Perspective from the Back of a Pickup Truck

Summers spent in Maine also meant seemingly endless visits with family.  As a child I dreaded the trips away from the lake cottage.  If the trip was to be an overnight one to Boston, it was even worse.  I didn't like to be separated from my little wooden rowboat.  I loved running as fast as I could down the packed dirt road, the soles of my feet toughened from all of the barefoot days.  I built tents using the clothesline, wet towels and wooden clothespins and stayed outside until the night sounds scared me into retreating to the safety of my lower bunk bed.  On rainy days, I climbed up to the attic to read a book and listened to the sounds of the raindrops dancing on the rooftop while I hunkered down on one of three ancient mattresses with their mismatched chenille coverlets.

Uncle John would arrive with my cousin, Christine for a visit at some point during the summer.  They lived less than an hour away in New Hampshire, but as a child, it seemed like such a far away place.  Christine would stay with us for several days and then my younger sister and I would head to their farm in New Hampshire for a few days.  The best part of the trip was my uncle's old pickup truck.  He would wait until nightfall and line the bed of the truck with sleeping bags, pillows, blankets and favorite stuffed animals.  The three of us would lie side by side and stare up at the stars in the inky sky as he drove on the highways to their farmhouse.  There was a large iron bridge along the route and I would try to count the cross bars overhead.  Chilly New England air rushing by, traffic zipping along and three little girls snuggled in the back chattering about life's most important things.

This was the one trip that I always looked forward to each summer...the one visit I didn't dread.  To this day, I still believe that the best conversations happen in the back of an old pickup truck.

Something Old, Something New

Every quilt has a story.  For my quilt, the story began last year when I fell in love with a beautiful selection of vintage prints at a favorite craft store.  One, with its pretty pink roses reminded me of my comforter set from my first college apartment in Augusta, Georgia.  I think it still may be tucked away in a closet at my parent’s house.  A second fabric brought back memories of a dress I made with my mother’s help and I quickly picked up the bolt of creamy calico with tiny purple flowers.  I had no pattern in mind so I asked for a half yard of each, which I felt would be sufficient to create a lap quilt of my choosing.

Ten years ago, I judged a book by its cover.  More Quilts From The Quiltmaker’s Gift by Joanne Larsen Line is a beautifully illustrated instructional book that celebrates the giving nature of the quilting tradition.  Each pattern in the book is a testament to planning and requires a lot of time, effort and attention to detail.  At the time, my focus was on scrap quilting and appliqué and I didn’t have the interest in some of the more intricate patterns offered in the book.  The book was shelved and every few years, I would rediscover it, wistfully gazing at the glossy pages.

It was within these pages that I found the pattern that would perfectly showcase my vintage blends of creams, pinks, lavenders and greens.  “Spool” is a pattern comprised of simple squares and triangles while balancing the shades of lights and darks.  I had found my roadmap and was ready to embark on the journey.

 

I never create a quilt from all new fabrics.  My first stop was an archeological dig through my fabric stash and my mom’s.  I pulled numerous fabrics left over from long ago creations that blended well with the newly purchased ones.  Several favorites were part of a quilt that my Mom and I made when a friend’s mother was diagnosed with cancer.  The pale lavender dotted with cream colored roses and tiny green leaves and a lemony yellow laced with a subtle hint of white reminded me of her strength. 

I also discovered a green and pink striped fabric on a shelf in my mother’s sewing room which had been long forgotten.  It didn’t fit in with the neighboring jewel tones so I borrowed it for my outer borders.  It took a day to cut all of the pieces and two weekends to sew the quilt top together.

I then needed to choose my fabrics for the back of the quilt.  After deciding on flannel, I found a paisley in green and purple at the local store.  I bought what was left on the bolt, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.  I added a white and blue polar bear flannel to lengthen each end.  In 2000, my mother visited a small company in Thomson, Georgia that manufactured sheets.  They sold fabric remnants by the pound and Mom bought so much of the polar bear flannel, we still use it to line the backs of quilts.  My “911 Quilt” that I started within days after the Twin Towers fell has the soft, familiar flannel on its reverse.

Every quilt has a story and this one is no exception.  It has the strength of others that have come first and one day, pieces of this of this quilt’s story will be sewn into the next, full of promises and endless possibilities. 

“Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed Something Blue”.  For Chantel, 2013

 

Marielle: 1915-2012

My grandmother was a walking piece of history.  In our world of modern conveniences, it amazes me of all the things she had seen.  Her family was the first to own a car and when I look back on what must have been a monumental event in her life, I smile to think of her, years later, reading books on her Kindle with ease, flipping through channels on her satellite TV and connecting with loved ones via a laptop computer and Skype. 

She grew up during the Great Depression which formed a lot of whom she was.  She learned to do with less, avoid credit cards and to help family members and friends as she was able.

I would smile as she chastised my mother for buying new clothes and I immediately thought of her three large closets that were far from empty.  She would scrutinize, but never criticize, my collection of shoes.  Once in a while she would call me Imelda Marcos however, my love of shoes can be blamed solely on her.  I remember my favorite childhood hiding place in her house on Granite Street was in her closet among the glittering rows of shoes adorned with bows and other accessories.

She fell in love with a scrappy puppy during Mom’s Meals on Wheels route.  Needless to say, Grandma is the reason why my parents are still “fostering” this dog five years later.

I will miss my grandmother.  The most unusual color of her grey-green eyes, like the stormy New England sea.  I will miss holding her hand and taking an afternoon nap with her in her room.  I will miss her stories of days long gone.

Marielle Conon lived a full life and one of much success.  An essay by Bessie Anderson Stanley reminds me of her life story:

He has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often and loved much.

Who has enjoyed the trust of pure women, the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children.

Who has filled his niche and accomplished his task.

Who has never lacked appreciation of the Earth’s beauty or failed to express it.

Who has left the world better than he found it.

Whether an improved poppy, a perfect poem or a rescued soul.

Who has always looked for the best in others and given them the best he had.

Whose life was an inspiration.

Whose memory a benediction.

 

As we gather today, although we will miss my grandmother’s physical presence, let’s celebrate her life as it was fully lived.  Let’s share our memories so she continues to live in all of us.

(Read at her funeral on December 27, 2012; Peabody, Massachusetts)

Bathing Beauties

The cottages lining the lake in Maine were on small lots.  It was easy to see into your neighbor’s home from the side living room window or even the attic.  My grandmother was not a full-time Maine resident but spent most of the summer months in the Pine Tree State away from the heat of Boston.  Phyllis and Bill Carson, the Polish couple in the Christmas red cottage, became her summer buddies.  Meals were shared, cards were played and Phyllis filled everyone in on the latest lakeside gossip.

One special ritual between my grandmother and Phyllis occurred each evening after supper.  The lake was empty of splashing children and all forms of boats.  The surface of the water was calm and glassy.  Grandma and Phyllis would snap on a garish rubber swim cap adorned with colorful floppy flowers and emerge from their respective homes decked out in one-piece skirted bathing suits.  Each would secure a life preserver belt around her plump waist and wade into the depths of the lake.  There they would simply float together, talking and laughing until they became pruned.

The only pictures I have are my memories of the two floating friends…the bathing beauties of Bauneg Beg and it makes me smile when I think of them.


(RIP Phyllis 12/19/2012 and Marielle 12/21/2012)

Open for Business

Every year, right after school let out for the summer, Mom and Dad would line the back of the station wagon with sleeping bags, blankets and pillows, tie down the luggage to the roof, add one gray and white cat, one excited family dog and two, still in their pajamas, sleeping kids to head for the family cottage in Maine. We would arrive in the morning, with the dog barking, huffing, puffing and whining the final ten miles until he was released to race down to the lake for his first summer swim.

Oftentimes, my cousins from New York would arrive within days. I know I shouldn’t have favorites but Steven was always my hero. Each year I would anxiously await his arrival and he would usually stay for a month. Because he lived in Long Island and I lived in New Jersey during the year, we didn’t get to see each other that much. Maine was our special place and we spent a lot of time brainstorming ideas to keep us busy during the long summer days. Most of our time was dedicated to getting his brother and my sister, Todd and Elizabeth, in trouble. This usually backfired. We also devoted a good amount of time devising ways to acquire their money. To us it seemed reasonable since all they ever spent their money on was candy. We were their dental hygiene super heroes. So, out of concern for our siblings’ pearly whites and our financial well-being, the greatest money-making scheme was born.

Steven and I spent an entire afternoon in the cellar of the cottage creating a restaurant. The summer kitchen was there on the off-chance that we had a heat wave. Using old construction paper and colored pencils, we painstakingly created multiple copies of our menu. Our enterprise was named “The Nickel and Dime” and the menus boasted items priced at five cents and ten cents. I was the chef because I could scramble eggs and make toast. My specialty was sliced hotdogs sautéed in a ketchup, mustard and brown sugar reduction. We were ready as our first customers came through the door. They were our parents who travelled from all the ways upstairs just to inform us that we could not charge for food since we did not purchase it. This was a major setback.

“I have an idea,” Steven announced as I sat dejected on a nearby chair. He emptied rusty nuts, bolts and nails from an ancient coffee can into a kitchen drawer and wrote “TIPS” across it in black magic marker. We placed the can near the door and were quick to point it out to our first real customers, Todd and Elizabeth.

Business went well for a week. Then, our cousins from Boston, Jennifer and Carolyn, arrived for a day visit. Their mother, Aunt Kathy, was the scariest person I knew. She was very strict and never smiled. Anything that was fun was too dangerous or had germs or was illegal. In hindsight, she was probably right. Carolyn and Jennifer saw our fine dining establishment and wanted their own business. Steven rented a corner of the cellar to them where they sold Styrofoam art. Todd and Elizabeth were still the only customers. Suddenly, the cellar door burst open and we saw the most terrifying sight: Aunt Kathy stood in the doorway, her hands pressed firmly against her hips. We were pretty sure she wasn’t a customer.

“If you kids don’t quiet down I’m going to give you each a good crack on your fannies,” she hollered, giving us the evil eye. The Wicked Witch of the West couldn’t have put it more clearly.

“But Aunt Kathy,” I ventured. “I already have a good crack”. The silence was broken and all of us laughed, except my aunt. She blushed and furiously retreated, slamming the door behind her. We were left alone for the remainder of the day and once again, we were open for business.

Sarah’s Secret Sautéed Weiners

3 hot dogs sliced into 1-inch pieces

½ cup of Ketchup

2 Tablespoons Yellow Mustard

2 Tablespoons Brown Sugar

Mix all ingredients in a frying pan over medium high heat. Bring to a simmer and cook until the sauce has thickened (usually 5-8 minutes). Serve immediately.

The Dollhouse

The first summer that Uncle Bob and Aunt Phyllis rented a house down the road from ours, I felt betrayed. They always stayed at our house. Just like Steven was always my cousin and Todd was always Elizabeth’s. These were the rules that were never broken. However, it soon became clear to me that having two houses in the family had its advantages.

Elizabeth, aka “Lizardbreath”, was always in Maine when her birthday rolled around in July. She never celebrated her birthday in New Jersey with her friends. Steven and I would throw a surprise birthday party for her each July and we would try to give her a great present. In the cellar of the rental house, in the creepy corner of junk, there was a pile of old wood that had been used in a previous renovation. In this cellar our greatest gift idea ever was formed: the dollhouse.

We raided the cellar of my house for a hammer, rusty hand saw, and an old mayonnaise jar filled with an eclectic assortment of nails. All of this we spirited back to the rental house via my old wooden row boat. It would have been faster to walk, but we ran the chance of discovery by my sister who had yet to master the oars of the rowboat. We decided that the water route, though ten minutes longer, was the more furtive route.

Back in the relative safety of the rental cellar, Steven carefully taped black construction paper to the windows and bolted the door. Protected from prying eyes, we began our construction project. The main structure of the dollhouse was easy to build. It had two stories with six rooms and a roof on top. It wasn’t fancy and we decorated it with sand glued to the roof and made use of small shells, pilfered plastic wrap and bits of tin foil. Once the top heavy house was completed, we began to work on the furniture. Further raids of my house produced useable scraps of wood and soon our furniture project was completed: a table, a couch and several beds. Leftover metal soda caps became bowls for the kitchen while toothpaste caps stolen from the bathrooms of both houses became cups. Our most ambitious project was the waterbed. Steven retrieved a Ziploc baggie and filled it with water. I made a lining for it using leftover material from my mother’s perpetual sewing projects. We left it overnight on the cellar floor to test its durability. The next morning, to our disappointment, the water had almost completely leaked out. So much for the company’s advertising campaign. The waterbed idea was scrapped.

The next phase of Operation Dollhouse was to find dolls to live in it. Steven and I, always ahead of our time in living green, collected cans and bottles from the side of the road and took them to the Camp Waban Country Store. Each soda can yielded five cents and each two liter bottle netted ten cents. That summer, the store had a display of mice dolls. Each doll was a small mouse dressed in fancy clothing. After careful scrutiny, we selected Miss Mouse America and Southern Belle Mouse. We raced the mile and a half back to the cellar and placed the mice inside the dollhouse. Our present was completed and just in time: the birthday party was the next day.

I met Steven early the next morning and we loaded the dollhouse into the rowboat. We covered it with towels and transported it back to my cellar, rowing carefully through the silent water.

I still don’t understand how the party could have been a surprise. It was on Elizabeth’s actual birthday and we held it every year without an exception. She was in the house the entire time and could clearly detect the scent of her favorite blueberry birthday cake floating from the oven. She was delighted, surprise or not and Steven and I eagerly waited for the moment when we could unveil our present for her. The expression on my sister’s face was worth all of our efforts. Operation Dollhouse was a success.

Little Theater, Grand Ideas

Spending the entire summer at the cottage in Maine could be busy with the arrival of relatives and friends but there was only so much swimming, boating and playing in the sand that I could tolerate. The weather could be hot and unforgiving or damp and cold leaving us to quiet indoor activities.

The cellar was our escape from our parents and one summer, the occasional hot weather kitchen, the sometimes swimsuit changing room and the creepy corner of rusty tools was transformed into our personal theater.

The first production that was held in the cellar was the brainchild of my older cousin, Steven. He fashioned a curtain out of sailboat rope and a faded threadbare sheet, wrote a rudimentary script and cast his younger brother Todd and me into leading roles. He designed the set around the old kitchen table which was impossible to move and then created stadium seating for the audience using old cinder blocks and a series of beach chairs. Tickets were distributed to our fan base and playbills were hand written with colored pencils. Steven paid attention to every detail in his role of Director, Producer, Stage Manager, Set Designer, Costume Designer, Makeup Artist and Playwright.

The second production was designed by me after Steven had left for his home in New York. I enlisted the help of my sister, Elizabeth and a couple of the neighborhood kids. It was Elizabeth’s first and only musical entitled “The Genie in the Clothesbasket”. Elizabeth was the genie in the clothesbasket. I thought “Clothesbasket” sounded classier than “hamper”. Even at 9 years of age, my sister was tall and the clothesbasket was the only thing she could fit in. When someone rubbed the clothesbasket the right way, Elizabeth would spring from the depths and sing a jaunty tune that I wrote with the help of my flute:

I am the Genie

I am the Genie

I am the Genie

Of the Clothesbasket!

I believe my sister discovered her love of theater and performing arts in the cellar of our summer retreat. I have attended many of her plays, which are strangely non-musical, in South Carolina, Georgia and Connecticut and have noticed that she never once mentioned her childhood performances in Maine.

For myself, I am content to collect my monthly royalties for my one hit wonder and fondly remember one summer, over thirty years ago, where the gathering of many creative minds produced the littlest of little theater in the small lakeside community.