After my mother's death I inherited a beautiful clock dating back to the 1760's. I like to think that it has been in my family for its entire life but I don't know for sure. I first remember noticing it when my sister and I spent Wednesday afternoons having tea with our grandmother and great aunt back in the forties. The clock sat on a bracket shelf on the wall in the hall and chimed rather grandly on the hour. It sounded and looked like the top section of a grandfather clock in smaller scale with a mahogany case, glass panels on four sides and a domed top with a handle for lifting it into place.
In time the clock moved to my parents and once my mother's estate was settled it was shipped to me in the U.S. It did not travel well arriving with the glass in the front door shattered and unknown damage to the rest of it. For safe keeping, my husband mounted the shelf on the wall and carefully lifted the clock into position by the handle. There was a nasty splintering sound and the cabinet disintegrated into many pieces. My expression of dismay was only surpassed by his. Like the clock, he was shattered. Fortunately it was mostly the joints that had come unglued and the workings were still intact
Many of you will know that I am married to one of the finest woodworkers you will ever meet but not necessarily the speediest. His intentions to repair the damage were well meaning but with his busy schedule the clock kept slipping down the list. Now, more than two years later the cabinet has finally been restored to its former glory, much improved from it's 20th century condition. It looks truly splendid.
Thinking that, once again, the chime of the family heirloom would be heard imagine my disappointment on finding out that the pendulum had been dislodged in the repair process and things were definitely amiss. My poor husband was mortified and even before sharing the bad news with me made a phone call to the British clockmaker in Newfane, VT. For years we have heard his name as a sponsor of Vermont Public Radio and now it was time to pay him a visit.
Earlier this week we loaded the clock and the two dogs into the car and set off for southern Vermont. Ray Bates, the British Clockmaker is a refined gentleman from Scotland who knows everything there is to know about the inside of a clock, especially English ones. He works out of his home with his son, and a backlog of 6 months of repairs. On first glance he determined that severe damage had not occurred, surprising to him since we were so ignorant on the workings of such a valuable clock. He noted that cleaning and general care had been lacking for many years and so, much chagrined, we agreed to a full overhaul. This does not come inexpensively!
The bracket shelf will sit empty for an additional few months it seems, and then we will make another pilgrimage to Newfane. Our pockets will be emptied but we will return home, triumphant, with a clock that should be good for another couple of centuries.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
More socks
Socks, socks and more socks!
As Camp Director for a sports camp for boys and girls, I spent many very busy summers keeping teens and pre-teens focused on tennis, soccer and riding rather than each other. Their days and evenings were filled with activities, overseen by athletic young college students, who needed their own occasional refocusing.
On average, one hundred and fifty campers and 70 staff were in residence for each of three sessions which adds up to one heck of a lot of socks! 99% of those socks were white athletic socks when they started, bought new for camp. I would guess that only 10% ever made it home again. Weekly laundry was responsible for a good number. Once white socks get loose from their laundry bag, matching them to their owner is next to impossible. Inside the cabins, socks disappeared when they were swept under the bunks, hidden in the trash or stuffed under the mattresses in a last minute attempt to pass Cabin Inspection. But most of the unclaimed socks, were discarded by their owners in the course of their very active day.
Often the day started with tennis. That required clean socks. Next was soccer with uncomfortable cleats and shin guards which were quickly discarded once practice was over. Then a dash to the pool. You don't need socks for swimming so often a single missing sock was not immediately detected. Flip-flops could get you to lunch and through rest hour and then oops another clean pair was necessary for afternoon tennis. You get the picture.
Odd socks and sometimes pairs littered the grounds. Staff collected these delectable objects on a daily basis and along with found sweatshirts, caps, towels, tennis rackets and more and carried them to mealtimes for redistribution. Not so strangely, socks were rarely claimed.
Rainy days were the worst. Wet, muddy, stinky socks festered everywhere. All Camp Cleanup was declared as soon as weather permitted and candy wrappers, care package materials, and some unmentionables along with socks now brown with mud were shovelled into the dumpsters and disappeared for ever.
Over the course of an eleven week summer several garbage bags of keepers were gathered. I'm not sure what happened to most of those but one bagful made it home with me each year. Those nearly-new socks were soaked, boiled, bleached and dried and unceremoniously dumped into a large hamper, unsorted. My three kids were some of those campers who came home sockless. They never worried about matching up pairs so for the next 9 months would happily dive into the hamper, again and again, to retrieve two somewhat similar items for their ever-growing feet. Those camp days are long past but socks still seem to be in short supply. Thank goodness for Sock Sales!
As Camp Director for a sports camp for boys and girls, I spent many very busy summers keeping teens and pre-teens focused on tennis, soccer and riding rather than each other. Their days and evenings were filled with activities, overseen by athletic young college students, who needed their own occasional refocusing.
On average, one hundred and fifty campers and 70 staff were in residence for each of three sessions which adds up to one heck of a lot of socks! 99% of those socks were white athletic socks when they started, bought new for camp. I would guess that only 10% ever made it home again. Weekly laundry was responsible for a good number. Once white socks get loose from their laundry bag, matching them to their owner is next to impossible. Inside the cabins, socks disappeared when they were swept under the bunks, hidden in the trash or stuffed under the mattresses in a last minute attempt to pass Cabin Inspection. But most of the unclaimed socks, were discarded by their owners in the course of their very active day.
Often the day started with tennis. That required clean socks. Next was soccer with uncomfortable cleats and shin guards which were quickly discarded once practice was over. Then a dash to the pool. You don't need socks for swimming so often a single missing sock was not immediately detected. Flip-flops could get you to lunch and through rest hour and then oops another clean pair was necessary for afternoon tennis. You get the picture.
Odd socks and sometimes pairs littered the grounds. Staff collected these delectable objects on a daily basis and along with found sweatshirts, caps, towels, tennis rackets and more and carried them to mealtimes for redistribution. Not so strangely, socks were rarely claimed.
Rainy days were the worst. Wet, muddy, stinky socks festered everywhere. All Camp Cleanup was declared as soon as weather permitted and candy wrappers, care package materials, and some unmentionables along with socks now brown with mud were shovelled into the dumpsters and disappeared for ever.
Over the course of an eleven week summer several garbage bags of keepers were gathered. I'm not sure what happened to most of those but one bagful made it home with me each year. Those nearly-new socks were soaked, boiled, bleached and dried and unceremoniously dumped into a large hamper, unsorted. My three kids were some of those campers who came home sockless. They never worried about matching up pairs so for the next 9 months would happily dive into the hamper, again and again, to retrieve two somewhat similar items for their ever-growing feet. Those camp days are long past but socks still seem to be in short supply. Thank goodness for Sock Sales!
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Sock Sale
The most mammoth sock sale in history occurred this weekend in Vermont. Cabot Hosiery manufactures socks of all weights, sizes, colors and shapes for many of the largest brands in the US and on the first and second weekends of deer season sells off its overruns, seconds, samples etc right at it's plant in Northfield, VT. I haven't been for the past couple of years and never have I made the trek on the first day, until this year!
The whole population of the State of Vermont is a little over 600,000. That includes grandmas and grandpas, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, singles and couples, male and female and I swear, all who could walk and those who could be pushed or carried were there yesterday.
The whole population of the State of Vermont is a little over 600,000. That includes grandmas and grandpas, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, singles and couples, male and female and I swear, all who could walk and those who could be pushed or carried were there yesterday.
The company ingeniously constructs a maze of passageways with large cardboard cartons that leads you into the main hall. With plastic bag in hand you can travel through the many shelves, bins, tables and boxes of socks selecting your purchases. When I arrived, the line to the checkout snaked around and around but I chose not to think about that. My mission was to fill my bag and a second bag with bargains that would be included in my Christmas packages and a few for myself. Even as thousands of socks were bagged more replaced them. Double and triple checking my stash to ensure that I wouldn't need to make a return trip next weekend, I stepped into line and checked my watch. It had taken me about 27 minutes. It was only then that it became clear that the check out was going to take fortitude and perseverance. The line moved at a snail's pace and took up much of the standing space in the hall. Some couldn't face it and dropped their partially filled bags and fled. Most, like me, were patient and in good humor and not about to be denied. The trick I was to find out, a little too late, is to take your place in line immediately upon arrival and shop your way around. My queue mates were hopping in and out of line, with a quick smile and "hold my place, I'll be right back" over and over. Great idea! Next year I'll know.
23 pairs of socks richer and an hour later, I emerged, very happy with my booty. So family, now you know what you will be getting for Christmas this year and every year to come.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
My mother, the Queen
My mother was raised an only child in the coal mining district of South Wales. Her father was a butcher and they lived modestly in a row house with an outdoor toilet and potties under the beds. My sister and I spent two weeks every summer with our grandparents while our parents took their summer holidays abroad. I remember fondly the times we picked vegetables from their garden, climbed the surrounding hills in search of whinberries and evenings around the table after dinner, playing cards and board games. As the lights dimmed one of us would race to the front parlor to deposit large copper pennies into the electric meter to keep the lights on for a few more hours.
My mother came from humble beginnings which she promptly forgot when she married my father in 1942. During these war years life was not easy but they prospered through the fifties and sixties and when Dad retired early they travelled extensively. I'm not sure at what point my mother determined that she was royal or pretty darn close. As children we practised our curtsies to be ready for when we would be summoned to Buckingham Palace. Instructions on how to address Her Royal Highness, The Queen and how to do the 'royal wave', elbow elbow, wrist wrist were frequent, and given lightheartedly, or so I thought. My father had a great sense of humor and kept my mother from taking herself too seriously but after his death her sense of entitlement grew expeditiously. Her later years were spent as the "Queen" with her two daughters in the roles of Ladies-in-Waiting. She wore large hats, matching dress and coat outfits and always carried a handbag. Unlike the Queen she did carry money and also cigarettes in her handbag. On her arthritic fingers were diamonds, sapphires and rubies, mostly purchased in some foreign land. Even in her later years she wouldn't leave the house without 'the crown jewels', as she herself referred to them.
She would have made a fine queen. She carried herself with good deportment, never let her real feelings show and was always right. What more could you want? Well, actually, I think I would rather have had the "Queen Mum" for my Mum.
My mother came from humble beginnings which she promptly forgot when she married my father in 1942. During these war years life was not easy but they prospered through the fifties and sixties and when Dad retired early they travelled extensively. I'm not sure at what point my mother determined that she was royal or pretty darn close. As children we practised our curtsies to be ready for when we would be summoned to Buckingham Palace. Instructions on how to address Her Royal Highness, The Queen and how to do the 'royal wave', elbow elbow, wrist wrist were frequent, and given lightheartedly, or so I thought. My father had a great sense of humor and kept my mother from taking herself too seriously but after his death her sense of entitlement grew expeditiously. Her later years were spent as the "Queen" with her two daughters in the roles of Ladies-in-Waiting. She wore large hats, matching dress and coat outfits and always carried a handbag. Unlike the Queen she did carry money and also cigarettes in her handbag. On her arthritic fingers were diamonds, sapphires and rubies, mostly purchased in some foreign land. Even in her later years she wouldn't leave the house without 'the crown jewels', as she herself referred to them.
She would have made a fine queen. She carried herself with good deportment, never let her real feelings show and was always right. What more could you want? Well, actually, I think I would rather have had the "Queen Mum" for my Mum.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Women's Weekend
How very fortunate I feel! I have just spent the weekend with 7 wonderful women for the 15th year in a row. It is too long a story to tell about how we all came together in the beginning and looking at us you would never guess, so for now, that will remain a mystery.
Sadly we have lost 2 of our group. The eldest, a farm woman, who was truly a lady, died with great dignity at 98. The last time, she was already 96 but entered into all of our conversations, laughter, dining, movie going and shopping with vigor and a marvelous sense of humor. Every year her mission was to buy a new sweater. Never mind that she had many, almost all of which were navy or black, wool cardigans. She needed another and who were we to say that she couldn't or shouldn't? Only the best quality was considered, they had to last, and even though other colors and styles were offered, she preferred a sensible navy button-up. And that is what she had. We miss her terribly.
Our second missing member was stricken with cancer and before we could blink, she was gone. Another salt of the earth, octogenarian with a hairstyle that reminded me of a newly hatched bird. Every hair stood up on its own, independent of all others. She wore crazy, light-house earrings and whacky scarves and greeted everyone with arms outstretched and a huge smile that crinkled her entire face. She loved owls and would have chosen to be reincarnated in that form, I'm sure. Imagine our delight, the very next year following her death, on seeing a large Barred owl looking down on us from the branches of a tree, right in the center of our shopping street.
The remaining 8 are hale and hearty and range in age from 50 to 81. Our numbers will, of course, dwindle in time but no new ones are invited. The younger ones joke about the time that they will be spending their weekend as a twosome or a single, but we made a pact. Only charter members can attend.
As we departed, the hotel manager commented on how much he had enjoyed witnessing the love and caring we all showed for each other. That said it all.
Sadly we have lost 2 of our group. The eldest, a farm woman, who was truly a lady, died with great dignity at 98. The last time, she was already 96 but entered into all of our conversations, laughter, dining, movie going and shopping with vigor and a marvelous sense of humor. Every year her mission was to buy a new sweater. Never mind that she had many, almost all of which were navy or black, wool cardigans. She needed another and who were we to say that she couldn't or shouldn't? Only the best quality was considered, they had to last, and even though other colors and styles were offered, she preferred a sensible navy button-up. And that is what she had. We miss her terribly.
Our second missing member was stricken with cancer and before we could blink, she was gone. Another salt of the earth, octogenarian with a hairstyle that reminded me of a newly hatched bird. Every hair stood up on its own, independent of all others. She wore crazy, light-house earrings and whacky scarves and greeted everyone with arms outstretched and a huge smile that crinkled her entire face. She loved owls and would have chosen to be reincarnated in that form, I'm sure. Imagine our delight, the very next year following her death, on seeing a large Barred owl looking down on us from the branches of a tree, right in the center of our shopping street.
The remaining 8 are hale and hearty and range in age from 50 to 81. Our numbers will, of course, dwindle in time but no new ones are invited. The younger ones joke about the time that they will be spending their weekend as a twosome or a single, but we made a pact. Only charter members can attend.
As we departed, the hotel manager commented on how much he had enjoyed witnessing the love and caring we all showed for each other. That said it all.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Stick Season
In Vermont, there is a fifth season that not everyone knows about. It took me a few years before I realized that fall does not naturally slide into winter in these parts. Fall means bright colors of foliage, green grass with just a frosting here and there and some evenings where outdoor work is still possible. Winter begins December 21st or 22nd, I can never remember which, and by then Christmas lights are sparkling everywhere, fireplaces are roaring and snow is thick on the ground. Folks are ready to snuggle in for the duration and accept the daily shovelling, de-icing etc in order to venture out.
Stick season lasts for about four weeks, right around the time we move our clocks back. All color has disappeared, seemingly overnight, leaving lifeless grass and sticks for trees. Night falls early and the sun on the few occasions it breaks through the heavy cloud cover, barely melts the morning frost. It is a bleak time, dreaded by many, most of whom head south for a short respite if not for the whole winter. Some, however welcome this brief period in which to button up the homestead in preparation for winter. Wood must be stacked, storm windows applied and last minute garden chores completed.
Hunters wait all year for stick season. Once here they can begin growing their beards, stocking up on necessities i.e. beer, target practising, tuning their weapon of choice or just allowing their fingers and toes to become accustomed to the cold.
Local businesses also find this time to be of great value. Some close their doors, giving their employees time to rest up for the big rush ahead. Others shorten their hours conserving resources just like squirrels.
I've come to terms more with stick season over time. It is still not my favorite but there are some advantages. For a while the early mornings are lighter when we walk the dogs. Trying to keep my small Yorkie, Lily, in the beam of light to make sure she accomplishes her task has been challenging. She wears a little flashing beacon, much like one of those disco balls of the 70s but once under the ferns, even that doesn't help. Few visitors are in town and there are more parking spaces available and more time to chat with those remaining locals. I like that! My satellite reception is better now all the leaves are off the trees. I like that! Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, is coming soon. But that is it.
Stick season lasts for about four weeks, right around the time we move our clocks back. All color has disappeared, seemingly overnight, leaving lifeless grass and sticks for trees. Night falls early and the sun on the few occasions it breaks through the heavy cloud cover, barely melts the morning frost. It is a bleak time, dreaded by many, most of whom head south for a short respite if not for the whole winter. Some, however welcome this brief period in which to button up the homestead in preparation for winter. Wood must be stacked, storm windows applied and last minute garden chores completed.
Hunters wait all year for stick season. Once here they can begin growing their beards, stocking up on necessities i.e. beer, target practising, tuning their weapon of choice or just allowing their fingers and toes to become accustomed to the cold.
Local businesses also find this time to be of great value. Some close their doors, giving their employees time to rest up for the big rush ahead. Others shorten their hours conserving resources just like squirrels.
I've come to terms more with stick season over time. It is still not my favorite but there are some advantages. For a while the early mornings are lighter when we walk the dogs. Trying to keep my small Yorkie, Lily, in the beam of light to make sure she accomplishes her task has been challenging. She wears a little flashing beacon, much like one of those disco balls of the 70s but once under the ferns, even that doesn't help. Few visitors are in town and there are more parking spaces available and more time to chat with those remaining locals. I like that! My satellite reception is better now all the leaves are off the trees. I like that! Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, is coming soon. But that is it.
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