a family gathering

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(enlarge this to see the photographs in detail)

There are recognizable faces to readers of this page- the great lady, Nancy Astor, her niece, one of our favorites, Nancy Lancaster, along with the famous Langhorne Sisters drawn by John Singer Sargent.

I love these sorts of walls-this one in the dining area of Elizabeth Winn's London flat. The flat was photographed for  The Englishwoman's House-a book published in 1984.  Elizabeth Winn- Nancy Astor's great niece wrote the piece about her home for the edition and of  this photograph she says- The walls are "plastered with black and white photographs of my family past and present, which makes it very nostalgic for me." Not mentioning her famous connections, Winn shares one of the intimate spots in her house that must have been a great joy and perhaps a bitter sweet one too. Images of  loved ones past- loved and along with them the up and coming-much to love- generation that will carry on the name, the stories, the photographs. I don't know if the wall still exists or if the family photographs have been broken up and passed along to the next generation in Winn's family.  It really doesn't matter. Doesn't that wall exists for us all somewhere?

I well remember a room with polished log walls where my great grandmother slept. It became the room where she could usually be found when I went out for visits.
She wasn't holding court as some might think-rather she was holding a place for all her loved ones -many scattered away from home- in that room.

The screen door to the log house-always open-the doors always unlocked. Come in.

Step onto a long enclosed porch where every variety of plant & seedling was lined up along a shelf that ran across the length of window. Just beyond that shelf-the bathroom, an addition at some time in the house's history-when I don't know-for once upon a time a privy had existed out on the grounds just beyond the house.

From the porch to the kitchen, I enter & am accosted by the fragrant odors of baking pies, cakes, always baking. Lots of baking was done there, someone-one of four of my great aunts always seemed to be baking.

From the kitchen and on to the bedroom where MaMa is keeping  faith with her memories.

There- in the room along with bed and sofa and chair-is the Family.
There in that room "plastered" everywhere are the images of her daughters and her son-my grandfather.
From that generation to the next-there are the grandchildren- my father and the other grandchildren added to the logs .
My parents wedding portrait hanging amidst all these photographs.
Onward to the great grandchildren- my own generation and forward. Mama is keeping faith with the family by adding pictures of every sort-with many spilling out onto her mantle.
Often-if she is not sleeping, I might ask for a story from her or my father or mother about one of the pictures-

"Now who was that? "

"MaMa is that you? "

"Where is my picture?"

"Was  I born when that picture was taken?"

"Now how am I kin to them, Daddie?"

Hearing and hoping to remember that strand of our story so on my next visit I can share it with her- and so on from there to the next.
It's my story.
It is all a memory of course-
The wall is gone-long gone-as is the  house- as it was known to our family.
There is a private family cemetery where so many gather together again- but for me- it is that wall that I think of and remember.
It's my story and I think of it and often I dip back to those days-
the stories
the Family
and that wall.

(photograph by Derry Moore are from The Englishwoman's House)

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craving coconut cake

I can just see my Mother rushing about on Saturday putting the finishing touches on my Easter outfit. One year she sewed a linen shift, cream with blue trimmings and a blue linen cape to match. I'm sure a hat was involved- or maybe just a new ribbon for my hair. Beautifully turned out-except for the white patent leather shoes-of course they should have been cream-but clearly-that wasn't happening.

Mother sewed for me- Daddie shopped for me. He always leaned toward sailor ensembles. There was a sporty navy jacket with brass buttons and pleated skirt-a stripe top,  finished off with a white beret-red, white and blue ribbons streaming from the side. I loved that hat. Yes, tailored sailor suits for his little girl- after all he was a Naval man.

As evidenced by the cape, Mother preferred something more feminine. But then again navy blue seemed to be a  style choice both parents embraced. A spiffy navy and white hounds tooth spring coat with matching dress that boasted a very smart bib front made of crisp white organdy ruffles. A white bowler  finished off this look and worked the white patents , but I wore the black, so I could carry my favourite handbag-granted that was the only one I owned at the time.

I am sure the Boys (my brothers) got new ties or something like that.

Mother was busy during this holiday-besides doing wardrobe- every Easter she always baked a coconut cake. Her artistry knew no bounds. Having studied art at UNC-G back in the day, our coconut cakes were quite painterly.
Not just any coconut cake but one that looked just like an Easter bunny-Didn't everyone have one? Yes, an Easter bunny cake-replete with jelly beans made from scratch.
 It followed-Easter =New Dress= Coconut Cake.
The coconut cake's decoration evolved as her children grew older.
The bunny turned into a fresh green (coconut food coloring) lawn (a sheet cake) and flower buds  (jelly beans) hidden in the landscape (icing).
Mother no longer bakes-in fact-she never was a baker-but come Easter, come Coconut Cake.

 

 just like this-it's lovely really but Mother is an artist
and Our Bunny was quite painterly (the cake from here)

Corsages were the thing that said Easter. Occasionally my Grandmother would make one for my Mother and me, oft times the florist was called in and corsages were dropped off on Saturday. Flowers to match please! Something just perfect for a sailor! My mother looked particularly beautiful on these Easter Sunday mornings. None of the hectic Saturday "wardrobe mistress" showed, nor the evening rounds of Sunday school lessons and overseeing my Saturday night shampoo, set, and style. Mother always looked right- whether dressing up in the nautical style we so embraced, or wearing a yellow two piece slub linen suit. A yellow just the colour of the hundreds of living  peeps (not the marshmallow kind) at my great grandmother's over the last few weeks prior to Easter.

The formidable Ma Ma & her daughter Eustean raised chickens-hence, little biddy-peeps were always popping up to strengthen the brood. The kitchen was prime real estate for the appliance size boxes full of chicks. That country kitchen housed a massive much used wood burning cook stove and assured the chirping yellow masses would be warm-toasty even. Holding them as tightly as allowed, I thought of the sad little purple and greens biddys I had seen at the dime store.
Did they ever survive?
They looked so sad-I pitied those little peeps.
Poor peeps- likely their fate was no different from Ma Ma's chicks, or for that matter my brother's pet duck, "Mustard," whose life was "cut short" when he went to live with Ma Ma. Ma Ma & Tean were of sturdy German stock, little sentiment was allowed when it came to a pet duck versus a savory Sunday lunch on the table, but that's another story.

After my new wardrobe took in Sunday services, a long awaited Easter Egg hunt at Naomi and Lewis's (my grandparents-they liked to be call by their first names) commenced; hidden eggs, cousins, and a  prize. I don't remember what the prize was, probably money. I never won, but with each egg I collected, dozens of Easter memories were being put away for a day like today, when nothing but a new hat, and coconut cake will do.

Happy Easter-whatever your preferences might be.

(last year's little augury Easter Posts here and here)
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Shall We Gather?

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...it all started with Dafs. As mentioned my favorite yellow- and for some reason this year, I have been remiss in gathering them. My grandmother had borders thick- and never- did she pick.

Dafs in tulipiere

Maybe just an occasional bloom or two would go in her heavy brass vase made in India. She never visited India~ Nor could I imagine her there- though she did follow my grandfather to a little town- gathering wayside flowers as she traveled- not taboo in the 20's.

Naomi, a triple exposure with the fading figure of my grandfather in the background

I have always enjoyed masses of daffodils in the house- however after writing about my preference to gather- it seemed that this year- I wanted to drink them in as Naomi did-where they grow. Flower petals, stem and bulb all feeding til they fade. Naomi gathered family; this was her preference.

but With the Dafs fading, I decided to gather. Admiring the nuanced colors, many specimens and generally gushing over them in a simple white tulipiere.





I plant a few new Daffodils every year- I have accumulated: simple Dafs that naturalize, Tazetta, Jonquil, Daffodil White Lion, Delmashaugh, Narcissus Thalia, Calgary, Snow, Safina, Lemon Drop (Double Dafs)- to name a few.... the hunting part.

...& then, along came the eggs. Eighteen to be exact. A dozen and a half beautiful eggs in extraordinary wash of colors.

eighteen eggs

I was bowled over. My gentlemen farmer friends (really a she and a he)- gathered these and dropped them off at the house right before Easter. What luck to have perfectly dyed eggs- compliments of nature and of friends. Had I tried to get these shades- I would have failed, Miserably.




Fairly new friends, these "farmers", We met while gathering in our small- shall we say- Southern Gothic town to campaign for Barack Obama. A small group gathered new voters throughout the summer- anxious to see how far this little place had come. I thought to myself-If everyone across the country in places like this are gathering too ( A Miracle in of itself) Change Will Come.

Southern Gothic uptown

Change did come. New Friendships came.

...and then the eggs.







...that started me thinking about another collection of Eggs I had gathered; the last of a vast collection of prints from the NATURAL HISTORY of the NESTS and EGGS of BRITISH BIRDS by the Rev. F. O. MORRIS. Purchased in a baker's dozen, the overwhelmingly nuanced collection were the eggs no one else wanted.






What fascinates is the ever so slight difference in each of the prints.

the British Eggs of Reverend F.O. Morris

...landing me right in the chicken coops and hen houses of my great grandmother- Avie Eustean Fleig, known to all as MaMa.

MaMa was ancient when I was born, so it seemed to me and when she died at the age of 89- I was 19. MaMa was not so ancient, but the world had changed and she was still"of her day," not to mention the fact that M. sewed for four daughters, designed an occasional wedding dress for a county bride, gardened-vegetables and flowers, tended chickens, chopped wood, wielded a mean shovel to put down a snake and cooked on a wood stove most of her life (another topic to be sure). She sat in the kitchen in a rocker near the radio-Supervising. I guess it was her throne of sorts and well deserved.

Gathering~
the MaMa I always knew

I remember MaMa-
a two story log house- with a newel post that as a child- I could not get my arms around, yet every time I went out to MaMa's I would try it out. Eventually I was able to ring around and wondered what the fuss was all about.

...but about the Eggs. Always in abundance at MaMa's, along with huge cardboard boxes of little peeps in the kitchen around the same time each year.


Peeps to Coops, to Chicken Yard, to Eggs. MaMa sold eggs to a local grocer and to "private clients." MaMa gathered it all- family too. Pictures lined the polished log walls in her sitting room and bedroom- dozens and dozens, daughters traveling, moving far, but staying near-through still images and stories MaMa told... as we gathered round her chair.


We all gather, and if blessed- the simple things and the irreplaceable people come our way.


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