quiltersmuse.com Blog

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

The man with his “nose in a book” is Army Specialist 4th Class James Cummings, caught on camera reading at an Army barracks (early 1970s).

Reading is a wonderful escape! It transports us to the thoughts, critiques, and views of other people, as well as their whimsy, novelty, and sheer brilliance. A theory held by my late father (1911-1974) is that anyone can travel anywhere, without leaving his own armchair. That is even more true today than it was in his time, because now we have wonderful travel shows on television that bring us to the most remote regions of the world. He relied on “National Geographic.”

I can never understand how anyone can get through life without developing reading skills. Yet, in America, we have many who are illiterate, who disguised their non-ability to read, and who slipped through the educational cracks. One of my graduate courses in Education was to learn how to teach children to read. I found, via a hands-on field project, that it can be a daunting task!

This is a photo of me, studying at my home in Deerfield, NH. I don’t know for sure, but I believe this was taken when I was in high school because I recognize the pink sweater that I had made, at that time.

One common interest that my husband Jim and I both have is a love of the written word. He is an avid reader who visits the library at least once a week and actually finishes reading all the books he takes out. I enjoy reading but purchase books as I linger longer over the words and it takes me quite a while to finish reading any book, often because my mind is on other things, full of “fluff,” like Winnie-the-Pooh.

When one has five younger siblings, it is easy to see why one (meaning “Jim”) would like to escape the house, physically, or take a mental trip elsewhere, via a book. At one time or another, both of us were accused by our families of origin as always having our “noses in a book,” inferring that we should have been doing something else. However, with our scholastic achievements, I guess the practice actually paid off for both of us.

Jim amazes me with the encyclopedic knowledge he possesses about most any subject I can mention. However, no one but me probably knows this: he is humble, quiet, and never lords it over anyone else that he happens to know more than they know.

Yes, Jim and I are two peas in a pod in many ways. In a sense, we lead separate lives in the same house, until we choose to come together on common ground to compare notes, share new information, do photo shoots, plan little day trips, and things of that nature. This is a brief glimpse into the lives of two bookworms. The insensitive people who took so much joy in calling us names, in the past, are either dead or are no longer a part of our lives. So, life goes on. When one gets to a certain age, one tries to minimize the baloney.

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications

Some of my favorite songs speak of the profound change of the seasons at this time of year. We leave “Summer winds make me feel fine, glowing like a jasmine in my mind,” and turn to Joni Mitchell’s lyrics, “The warriors of winter give a cold, triumphant shout, All that stays is dying, all that lives is getting out.” She also speaks of the trees, standing in a naked row, an image I enjoy.

In high school, my Glee Club sang, “The autumn leaves drift past my window, the autumn leaves of red and gold.” I am sure there are many other song tributes to autumn, a time period we all anticipate eagerly, here in New England, and a time that is too soon past. After Columbus Day, when the tourists have left the state, we can begin to anticipate heavy rains and winds that knock off any remaining leaves, and signal a change to cold nights in which the heat must be turned on.

The palette of verdant green of leaves and trees, and pastels of flowers, quickly turns to browns of decaying leaves underfoot in the forest, and then to the familiar gray and white and black colors of winter. The snow is like a white-out, at times. And, when it ends, there is a lovely peacefulness that seems to descend as from heaven itself.

A view of winter – photo by James Cummings

No wonder we eagerly await seed catalogs in January, a time that seems to be in the dead of winter and very far removed from outdoor blooming plants. “The farmer puts another “promise” in the ground,” are the words to another folk song.

At Christmas time, the holly and the ivy (also the name of a song) remind us of everlasting life, symbolically-speaking. These holly and its red berries retain their color throughout the winter months. Green represents eternity and Red can symbolize the loss of Christ’s blood on the cross. Colors can be so symbolic!

Autumn. So many changes are taking place. Animals that hibernate are searching out resting areas for the long winter. Bears will give birth in their dens, barely aware of what is happening. The “winter birds” such as the (gray) juncos and chickadees, will be heard and seen again, as will the woodpeckers who will make frequent trips to the suet hung again for them, from a lilac bush.

I have no quarrel with autumn or winter: they are seasons of introspection, a time to take stalk of one’s soul and one’s roots and to sort out again what is important in life. As a Christian, I have come to despise the commercialism and therefore, cheapening of a religious holiday, and so I dwell on my religious training as a child, and find those teachings more and more of a comfort in trying to make sense of an insane world. On Christmas, I tend to like to read Christmas stories and listen to music. With my family “gone,” taken away by death or indifference, my day is often spent in solitude, or with Jim, on holidays.

“I’ll stoke the fire with kindlin’, pull the blankets to my chin, I’ll keep the vagrant winter out and bolt my wanderings in.” – Joni Mitchell

Autumn and Winter – bring them on. I’ll be here, quilting, reading, writing, and loving my dear husband, who is as precious as a found jewel. Rejoice! The seasons are yet again changing, and life moves onward to its invisible, unforeseen, and inevitable conclusion.

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications

Moose as seen in Charlotte Croft’s yard. This photo was quickly snapped by her, through the window. Charlotte saw this particular moose in Vermont. He quickly realized that she had spotted him and went trotting off into the woods.

As we drive the highways and byways of New England, we often encounter “Moose Crossing” caution road signs. I have often thought that these were strategically-placed to thrill the tourists into thinking that a moose might soon appear. In the many years that I have lived in New Hampshire, I can count on one hand the times I have seen a real moose wandering around.

Once, I saw one nibbling water weeds in a culvert in Jacksonville, NH. Another sighting was in a swampy area just north of Keepsake Quilting in Centre Harbor, NH. The third sighting was when a moose appeared in the middle of the road in my hometown of Deerfield, NH. So, actually, I would need only three fingers to hold up, to account for these sightings.

Moose are called the “gentle giants of the North.” They are amazingly tall. I am amused at how ungangly they seem and how awkward they are in their stride. Every now and then, especially during rutting season, male moose will expand their “territory” to the streets of Boston. Usually animals who stray that far afield of usual habitat are put down, and an autopsy reveals that the animal suffered from brain worm disease.

Many people enjoy eating moose meat. I remember meeting a family who had just “run into” a moose (with a vehicle) in Maine and were told they could keep the animal. They said it would feed them well, all winter. Every year, a limited number of moose hunting permits are granted. They are coveted.

The photo shown here looks like a statue. It was the real McCoy. Additional photos, that were not posted, show him running off. These kinds of wildlife sightings are just one of the reasons why residents love New England. Hope you enjoyed seeing the photo. Thanks, Charlotte.

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications

Charlotte Croft writes: I took this photo at the Woodstock Terrace on Sunday Oct. 11th.

And I took this shot this morning, Oct. 13th. You gotta love Vermont weather… and if you don’t, just wait 5 minutes.

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Thanks, Charlotte, our faithful Vermont correspondent! We love these photos.

Best,

Pat