Heirloom Ornaments

This article  was scheduled to be published in FOLK Magazine Christmas 2013.  I have no idea what the publication status is and have cut ties with the magazine.  I came across this ornament as I was taking down my tree over the weekend, and I felt the need to share my Grandmother's story even though Christmas 2013 is now behind us.

If we are lucky as adults, we have ornaments from our childhood to pass on to our children.  If we are extra lucky, we have at least one ornament from our parents’ childhood to covet as our own.  It is in these small holiday tokens that live legacies of love and triumph.

My grandmother loved color.  Pink and teal particularly.  Style gurus of 1950’s homemakers had nothing on her.  She raised my mother in a Cape Cod style house my Grandfather built high on a hill overlooking the Shetucket River in Eastern Connecticut.  Her kitchen was done in teal tile, she served simple meals on bright Fiesta dishes, and baked the finest éclairs in New England.   A silver tinsel tree was her signature Christmas centerpiece and upon it were hung the sweetest pink ornaments Woolworths offered.  Mingled in were blown glass ornaments my Great Grandparents brought with them from Czechoslovakia.  And in my Grandmother’s driveway a mammoth 1955 turquoise Buick was the envy of the neighborhood.   She would have to learn to drive it after my Grandfather’s sudden death when my Mom was only ten. Though years of transitioning from a homemaking queen to a single parent would bring difficulty, financial strife and resilience, that silver tree was finely decorated every Christmas as a testament to my Grandmother’s, and my Mother’s, strength to thrive.

Every December, I unwrap an ornament that once hung on my Grandmother’s tree.  I have only one.  I hold it to the sun as the light shines through the mercury glass and shadows tiny hand-painted blue flowers.  I snuck it away from my Mother’s collection one Christmas when I was home from college.  These were the precious bulbs stored in a tattered box with edges secured so many times the box was pretty much tape and dust.  Inside, the vintage ornaments looked like creamy curved marzipan treats peeking through time-thinned tissue paper.  My Grandmother passed away when I was a high school sophomore, before I had a chance to appreciate the lessons she often shared.  This ornament is feather light, delicate, ornate in its simplicity.  Just like my Grandmother.  Four feet ten inches and maybe 90 pounds after a hearty meal.  My Grandmother went to work in the Ponemah velvet mills after my Grandfather died.  She never complained.  Never cried where anyone could see.  Never gave the impression that a woman needed a man for anything.  Always preached love.  Always practiced determination. Always shone with bright color when most other women would have faded to black.

Over the years I have collected vintage ornaments to simulate my Grandmother’s collection, to hold dear the memories my Mother guards with old boxes in cedar chests. To share in the silent strengths that hang in the remains of love snuffed out too early. Pink ornaments now cover my own silver tinsel  tree. And as my daughter joins me in decorating, I share stories of my Grandmother, my Mother, and the Grandfather I never knew in hopes their legacies will fuel generations yet to come. 
LOVE  &  HEIRLOOMS OF LOVE

A Traitor's Ghost

New England cemeteries are living history.  Interactive, open air museums that boast of colonial revolt, romance, lives lived and lost.  As some of the earliest records of our nation, eighteenth century graveyards house the strongest roots of the American story.  Whether you are a history buff, a taphophile, a ghost seeker, nature lover, artist or a photographer, the graveyard welcomes all without prejudice. 

The key to the best New England cemeteries is a good story.  New England loves local lore!  One small cemetery in Norwich, Connecticut is a prime example.  Located just off Norwichtown Green, at the dead end of Cemetery Lane, the Old Burial Ground rests peacefully along a babbling brook and green meadow footpaths.  Revolutionary War soldiers’ remains mingle with early folk art death angels under lichen and moss.  There are headstones so crudely carved it takes a few tangled looks to read the epitaph.  Some stones stand hilltop in graceful repose- having withstood harsh New England elements for more than 200 years. Here, fearless sea captains rest alongside key players in the Declaration of Independence.   But it is the graves that are missing in the Old Burial Ground that get the most attention.  To this day, Hannah Arnold, a grieving mother and wife, is rumored to walk these grounds looking for her husband and sons. It is said, her most infamous son, Benedict Arnold, returns every Halloween on a ghostly white horse to ask his mother for the forgiveness of his sins.

Benedict Arnold, famed traitor of the Revolutionary War, was born and raised in Norwich.  Though he would be a very successful Continental Army General he felt he was slighted in both recognition and money for his service. He traded sides and gave key information to the British that cost the lives of many colonists.  In one particularly bloody battle in New London, Connecticut, a ship named Hannah exploded fueling the fires that would destroy the town.  Benedict’s mother, Hannah, and father, Benedict, died before these acts of treason took place.  But once the Norwich colonists heard of Benedict’s betrayal, an angry mob formed looking for revenge.  Angry citizens descended upon the Old Burial Ground and destroyed the gravesites.

In New England, legend and fact often mix to create campfire stories that are anchored in truth.  Playing in this graveyard as a child I heard both sides of the tale.  Some say the bodies of Benedict Arnold’s father and brother were dug up and destroyed by the angry mob. Details of the destruction depended on the storyteller and the tale grew longer with every new narrator. Others say only the headstones were toppled.  I remember one vivid story about the houses where he served as apprentice and the home where he was born were both burned to the ground. Details of the destruction depended on the storyteller and the tale grew longer with every new narrator.  The one certainty we all counted on: Never be in the graveyard at night, especially not Halloween night. 

No matter where one travels in New England, an early cemetery is in every town.  Ask a local and they are sure to share a haunted or intriguing tale. 

This story was originally published in Folk Magazine Summer 2013.

LOVE & GHOSTS OF OUR PAST

 

 

A Restoration Life

After my recent visit home, many people have asked about living in an old house.  Here is my article published in FOLK Magazine's Summer 2013 issue.  Because the issue was only digitally released, it missed many of my usual readers. So here it is in its entirety. 

 

 A Restoration Life

 

The gem of New England architecture is undoubtedly the iconic colonial home.  Stark lined salt box houses wrapped in primitive color clapboards. Stoic and serene, their simplicity speaks to their origins in an austere new world. New Englanders and visitors alike marvel at these beauties, sometimes voicing how cool it would be to buy one for themselves. But ask anyone who owns such a beast and has attempted a quick fix-up project and they will tell you there is nothing simple about these homes.  Ask the maniacs who devote their lives to restoring these confounded structures, and they will weave a tale like that of an early whaling expedition. (Using my best sea captain voice…) The waters were rough, often unfriendly. Many a foe were encountered.  At times it seemed all would have to abandon ship, but in the end the whale succumbed to the will of man. Reluctantly.

My parents were two such restoration maniacs.  They possessed the Yankee ingenuity, the iron wills and perseverance necessary to spend fifteen years restoring their 1759 Connecticut colonial.  My brother and I would be the unwilling deckhands in their quest for historical accuracy.  Weekends were not meant for relaxing when I was a kid.  My friends knew not to call or knock for fear they too would be drafted into service.  On any given morning, I could wake to the sound of a buzzing table saw sometime before sunrise.  The battle cry of the “Great Restoration” declaring another Saturday would be spent holding up sheet rock, hauling debris, and sweeping up dust held captive for centuries.  This scourge for preservation would last throughout my childhood.  It was a war my parents appeared to enjoy, much to my dismay. Though I didn’t know it at the time, the days working with my parents would build a strong foundation for my future.

When I was in elementary school I regarded my home like a dangerous lair with wide planked floors, low plaster ceilings, and skinny staircases leading into dark crevices.  Any visitors taller than six feet left with a cramped neck and a bruised forehead from a low flying beam.  One bedroom’s floors sloped so badly my brother and I could roll from one side of the room down to the other.  At times we had to watch our feet as we navigated repairs between the bedroom floor and dining room ceiling.  Complaining was not allowed.  If we fell through, it was because we weren’t watching our step. There were no hallways.  Each room connected to the next and the only bathroom was the very last room on the second floor.  Anyone needing to use the toilet, had to go through my room to get there. Privacy was often a luxury surrendered when one wishes to live authentically in a colonial house. Our home was in a constant state of architectural chaos as one by one, each flaw was corrected.



Cerberus, as I affectionately referred to my childhood home, was also pure magic.  For every wall that came down, or floorboard pulled up, treasure waited to be found.  Colonial coins, papers, signatures on wooden beams spelled out the mystery of the home’s earliest residents.  Digging foundation supports or gardens yielded thick old glass bottles, clay tobacco pipes, flatware and discarded pottery.  Part of our backyard was an 18^th century dumping ground.  As a child, summer hours were whittled away under the oaks, trolling away layers of dirt on archaeological digs.  Using giant old antique encyclopedias, my parents and I would research china patterns and coins to identify my finds.  It was like growing up in a museum.  Every day was an opportunity to learn from an artist, an expert in hands-on history.

My father hand-planed fireplace panels, plastered walls, wood shingled the roof, re-wired, re-plumbed, and restored original floorboards.  Wooden planks too far gone were re-purposed into period furniture and trinket boxes which remain in the home today. Only when the chimney needed to be replaced were outside professionals brought in.  Otherwise the entire home was meticulously restored by my family.  

 

My mother weaved her own baskets, participated in a quilting circle, dipped her own candles and strung miles of greens into wreathes and garlands for holiday celebrations.  I remember years of watching her hands work small tools around a white painted banister until the original finish was revealed- a deep maple syrup brown flecked with age, smooth from centuries of hands securing their steps down the narrow stairs.  These same steps would carry me through seventeen years until I was ready to leave for college. 

My life would take me far from my beloved home, but I am lucky that my parents still live there.  I can go home and see their years of hard work still standing strong.  Somehow I also still here that distant whirr of a table saw! The lessons I learned in the restoration years have become my own guiding principles.  The beauty is in the details.  Never do shoddy work thinking no one will notice.  Every small stitch is vital, every hand forged latch necessary.  Never turn away from your heart’s desire, no matter how daunting the road to attainment. Never quit what you have started.  Know it is okay to ask for help. Most importantly, never underestimate the power of teamwork.  With the right people by your side, even the mightiest of whales can be captured.

To read the original article and see more from FOLK Magazine click on the link below.

http://issuu.com/folkmag/docs/digital_folk_summer

 

LOVE  &  RESTORATION!