or Clorox wipes to do the job of a rag. We rarely do hand washing, and almost never hang laundry outside anymore. Would a teen of today know what a 'sprinkling bottle' was used for if they saw one? Do they ever iron anything these days? Life moves on.... bringing new gadgets that kids adapt to quickly, amazing things that some of us 'oldies' wouldn't know what to do with....or want to. Generation Gap... well, I'll say!
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Old House, Part 2
A few times a week, on the way to or from work, I'd drive by my childhood home to see whether someone new had bought it and moved in. Eventually, I saw things happening at the place. It wasn't things I liked seeing, nor was it anything I dreamed would happen.
A huge piece of heavy equipment was parked in the yard.....some sort of bull dozer. The house had lost its shingles, and it had been stripped of the tar paper that used to be between the shingles and the plywood that formed the outside walls. Over the next few days, windows were removed, then plywood came off the studwork, leaving a skeleton of the house. Just as I had watched the construction from the ground up, I was now watching a process of deconstruction. It was upsetting.
A few days later, I noticed that there was a new block foundation on the dining room end of the house. Now what? It wasn't long before I saw that the structure that I knew as "Home" was gone. Everything about it...gone. The building,the weeping willow, the 50 plus year old Azalea bushes, some of which had been moved from our former home to the new one, the Lilacs, the beautiful Crab Apple tree that bloomed so profusely in the front yard each Spring, all destroyed and carted away. The tall pine trees in the back yard where Daddy had fixed a long bar with swings hanging on it for my kids to play on had been demolished. The large, prolific, bright blue Hydrangeas that had been in near the house and the border of the property, crushed by the machinery. The sunny spots where Dad had his garden and compost piles had been erased. I felt as if my life had been eradicated.
In time, a new house was built...from the ground up. It, too, was a long, narrow, one story structure. They'd added to the foundation, but used the old one to build upon, but it sure didn't look a thing like the home I'd lived in. My curiosity got the best of me one day, and I tried to peek inside the windows. All I could see was that the house was open from the front wall to the back one. It didn't tell me much. Sometime later, after work, I saw that there was a workman at the house. I bit the bullet, gathered my nerve, and knocked on the door, telling him I'd lived in the former house, and wondered if I could see the new one. He let me in, let me wonder through the unfamiliar areas.
The front door had been moved. The wall of the living room, where our TV used to be, now was the location of a lovely fireplace. On the other side of that wall used to have three bedrooms, now it was two larger ones. The kitchen had been moved, and the house was very open. You could look through front windows clear through to look out of the back windows. Everything was so different. The views to the back yard showed that the property had been cleared of all vegetation to the boundary lines, still marked by orange neon painted stakes left by the surveryors. There, smack in the middle of the lawn where our picnic table sat in the shade and where the grill had been used, was a rectangular, turquoise, vinyl, inground swimming pool.
Yes, it was all lovely....but still, heartache filled my chest. I left that day knowing that changes had taken place...transformations that I couldn't undo. Over time, before a new family had moved into that building, the house was sold again, and the vinyl pool was replaced with a gunite one. A step up patio was installed in the front of the house, forward of where Grandpa's room once stood. Then privet was planted around it, for privacy. A garage was built on to the front left of the house and a driveway moved to that end from the other side. Today there is a tall privet near the street, blocking the house, almost completely from the road.
No longer do I worry about the changes in my childhood homeplace. Changes take place in everything. My life had taken many turns since the days I lived on that property. A marriage, a family, a divorce, grown children, a new marriage, a move to another state. Not all changes are bad things, some bring real happiness. The days and events lived in that small ranch house my Dad built will always be a part of me, no one can change that. It is my hope that the memories made in the new residence, for the new occupants, will be as good for them as mine are for me.
A huge piece of heavy equipment was parked in the yard.....some sort of bull dozer. The house had lost its shingles, and it had been stripped of the tar paper that used to be between the shingles and the plywood that formed the outside walls. Over the next few days, windows were removed, then plywood came off the studwork, leaving a skeleton of the house. Just as I had watched the construction from the ground up, I was now watching a process of deconstruction. It was upsetting.
A few days later, I noticed that there was a new block foundation on the dining room end of the house. Now what? It wasn't long before I saw that the structure that I knew as "Home" was gone. Everything about it...gone. The building,the weeping willow, the 50 plus year old Azalea bushes, some of which had been moved from our former home to the new one, the Lilacs, the beautiful Crab Apple tree that bloomed so profusely in the front yard each Spring, all destroyed and carted away. The tall pine trees in the back yard where Daddy had fixed a long bar with swings hanging on it for my kids to play on had been demolished. The large, prolific, bright blue Hydrangeas that had been in near the house and the border of the property, crushed by the machinery. The sunny spots where Dad had his garden and compost piles had been erased. I felt as if my life had been eradicated.
In time, a new house was built...from the ground up. It, too, was a long, narrow, one story structure. They'd added to the foundation, but used the old one to build upon, but it sure didn't look a thing like the home I'd lived in. My curiosity got the best of me one day, and I tried to peek inside the windows. All I could see was that the house was open from the front wall to the back one. It didn't tell me much. Sometime later, after work, I saw that there was a workman at the house. I bit the bullet, gathered my nerve, and knocked on the door, telling him I'd lived in the former house, and wondered if I could see the new one. He let me in, let me wonder through the unfamiliar areas.
The front door had been moved. The wall of the living room, where our TV used to be, now was the location of a lovely fireplace. On the other side of that wall used to have three bedrooms, now it was two larger ones. The kitchen had been moved, and the house was very open. You could look through front windows clear through to look out of the back windows. Everything was so different. The views to the back yard showed that the property had been cleared of all vegetation to the boundary lines, still marked by orange neon painted stakes left by the surveryors. There, smack in the middle of the lawn where our picnic table sat in the shade and where the grill had been used, was a rectangular, turquoise, vinyl, inground swimming pool.
Yes, it was all lovely....but still, heartache filled my chest. I left that day knowing that changes had taken place...transformations that I couldn't undo. Over time, before a new family had moved into that building, the house was sold again, and the vinyl pool was replaced with a gunite one. A step up patio was installed in the front of the house, forward of where Grandpa's room once stood. Then privet was planted around it, for privacy. A garage was built on to the front left of the house and a driveway moved to that end from the other side. Today there is a tall privet near the street, blocking the house, almost completely from the road.
No longer do I worry about the changes in my childhood homeplace. Changes take place in everything. My life had taken many turns since the days I lived on that property. A marriage, a family, a divorce, grown children, a new marriage, a move to another state. Not all changes are bad things, some bring real happiness. The days and events lived in that small ranch house my Dad built will always be a part of me, no one can change that. It is my hope that the memories made in the new residence, for the new occupants, will be as good for them as mine are for me.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Memories of the Old House
Inspired to write this morning, by the blog entry of a friend. He took a trip back to his childhood home and wrote of his feelings about it all. My own experience was somewhat different.
The home I spent the majority of my young life in was built when I was about ten years old. It was a simple ranch house, three bedrooms and a bath. It was a typical model of the late 1950's and later. It wasn't fancy, by any means, but it was our home and many memories were made there. A few years later, a separate dining room, another bathroom and a bedroom for Grandpa were added on. My Dad and my Uncle Ros worked tirelessly after their day jobs and every weekend to complete the addition.
The building of that house brought about the building of new friendships in our neighborhood, friendships that have lasted a lifetime. Preteen days found me spending much more time with the girls in the group than with my family members. It was the dawn of a new day for me...seeing more of how other people lived than what I knew at home. I didn't appreciate all that I saw, or come to realize until years later, how much better things were for me than I knew.
Then came those confusing years as a teenager, new lessons to learn, new ideas to explore. I was struggling, like most teens do, to figure things out. My parents were wise and their lessons were taught to me from their wisdom. Again, I didn't always appreciate the strict rules and fact that I wasn't given permission to do what many of my classmates did on weekends. I wasn't so rebellious as to go against what I was raised with, so I missed out on what I thought must have been the best of fun. It caused resentments, but I got over it, and came to understand that though I was kept on a rather short leash, it was for my own good.
The house was the place I introduced young men to my parents before I went out on dates with them. It was where my first husband proposed to me. It was where I prepared for my wedding, and where I brought home our first-born child a little more than a year later, as our new house was under construction. It was the place I ran to...to the house and to my parents' advice when things were rocky in my life. It was where we spent our first days mourning my Dad's death.
This was the home that enveloped me while I learned about beginnings and endings.
Many years and events later, my widowed Mom decided it was time to sell that house. It saddened me. It was yet another loss for me. What would happen to that house? I hoped that another family would move in and enjoy making their own memories. It did not happen that way. A single woman, an investor bought it, and did absolutely nothing with it for a year, when she sold it at a profit. Again, I hoped for a new family.....and again, I was disappointed.
With a sense of grief, I came to realize that it was not 'our' house any longer. Life brings changes of all kinds. Some of them take us to places of sadness. This realization was one of those times.
I watched the house to see what changes would come along. *Watch this site to find out what those changes were. Tomorrow, it will be revealed.*
The home I spent the majority of my young life in was built when I was about ten years old. It was a simple ranch house, three bedrooms and a bath. It was a typical model of the late 1950's and later. It wasn't fancy, by any means, but it was our home and many memories were made there. A few years later, a separate dining room, another bathroom and a bedroom for Grandpa were added on. My Dad and my Uncle Ros worked tirelessly after their day jobs and every weekend to complete the addition.
The building of that house brought about the building of new friendships in our neighborhood, friendships that have lasted a lifetime. Preteen days found me spending much more time with the girls in the group than with my family members. It was the dawn of a new day for me...seeing more of how other people lived than what I knew at home. I didn't appreciate all that I saw, or come to realize until years later, how much better things were for me than I knew.
Then came those confusing years as a teenager, new lessons to learn, new ideas to explore. I was struggling, like most teens do, to figure things out. My parents were wise and their lessons were taught to me from their wisdom. Again, I didn't always appreciate the strict rules and fact that I wasn't given permission to do what many of my classmates did on weekends. I wasn't so rebellious as to go against what I was raised with, so I missed out on what I thought must have been the best of fun. It caused resentments, but I got over it, and came to understand that though I was kept on a rather short leash, it was for my own good.
The house was the place I introduced young men to my parents before I went out on dates with them. It was where my first husband proposed to me. It was where I prepared for my wedding, and where I brought home our first-born child a little more than a year later, as our new house was under construction. It was the place I ran to...to the house and to my parents' advice when things were rocky in my life. It was where we spent our first days mourning my Dad's death.
This was the home that enveloped me while I learned about beginnings and endings.
Many years and events later, my widowed Mom decided it was time to sell that house. It saddened me. It was yet another loss for me. What would happen to that house? I hoped that another family would move in and enjoy making their own memories. It did not happen that way. A single woman, an investor bought it, and did absolutely nothing with it for a year, when she sold it at a profit. Again, I hoped for a new family.....and again, I was disappointed.
With a sense of grief, I came to realize that it was not 'our' house any longer. Life brings changes of all kinds. Some of them take us to places of sadness. This realization was one of those times.
I watched the house to see what changes would come along. *Watch this site to find out what those changes were. Tomorrow, it will be revealed.*
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
A Sharetown Story
There once was a peaceful little town that sat at the edge of the sea. The salt air smelled fresh and clean. The sun shone bright and danced on the surface of the water. The sky was bright blue, without a cloud. Flowers bloomed in brilliant colors. It was a happy place.
The residents of the small township of Sharetown were friendly and cordial. They smiled as they met in passing. They waved at the folks going past their homes and they spoke kindly to one another. They met together often, sharing stories and spinning their yarns. All lived in harmony in their quiet little town, sharing what they had with one another.
One day something strange happened. The sky was still blue, but there were some gray spots that floated against the backdrop, casting shadows on the earth below. The town folk watched to see what this was all about. Soon, there were more spots, and the sky was over taken with gray. There were no longer shadows. The people looked at one another, wondering what this new thing was. Very soon, they knew.
A stranger had entered the area. He had a loud, booming voice. He looked like a dragon and his name was EGO. He belched smoke from his mouth, and with every puff of smoke, color was stolen from the town. The town looked as if a big fog had rolled in off the sea. At first the people tried to be friendly to the stranger, but he took the spinning wheels from them and spun yarns of his own.... long, bland, colorless threads. They tried to deal with him, but he would not have it. He came in and out of the town whenever he chose to, and when he was there, the people hid on him. They went into their homes and lived their lives, always aware that the dragon was around. They met in each others homes and secret rooms, trying to come up with a plan that would allow harmony and peace to return to their little village.
EGO put his nose up to the windows, attempting to see into each life that lived inside. He strutted in the streets, roaring his head off. With every deep breath, he grew larger. With every puff of smoke, another tail would grow. Soon EGO was so big he couldn't see inside the windows. All he could see was himself. He would primp and prance in front of his reflection thinking he was so impressive.
The townspeople made a secret pact. They would lure him with a huge mirror, placed just outside the gates of town. They would convince him that he should take a better look at himself in that mirror. It worked! Once EGO saw himself in that large looking glass, he huffed and puffed and strutted, and grew even larger! Soon he was so big that he couldn't see all of himself in the new mirror!
The townspeople went back inside the gates and bolted them shut! The knew that EGO had grown so large that he couldn't fit through the gate, even if it was unlatched. He couldn't fit inside their town! EGO was outside! They could ignore his huffing and puffing! Then the people realized something else. The air turned clean and clear again. The sky was blue and the sun shone on the sea. The flowers were brilliant colors again! The people could live in peace and harmony once more!
They danced and sang and had a big party in celebration! And life in Sharetown, at the edge of the sea, was happy once more.
Moral of the story: Sometimes what you think of yourself can give people a bad impression. If you want to fit in with others, make an effort not to take over.
The residents of the small township of Sharetown were friendly and cordial. They smiled as they met in passing. They waved at the folks going past their homes and they spoke kindly to one another. They met together often, sharing stories and spinning their yarns. All lived in harmony in their quiet little town, sharing what they had with one another.
One day something strange happened. The sky was still blue, but there were some gray spots that floated against the backdrop, casting shadows on the earth below. The town folk watched to see what this was all about. Soon, there were more spots, and the sky was over taken with gray. There were no longer shadows. The people looked at one another, wondering what this new thing was. Very soon, they knew.
A stranger had entered the area. He had a loud, booming voice. He looked like a dragon and his name was EGO. He belched smoke from his mouth, and with every puff of smoke, color was stolen from the town. The town looked as if a big fog had rolled in off the sea. At first the people tried to be friendly to the stranger, but he took the spinning wheels from them and spun yarns of his own.... long, bland, colorless threads. They tried to deal with him, but he would not have it. He came in and out of the town whenever he chose to, and when he was there, the people hid on him. They went into their homes and lived their lives, always aware that the dragon was around. They met in each others homes and secret rooms, trying to come up with a plan that would allow harmony and peace to return to their little village.
EGO put his nose up to the windows, attempting to see into each life that lived inside. He strutted in the streets, roaring his head off. With every deep breath, he grew larger. With every puff of smoke, another tail would grow. Soon EGO was so big he couldn't see inside the windows. All he could see was himself. He would primp and prance in front of his reflection thinking he was so impressive.
The townspeople made a secret pact. They would lure him with a huge mirror, placed just outside the gates of town. They would convince him that he should take a better look at himself in that mirror. It worked! Once EGO saw himself in that large looking glass, he huffed and puffed and strutted, and grew even larger! Soon he was so big that he couldn't see all of himself in the new mirror!
The townspeople went back inside the gates and bolted them shut! The knew that EGO had grown so large that he couldn't fit through the gate, even if it was unlatched. He couldn't fit inside their town! EGO was outside! They could ignore his huffing and puffing! Then the people realized something else. The air turned clean and clear again. The sky was blue and the sun shone on the sea. The flowers were brilliant colors again! The people could live in peace and harmony once more!
They danced and sang and had a big party in celebration! And life in Sharetown, at the edge of the sea, was happy once more.
Moral of the story: Sometimes what you think of yourself can give people a bad impression. If you want to fit in with others, make an effort not to take over.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Sun Room
It's chilly in the sun room this morning. It's that time of year when the days later and cooler and then warm up to a comfortable temperature. It's that wonderful season when the air conditioner has been turned off, the doors and windows are flung open for the fresh air to flow freely through the house, and the heat is not turned on yet. I love this time of year.
It is the time where we begin preparations for the winter....putting outside furnishings away, cleaning up the gardens, having the heating unit checked and serviced. For me, it's also a time of removing things from the sun porch, where I work all Spring and Summer on my craft items. Soon it will be time to close the doors that attach this room to the kitchen, for the temperatures in the unheated space get too cold to spend much time there. We do open it again for our winter gatherings with family, but we do that days ahead of time so that it warms with the heat from the house or from the frequent use of the oven. We do have an electric fireplace too, with adjustable temperature control which heats a crowded room enough to be comfortable.
I really miss this room, though, in the winter. It is my favorite room in the house. It's so light and bright and comfortably furnished for sitting, eating, crafting. I could live in this room. Since it is almost a 4 season room, but not quite, I see little reason to add heat to it at this point. The sun room will soon be cleaned well, and closed up, but will be opened again a few days before Christmas for the incoming family. Ahhhh, well, the living will be done in the room intended for such action....the living room!
It is the time where we begin preparations for the winter....putting outside furnishings away, cleaning up the gardens, having the heating unit checked and serviced. For me, it's also a time of removing things from the sun porch, where I work all Spring and Summer on my craft items. Soon it will be time to close the doors that attach this room to the kitchen, for the temperatures in the unheated space get too cold to spend much time there. We do open it again for our winter gatherings with family, but we do that days ahead of time so that it warms with the heat from the house or from the frequent use of the oven. We do have an electric fireplace too, with adjustable temperature control which heats a crowded room enough to be comfortable.
I really miss this room, though, in the winter. It is my favorite room in the house. It's so light and bright and comfortably furnished for sitting, eating, crafting. I could live in this room. Since it is almost a 4 season room, but not quite, I see little reason to add heat to it at this point. The sun room will soon be cleaned well, and closed up, but will be opened again a few days before Christmas for the incoming family. Ahhhh, well, the living will be done in the room intended for such action....the living room!
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