quiltersmuse.com Blog

Flashback to the 1950s -

When I was a little kid, say about five years old, my mom was still a stay-at-home mom. My older siblings were all in school. Her day was pretty full, what with visiting with the man who delivered Wonder Bread, the bread to build strong bodies. She also ordered those delicious Blueberry pies from him, the ones that were sold in a tin pie plate that one either had to return “clean,” at the next visit, or else pay up.

In fact, it seems that there was an ongoing parade of salesmen at our house. The Fuller Brush man came to the door, often. My Dad referred to this man as “Egads” because every sentence that ever came out of his mouth was preceded or followed by “Egads!”

Even the piano tuner seems to have been a frequent visitor, in retrospect. I’d feed him Rolos chocolate candy thinking he would do a better job and then, hurry up and leave!

The bottom line is that I wanted my mother’s attention and I was distressed at all of these people taking up space in the kitchen and chatting, when she could be teaching me more embroidery stitches, or playing a game with me.

I don’t know what got into me, exactly. One day, with an insurance salesman yakking away as she stirred something on the stove, I lifted the corner of her long-ish dress and exclaimed,”But, Mother! You have no undies on!” Of course, she did!

The two adults turned beet red, and as my mother began to speak up for herself, saying, “What do you mean, Patti? Of course …,” the salesman had hoofed it to the door and left, never to return.

My mother was baffled by my behavior, but I tell you, the scene was priceless. Since this happened before the “age of reason,” which according to my religious upbringing is the age of 7, I suppose I’ll not be held accountable at the pearly gates. It is simply a funny memory that I carry with me today. After that, Mother did not encourage these daytime visitors to linger, just in case of an unexpected, repeat performance.

Patricia Cummings

Charlotte Croft sent the following note after having looked at a blog entry a few days ago about the gravestone of Rufus Leavitt, a 26 year old, Civil War soldier who was a member of Co. A. 6th NH. He died in 1865 as a result of “inhuman treatment” by his North Carolinian captors.

She writes:

Hi Pat,

After seeing the gravestone of Rufus Leavitt, I invited my friend Polly to check out your blog for that day. Several years ago there was a law student living in East Barnard (Vermont) who loved puns. One of my favorites that he came up with was … “East Barnard: Leavitt or leave it!” This is because there are so many people related to Leavitts in East Barnard.

When Bert and I and our older son Eric attended Dud and Jo Leavitt’s 40th anniversary party in Sept. 1965, we were part of the dozen folks who were not related, out of about 125 attending.

But then one summer Bert’s younger brother worked for him and met Mary Van Alstyne. They fell in love and got married in 1970. Mary is a granddaughter to Dud and Jo.

Then John Leavitt’s daughter, Tina, married Art Lewin. Art’s grandfather and Bert’s grandmother were brother and sister. So we are twice connected to the Leavitt family. And indeed, Rufus is an ancestor of Bud’s. Polly says history is interesting.

All the best,

Charlotte

Thanks for the charming story, Charlotte. Love it! We are all so interconnected in this world! Scroll back a few blogs to see the original post.

Pat

Based on genetics and world history, the potato is believed to have originated in southern Peru where it was cultivated by an advanced indigenous population called the Incas, a now extinct civilization. After the Spanish conquest, the potato was toted to northern Europe in 1536. It was welcomed by the poor, subsistence farmers in western Ireland and became a staple of Irish diet.

A PBS program about this crop states that a diet of cow’s milk and potatoes was enough to provide vitamins and health to the multitudes. All was well until one day when a ship pulled into port. Among its cargo was a fungus that was carried by the wind, turning all of the Potato plants black within several weeks. The Irish famine lasted three years, (1845-1848), killing one of every eight Irishmen, and taking the lives of one million people.

Scientists now analyze that the problem could have been lessened had there been more bio-diversity, that is, if more than one variety of plant had been cultivated. Ironically, potato farmers could face a similar problem today. To keep their “client” happy, they are forced to produce tons of Russet Burbank potatoes used to make French Fries for McDonald’s Corporation, a product that is distributed worldwide.

Unfortunately, a certain beetle is fond of the Russet Burbank variety. Although scientists have found a way to genetically-alter this type of potato plant so that if a beetle eats it, the beetle goes belly up, activists among the general population have resisted food from genetically-altered plants. So, farmers are back to square one: using pesticides on their fields.

We have seen that the potato originated in Peru, traveled to Europe and to Ireland, but did you realize that the first potatoes farmed on American soil were produced by a Scots-Irish immigrant on a farm in Derry, New Hampshire? Being a New Hampshire-ite, that is a quaint piece of information. Having been brought up in an Irish family, I do remember eating lots and lots of potatoes. They were a staple commodity.

As a child, I played with “Mr. Potato Head” and “Mrs. Potato Head.” At the time, I think I had to bug my mother for real potatoes into which I inserted various ears, arms, legs, noses, etc. Today, there is quite a variety of these types of toys on the market.

To read more about Potatoes, if you are so inclined, please visit this file: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Potato I was amazed to learn that today China and India grow 1/3 of the entire potato crop of the world. Potatoes have Vitamin G, found in no other living organism. The potato is believed to prevent and/or help relieve bouts of gout (arthritis of the joints). Potatoes are tasty, nutritious, and a versatile staple of the kitchen. Now, please pass the potatoes. Thank you!

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications

Autumn Maple Leaves, collage by Patricia Cummings

A saying goes like this, “A good woman gives you shade in the summer and warmth in the winter.” A tree will do the same. The Maple tree is awesome! Not only does it provide shade, firewood, and wood for fine furniture, the Maple yields sap that is boiled off to make a wonderful pancake syrup. (”Ain’t nothin’ like the real thing, baby!”) As if that were not enough, the Maple tree yields leaves of many colors, some orange, some red, some dark red, and some yellow, and sometimes more than one color in the same leaf!

We have some ancient Maples in New England that are thick in diameter. A hardy tree, they appear to be disease-resistant. On the farm where I grew up, my Dad made a tree swing on one old Maple tree. Struck by lightening in later years, it is no longer there, just its memory. Near the porch on the front of the house, there were three very large Maple trees, home to birds, and tapped by neighbors who were collecting sap, in the spring. What beautiful, cool breezes those trees provided.

I have lived among the Joshua trees of the high desert in California, and among the Saguaro cacti of Arizona. Vegetation has its beauty in other places, but New England is home for me. So today, I salute the mighty Maple trees of New Hampshire, and share some beautiful leaves with you.

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications

Today, we did something that is always fun to do. We walked through a small country cemetery. I love to read epitaphs. Often, there is some endearing tribute or religious sentiment on very old stones. On several that we saw today, the words simply said, “Gone home.” It is amazing to see that only a rock marks some graves.

Walking through the cemetery, I paused to squint at one inscription when all of a sudden, the song of a chickadee in a nearby shrub, pierced the air, startling the silence. Some of the stones had been laid flat by the force of wind or weather. A couple of the fragile marble stones had broken into two pieces and had been hinged back together. Lichen growth was heavy on many granite stones, to the point that any writing, including names, was obscured.

Jim discovered this stone that is a tribute to a Civil War soldier.

Rufus L. Leavitt died …
in consequence of inhuman treatment during an imprisonment of 5 mo. in Salisbury, NC – 26 yrs, 1 mo.

Jim walked through one half of the cemetery and I walked through the other. I found exactly what we were seeking, to follow up on a most interesting story of humor shared recently by New Hampshire’s own humor writer, Rebecca Rule. I hope that it will be in her next book!

This particular 50 year old man may have earned the right to be called a “pillow” (of the community).

I was so pleased that Jim found the headstone of the town minister about whom I’d read so much. Likewise, I was elated that he located the headstone of the grandparents of an important woman (Ellen Emeline Hardy Webster) whose life I have chronicled. Their names are Ichabod Packard Hardy and Emeline Mary Webster.

This is the gravestone of Ellen Emeline Hardy Webster’s grandparents. Ellen’s middle name is the same as her grandmother’s first name. I wrote a 355 page biography of Ellen last year. Ellen’s married name was Webster, and it only coincidental that her grandmother’s maiden name was also “Webster.”

So much history to be found in New England, which is why I love it here. I can’t imagine going anywhere else to live. In being able to view the actual gravestones of once-living people, I realize how important (and nice) it is to have a final resting place. Somehow, it proves that you were “here.” For me, it makes the names of people I’ve read about in print seem like old friends. Yes, I do love old cemeteries!

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications