10.31.07
Posted in Uncategorized, Quilts at 12:26 pm by Administrator
Why do people collect old quilts? Oh, I suppose there are many reasons. Some buy them as curiosities. Some buy them as “investments.” Some buy them to study their fabrics and design, to ascertain when they might have been made, and to save a piece of history.
Ever since an interest in quilts became more apparent, a trend that has been brewing again since the mid-1960s, dealers have jacked up prices. Demand of the public equals higher prices. Consequently, one sees quilts that probably might have gone to a new home in the landfill years ago, now being offered, and at prices that are high, for what they are.
Sometimes, quilts are ragged beyond belief, or stained, but are worth adding to a collection. They take their rightful place among other more pristine-condition quilts one might collect or make. Old quilts show us where we’ve been.
The 1870s quilt above was purchased in New England but came with no provenance. It looks as though someone spilled bleach on it. In places the patches are totally missing. Nothing about the hand-quilted quilt is “straight, or “correct,” yet someone literally wore it out. Someone loved the quilt. I love what is left of it, especially because of its strong, graphic colors.
In another age, a quilt would be used, not hung on a wall to keep the wall warm. A quilt was just a part of living, common, utilitarian, and yes, sometimes, uninspiring. Today, to those just becoming interested in quilting, it is a big deal to make a first quilt. It’s like being a pioneer, or sailing in uncharted waters. It’s an adventure akin to saying, “Well, tomorrow, I think I’ll just head out on the wagon trail and maybe land in Oregon.” While it is an individual adventure, if you are making a first quilt, you are walking on a well-traveled path, already scouted out by many others before you.
Today, we see quilts that garner high sums of money, and quilts that are shown in international quilt venues and in catalogues geared to rich buyers. Alas, not all quilts are or were created equal. To compare the New England quilt, seen above, to any of those quilts … well, let’s just say that there is no comparison.
Why would anyone want to buy a ragged, falling-apart, old quilt? For me, I just love the whimsical way in which the quilter put the blocks together. I found the too-large quilting stitches to be charming, and perhaps the work of a beginner. Finally, I love the quilt for what it represents: the home, the hearth, the making of quilts to keep loved ones warm. This is a New England quilt, in its purest, most unadulterated form. Those who live in New Hampshire, part of the “Yankee” tribe, you know, are simple (not to be confused with simple-minded), and frugal. We subscribe to “the waste not, want not, theory of living.” For these reasons and more, I just had to show you this quilt.
A New Englander, born and bred. It’s in my bones.
Patricia Cummings
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10.29.07
Posted in Anecdotes at 11:27 pm by Administrator
“Road Rooster” - a photo by James Cummings
The old joke goes, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
Answer: “To get to the other side.”
Well, being a farm girl at heart, I was quite pleased when a rooster walked out into the middle of the road to greet us, last week, when were visiting a small New Hampshire town. He had high hopes of being fed, and so did his buddies, that you see trailing behind.
There are always surprises in life, at every turn. This was one of them. The rooster eyed us, in what I interpreted to be a friendly manner. In contrast, I can’t help but recall the two Easter chicks that my sister brought home when I was little.
My parents were fit to be tied, as we lived in the city then. Sure enough, the “cute” chicks turned into these two fly-in-your-face, peck-you-at-every-chance, monsters. In fact, they were so annoying that when we, and they, were transplanted onto a farm in the country, my brother would take great delight in giving them their comeupance by tossing them high into the air, as high as he could. After that, they would behave themselves for awhile, mainly by avoiding humans.
Basically, I do like fowl, except when they are foul. On the farm, I had a pair of little Bantam chickens, make that a chicken and a rooster. The hen was very discreet. She hid her 12 eggs in a hay bale, and I only discovered them hours before they hatched. It was such a neat thing to see her “babies” trailing behind her. Little fluff balls, they were. Six of the chicks were pure white, but not albino, just a genetic fluke. I won blue ribbons, for several of them, at the local agricultural fair, as 4-H project entries.
Chickens are fun. The rooster we saw in the road was well-behaved, that’s for sure. When he saw that we were not “Greeks, bearing gifts,” he buck-bucked a little bit, then turned and went back into his yard.
When Jim and I first lived in this old house, there was a chicken coop out back and we kept chickens. There was one problem. The rooster was cockadoodle-doing too much at about 4 a.m. and he was beginning to irritate us, and probably the neighbors, too. So, my sister-in-law, who was no stranger to killing chickens, took a hatchet to all of them, including the rooster, and that was the end of that saga. We kept some of them and she took the others to put in the freezer for the winter.
Now, if those poor chickens had known of their upcoming fate as Chicken Stew and Dumplings, I am more sure than sure that they would have crossed the road, too.
I hope you enjoyed seeing the roosters above. I thought and think they are beautiful creatures, and I always enjoy meeting mild-mannered critters, whether folk or fowl.
Patricia Cummings
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10.28.07
Posted in Musings at 10:12 pm by Administrator
When I was a girl … I wore pretty dresses, white ankle socks with lace, and black, patent leather shoes.
When I was a girl … I had to listen to the songs, “It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To,” “Don’t Leave Your Chewing Gum on the Bedpost Overnight,” and Elvis’, “Blue Suede Shoes.”
When I was a girl … I played with dolls, built an igloo with my big brother, and I collected toads (yes, real ones).
When I was a girl … a Hershey chocolate bar cost a nickel, the idea of “a really good show” was the Ed Sullivan Show, and I used to skip school to watch, “I Love Lucy.”
When I was a girl … the boy sitting next to me in school drew unspeakable images of Superman flying through the air. Oops! The nun did not appreciate being reminded that there were such anatomically-correct parts as were noticeable in those drawings, and the poor lad’s creativity was stifled by the use of a ruler over the knuckles. Then, he’d do it again. Being noticed is far better than being ignored.
When I was a girl … my mother would braid my hair, so I could be just as pretty as Elizabeth, the doctor’s daughter. Mother would also give me smelly hair permanents, and cut my hair with a razor. It was something akin to torture. She always wanted to be a hairdresser and I was practice material.
When I was a girl … “gay” meant happy and I was “happy” to read the book, When Our Hearts Were Young and Gay. If I remember correctly, I received an “A” on my book report.
When I was a girl … I once ate TWO hamburgers, much to the amazement of my parents, as I weighed all of 110 pounds, at the time. Between hot fudge sundaes and more hamburgers, I cannot claim that is anywhere near the present situation.
When I was a girl … people were more friendly. I’ve been trying to figure that out. I’ve come to the conclusion that the media keeps reminding us all of how evil everyone else is, and that “sexual predators” and child molesters might be living right in the neighborhood. It’s true, but that has always has been true. Crime is not a new invention. We’d all be happier to not be reminded. (Sorry, I just did!)
When I was a girl … I had every confidence that my dreams would come true. Except for the neighborhood boy throwing stones at me to knock me off my bicycle because my family was not of the same religious affiliation as his, I had a pretty peaceful existence. I’d lay in the clover and look up at the sky and imagine that all the shapes of clouds were various animals.
I’d borrow blankets from my mother and have her throw them over a metal clothesline in the backyard so I could play “house” inside, with my girl friend. When I was alone, I’d go to the stream down back, flanked by Skunk Cabbage, and watch the ripples in the water, and the little insects, and try to catch minnows with my hands.
Then, making my way up the hill, through the bushes, I’d run into the house and borrow a tin pie plate that the bakery truck had delivered, once full, with blueberry pie. I’d go back outside to collect choke cherries (poisonous before they are cooked, by the way), and I’d mix them with mud and call the concoction, “Mulligatawney Stew.”
In looking back at my childhood, I can see that it set the stage for my later life. I still love music, I still enjoy comedy, I still like my own company, and while I sometimes seek the company of others, I mostly like to think and that requires being alone and being quiet.
The 50s were great, odd, and crazy, and as goofy as the times in which we now live. Truth be known, what I really miss is the chocolate candy bar delight … for just a plug nickel.
Patricia Cummings
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