Edible Backyards


Someone that I do not know, her name is Hadley, (I found this: http://www.shescrafty.com/Home.php) collected a box of goodies for me. I know her name mostly because it was in the vintage Cinderella book that I read to Søren a few nights ago. She is the daughter of a man who is a friend of my mom. Hadley lives in New Zealand but grew up near where we live. I do not understand the entire story, but the box contains children's books, CDVs, photograph albums with tin types &c, daguerrotypes, autograph books &c. Yes, a TRUE box of treasures. 

So this morning I picked up a little book that says ALBUM upon the cover and thought of my Scrapplings project (from 2010) that hasn't yet taken shape (if you are reading this (does anyone read my sparse blog?!) and you set me a Scrapplings package, I still have every one and DO plan to finish this before I die) which will be a collection of collages created from the teeny tiny scraps found on the floors of artist's studios. Anyway, I stray. I was looking at this book then flipped through the pages dated 1880. So many silly words in fine penmanship, somehow securing relationships, and not unlike Facebook or any number of friend collections, simply, a way for humans to declare their existence to others. So weird. Because in not a very long period of time most of these words and photographs will be completely disconnected. If we are lucky some artist will find our remains (scrapplings) and make something new out of them, whilst still hanging on to some tiny taste of the past. 

And then a letter arrives from Katie ( you can get one too: ThePostmark.etsy.com ) that made it all worse. Or the same as always. (For I cannot go back far enough into my life where there is not a memory of the wonder of time) (The moment Silas was born tears welled in my eyes, this was the picture that immediately found me: Søren and Silas, two olde men in rocking chairs on an olde porch talking. I was sad because clearly, I was dead and not with them. Silas was seconds olde and my little brain took me to the end!)

But this isn't sad, though sadness does visit. This just is. And what we do, we just gather. We make new things and try to keep it simple. Simple? Well, 

I loved Colonial Williamsburg, VA, of course. 

But I never got that feeling that sometimes takes over of actually travelling back in time. (There was a time long ago that I would go to the Philadelphia and walk around for hours with Ben Franklin's autobiography (and a random assortment of Philadelphia pasts) and read and imagine (easily) that I was there, nearly 300 years prior. (This is something I kind of do(id) whenever I wander(ed), but mostly pre children). 

I enjoyed it more in a Twilight-Zone way. 

And learned a lot a lot - shoemaking, bookbinding, business &c. My most favourite was the brick house. Insanely fascinating and the numbers (10,000 brick fired each year - enough to make a chimney!) were beyond me. I am particularly good at small things.  

The one story I was most fascinated with was the Bowden-Armistead House. Or the woman in it who, it was told, sweeps her porch every Sunday. The mystery here is, that when she was approached by a Rockefeller who wished to purchase her home, she allegedly said, "I am not impressed with your money." This was in 1926. So Miss Bowden-Armistead would be 86 years old if she was exactly 0 when she was approached. So perhaps it is a daughter who sweeps. The home was built in the 19th century and endured some modernity like telephone wires that cast wobbly lines on the not dirt road, but then all was sucked back. Buildings, wires, telephones, plumbing. Everything around her into the colonial era. And she remained. And she sweeps. Or her ghost sweeps. 

I really want to know and I kind of don't want to know.




 

They say the Cobbler's children go unshod, and so it goes and has always gone. In this  house, the Cabinet Maker's family is certainly daily amidst unfinished home projects (including un-get-to-able books in boxes for the better part of a year awaiting a library...) Here Peg and Awl wins. BUT there has always been one thing that when without leaves me miserable. So this Bookbinder's family is ALWAYS with journal. And for a supremely happy birthday for me, I built myself a new journal and covered it with a vintage black jacket and some antique leather chaps (with buttons) that we found in a Paris Flea Market a few years back. (AND Walter took us to Williamsburg VA this past weekend!!!)


Happiness abounds.