Tea Time

This sweet green teapot was originally used to serve hot tea to diners at Cameron's cafeteria in Tyler, Texas where my mother and father both worked when they married in 1931.  These days it is more often used to hold a couple of cut roses from my garden, but I like it best sitting on my counter, reminding me of my parents, their willingness to work at building a marriage and life (I believe Daddy made $1.50 a week when they got married), and the fact that they kept the little teapot even though the enamel inside is chipped and rusted.  I like the grace of the handle and the spout and the way the lid tips back on a tiny hinge. My shiny red electric teakettle and our Flavia machine which can produce a cup of lemon or peppermint tea in no time with little fuss and bother are convenient and useful, but I doubt either will be around in over 80 years for someone to photograph and write about.  Somehow, I think this one will. 

I Love You

It is a quiet Saturday morning.   I have had my coffee, settled with my morning readings and quiet time and prayers, and added my daily five things to my gratitude journal.  Frequently, one or all three of these little girls appear in that journal - their laughter, their singing, their joy and generosity.  I don't have to write Skye or Maddie or Jordann for them to be on my mind and in my heart because they are always there.  But there is something about writing the thought down that pins it down in a collection of beautiful memories. I love them deeply, and I know they love me.  They also love each other. Maddie and Jordann live 5 hours away, and here are leaving to go home with their parents. What an expression of "parting is such sweet sorrow!" 

 I have a dozen items on the to do list, getting ready for another surgery for Joe next week, but starting them can wait.  I am going to make a couple of phone calls!

December 24

December 24

 

December 24, 1959

Daddy bought roman candles

to celebrate Christmas Eve.

My little sister and I knelt on the ground watching.

Each pop and whoosh threw red and green trails

into starlit sky.

We thought it was how he liked to spend Christmas eve.

Mother never joined us, staying inside,

then coming to the screen door

“Come fast, guess who has just been here?”

Santa came and we always missed him

but gathered our presents and drank hot chocolate -

No visions of sugar plums when we dreamed because we already had them.

December 24, 1963

I gave Joe a tiny red book

with poems about love.

He fastened three pins on my jacket

three letters: M, A, and P

my new initials.

We were married three days later.

.

December 24, 1964

In Oregon, our tree was a tiny Grant pine

cut from a friend's farm.

hung with snowflake cutouts and lacy string balls

I knitted a green sweater,

sleeves twice as long as his arms.

He painted a recipe box

“Good Things You Can Fix”

December 24, 1965

Planning a time full of surprises.

driving four hours on Christmas eve.

Our gift would be an announcement,

a grandchild!

Good news faded, pain exploded,

no tree in the operating room, no joy in the telling.

December 24 1968 and 1970 and 1973...

Lights shining in the eyes of a new baby.

Is there anything more beautiful?

What better time to celebrate birth and babies?

Christmas carols make wonderful lullabies.

December 24, now.

We go to church on Christmas eve

Once it was snowing when we came back outside,

something that never happens in South Texas.

We danced in the snowflakes.

Then we came in for mulled cider and tamales.

Licking the Spoon

Licking the Spoon

Sliced red apples sweet and crisp

to dip in hot caramel

Pumpkin Bread and Gingerbread

Candy Cane Cookies, Thumbprints, red jam in the middle

Toffee with almonds spread quickly to cool

German Butter Balls rolled in powdered sugar

Peppermint Bark

Fudge cooked in an iron skillet, the old fashioned way

poured onto a buttered platter

Cranberry Crisp

Turkish Delight

Pecan pralines tasting of brown sugar

Haystacks – butterscotch and chow mein noodles!

Sweetest of all -

Licking the Spoon.



Stirring Moments

Among all the wonderful together times at Christmas, some of my most favorite are those I spend in the kitchen with my family.  In this picture, Skye was only four years old.  She just celebrated her 9th  birthday.  We enjoy cooking together.  I am happy to make cookies, candy, and a gingerbread house just like I did when her Daddy and my other sons were growing up.  I love remembering happy times past, and love even more making new memories.  This afternoon, no one is in the kitchen with me, but as I turn up Andrea Bocelli's Christmas CD, turn on the oven, and pull out the baking pans, my heart is singing.  And remembering.

                                                 

The Little Golden Book Story of Christmas With Its Own Advent Calendar

                                                The Little Golden Book Advent Calendar




One window at a time, our sons opened the view to Bethlehem,

from the Little Golden Book Story of Christmas with its own Advent calendar

I found the book on sale in Cokesbury, downtown Dallas

displayed with all the wonderful children's Christmas books.

never knowing it would become a treasured vehicle

for keeping Christmas as three boys grew strong and tall



In the beginning a story was read from the book and they took turns (reluctantly)

opening windows, naming what could then be seen

Years passed, they read their own story.

How did those little cardboard windows last?

They were not always opened slowly or gently!



First page, first image –sad swirls of darkness, clouds

As windows and story opened more -

angel, donkey, closed door, open stable,

cow, shepherds, sheep, one star

kings, camels, presents

Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus



Tiny windows in Bethlehem, opening one by one

counting down the days to Christmas.

telling hope and mystery and miracle

singing He is coming, He has come.

Story not finished but beginning! Jesus, born once more

entering our world bringing light and life.



Christmas does not come all at once.

One window at a time, we open our eyes to Bethlehem.

One step more and we are home.

Remembering Indonesia

I was recently asked to talk about the country of Indonesia to some groups of children at my granddaughter's school.  I guess a picture really is worth a thousand words, because it would take me more than a thousand to tell the stories behind the objects shown here.  After almost 20 years, I am surprised that the time we spent in Jakarta, Indonesia came to mind so vividly as I showed them dolls and puppets, played gamelan music, passed around rupiah, shared photos and books and spread out batik.  To finish, we shared a snack of pisang, nanas, and krupuk (bananas, pineapple, and shrimp crackers).  Since we had family birthdays to celebrate the next weekend, our youngest son, Ben, grilled sate and and made nasi goreng for us to eat while we watched old videos of Jakarta and Bali.  It was a time long ago and far away, but we remember.

Apron Strings

As I browse catalogs from my favorite kitchen stores (Sur le Tables and Williams Sonoma) I am noticing the appearance of items that would make my mother proud.  Aprons!  Ruffled, pocketed, colorful aprons .  Some have bibs and tie at the top as well as the waist.  Some are cute little hostess aprons like the one above.  These are way different from the chef style aprons that never went completely away, especially for barbecueing.  In fact, they are replicas of the vintage aprons collected by some which were always worn by women in the kitchen in generations before mine.  I have aprons that were sewn by and worn by my mother and grandmother.  Both women would be shocked at buying one, particularly at the prices at which they are advertised.  After all, they made theirs out of leftover fabric from other sewing. 

I like looking at all those pretty aprons.  But I don't want one of them.  I am happy to pull on the soft bits of history on the hook in my pantry.   I am after all, tied to my mother's apron strings.

                                                  

Headed for Fall, Remembering Summer

At the beginning of the summer, when the herb and vegetable garden was producing plenty to pick every day, Maddie and Skye loved helping with the harvest.  One day they asked if they could have a farm stand in the front yard.  They had the sign all ready to go:  Tomatoes were 50 cents each, bunches of Basil were advertised at 10 cents, and mint for 2 cents per handful.  Peppers were 30 cents, and underneath the large "OPEN and SALE!"   lettering was the enticing "1 Free Water with each purchase!"

A couple of neighbors helpfully shopped from their market, and they happily counted their proceeds as they chattered about how much more fun that was than a lemonade stand.

Now, at summer's end, I think about our long hot Texas summer with record breaking drought and am thankful we had those weeks of bounty before the garden said "no more."  I pick up the sun hats they wore that afternoon, and move the little round table to a spot until they are ready to use it for another project.  And as grandmothers do, I carefully put the sign in a good place for keeping. 

Squash Baby

Sometimes a vegetable hides under its foliage until it is beyond edible.  Jordann found this yellow squash  and obviously loves it, warts and all!  Seeing her cradle it reminds me of a zucchini I displayed in the same fashion a few years ago.  I come from a long line of farmers. When I was Jordann's age, we often used surplus cucumbers and squash from the garden to make a menagerie of animals with toothpick legs and button eyes.  I still create with these fresh treats, but now it is in the kitchen. Today's produce prices at the supermarket are making me expand my list of vegetables to grow in the coming season.  Tomatoes are in and finally beginning to grow as temperatures come down from triple digits.  Soon we will plant collards, swiss chard, and bok choy which winter well here. When possible I find heirloom seeds and plants to use.  I am thankful for my garden, and I delight in seeing my children and grandchildren becoming gardeners, too.

Feeling Real

Summer 2011 may be the time I remember as the hottest and driest on record in South Texas, but it will also be one more time in my life when I am reminded that I am real. Joe has had his 12th knee surgery . It is hard to see him in so much pain and for so long. Two hospitalizations, surgery, medical appointments and all the in betweens has been exhausting for him, and challenging as I care for him. His faith and courage and spirit persist and inspire me, but I know he is worn out. Today, Skye has been here with her quick smile, tight hugs and good company. She was looking at a picture of herself that is on my kitchen desk that shows her at three, thanking God for her bowl of chicken soup. As we talked, I thought to myself that of all the things I enjoy doing and being with her, one of the best is conversation. Listening to each other. She helps me know I am real. She helps Joe remember that he is, too.

“Real isn't how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. It doesn't happen all at once...it takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges or have to be carefully kept. Generally by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to the people who don't understand.”

~ from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Marjorie Williams (one of our all time favorite children's books)

Glimmers from the Past

I was recently asked what country or regions my birth family came from.  I have some answers and alot of blanks!

I only wish had early known the questions I now have and asked them while those who might have answered were still alive! There are, however, glimmers from the past, and some apparently accurate passing down of ancestral origin. I was born to Opal Terrell Teal and Howard Teal in Tyler, Texas in 1940. My father's mother, Ida Mayfield Teal,  took care of her parents until their death, and only then married, "late in life" was the phrase I always heard. My father, the oldest of 4 children was born when she was 41. I know very little about her background save that she drilled a hole in a memorial coin (given to her father William Mayfield in the Spanish-American war) put the coin on a string for her babies to teeth on! Her husband, my paternal grandfather was a stout man, deaf as a post, red faced and according to family story, Irish, and Protestant.


The information about my maternal grandparents is definitely more detailed and full of stories. I have an ancestral chart which shows my maternal grandfather's maternal line back to the Mayflower and beyond to England and Scotland. I have heard many stories about my Methodist Great Grandfather, John Wesley Terrell. He was an East Texas farmer with a large family, but he was known for generosity.

My maternal grandmother was born to Ernestine Matilde Augier Curley, who was born in Marseilles, France, and  immigrated from southern France with her parents, Bienvenue Pascal Augier and wife Clara Orthinet to a southern Parish in Louisiana when she was a child. Their Catholic past is evident from a small holy water font that was passed down and currently rests in my china cabinet. Just yesterday I was sorting through the stacks of family papers and memorabilia. I can only do this in intervals, a little at a time. Partly because I feel a deep connection to all these letters and kept things and feel a heaviness of decision making as I sift through. I think "if my grandmother and my great grandmother kept these things, who am I to decide they are or are not worth keeping?" I am approaching my 71st birthday and have been avoiding all these boxes and stacks for one reason or another for far too long. I need to organize, pass on what is meaningful, and store in the most efficient way what needs to be kept for the time being. But lest I sound resentful, let me say there is great honor in being the designated keeper of these things, and there is story in nearly everything I touch. Yesterday I unfolded a long piece of delicate handmade lace from the box I marked "Great Grandmother Curley's Things" many years ago. It was probably used as a covering for a library table or dresser. I haven't yet made myself put it away. Touching it evokes a world of question. Did she make this lace, or did her own mother, who would have been my French great great grandmother? As I think these thoughts, I know I will wait until my granddaughters are here so that I can show it to them. Think about it....holding something that your great great great grandmother loved and used.

When they are ready, I will tell how this grandmother lived through a traumatic period in her adopted country's history: the Civil War, Reconstruction, the Spanish-American War, World War 1, and Hitler's invasion of Europe. How during this time, she birthed 10 children by 2 husbands, neither of whom lived to see all their children born. A story is told that her second husband, James Curley, (my great grandfather) was later found to be a fugitive from justice, but no word of what he had done to claim that status. They were married only 5 years, but 3 babies were born during that time, including twins one of whom was still born. My grandmother, Mary Clyde Curley Terrell, was born shortly after his death. When Grandma Curley could no longer live alone, she lived with my grandmother and her family, but she was present at the birth of every grandchild.  With 10 children, that is alot of grandchildren!

"Grandma, I look at your picture. You look so stern and strong. I know that you loved to crochet and do fine needlework because I have boxes of intricately patterned crochet and lace pieces that you used for "go-bys". Even though you died when I was 3 months old, I was told that you rocked me and held me and loved me.  I see in my own granddaughters some of your independence and ability to endure. You modeled faith and faithfulness. They have a deeply rich legacy."

I am indebted to my cousin, Jane Hill Pirtle, for much of the information here. She included this in a story about her own grandmothers published in Filtered Images, women Remembering Their Grandmothers.

Last night Joe and I were invited by our youngest son, Ben, to share a meal with him and his wife Kristen in their new home. Ben promised to make us one of Kristen's favorite dishes, Leek and Two Cheese Quiche. We brought some homemade gazpacho and an arugula salad. The table was set beautifully, with wedding goblets and a huge bunch of basil from their garden. Just as I was thinking how special they had made our evening, one more realization gave me a smile as well as a tear.


As I picked up my spoon, I recognized a piece of vintage silverplate. Not a fancy pattern, but simple, beautiful, and achingly familiar. We didn't have a lot of fancy kitchenware when I was growing up – no matching pots and pans, no crystal, mostly mismatched plates and bowls and glasses,stainless flatware, miscellaneous plastic and wood handled spoons and serving items. The knives and forks and spoons we used for every day meals were in a shallow drawer on one side of the short kitchen counter. But the spoon I held in my hand was kept with a matched set. This was my mother's silverplate, the pieces she kept in a box she had painted light green to match her kitchen at one point. She had a set of butter yellow china that she kept on a high cabinet shelf. The silverware box sat by itself at the end of the counter. This flatware she pulled out for use for special or holiday meals, or when we had company.

When my mother sold her small house to move into a still smaller apartment, she gave many things to my sister and me, and to her grandchildren, who call her Nana.

She gave Ben the green box. In the years to come he kept the box and its contents on his own kitchen counter. He made Sunday after-church dinners and a Mothers' Day lunch to which Nana was invited.  She noticed his use of her silverware, and bragged on his cooking.  Now, he and Kristen have given the delicately traced knives and forks and spoons a place of honor in a drawer of their beautiful china cabinet. I felt Nana nodding and saw her smile last night as we began to fork bites of Ben's delicious pastry. I know she approved. Her spirit and her spoons continue to bless the gathering of family.

Jacksonville,Texas: The Tomato Capitol of the World

Joe and I both grew up in Jacksonville, Texas.  Recently a number of facebook threads of conversations as well as a website have provided pictures of years past in our hometown.  I like this picture because it shows a line of women packing tomatoes in the tomato sheds for which Jacksonville was famous.  My mother, Opal Terrell Teal, worked packing tomatoes in the 1930's.  The picture is not of her, but I can see her, discarding imperfect tomatoes as "culls", which were sold at reduced prices, and wrapping the select tomatoes in tissue paper as the conveyor belt rolled them down the line in boxes to be shipped.
http://www.tomatocapital.com/photos/packingtomatoes.php

Red, White, and Blue

We celebrated with a Fourth of July breakfast this morning.  A Dutch Baby (puffed pancake) with blueberries, rasperries, and strawberries.  We enjoy a variety of pancakes of various origins, but this may just be voted family favorite.  Nearly 25 years ago, our friends Bob and Dorothy Thomas made this.  Once I tasted it, I hastily scribbled the bones of the recipe on a torn piece of paper, which is still the one I pull out when I get ready to make it.  Even though I know the simple ingredients and preparation by heart, I like to connect with the memories by handling this tattered little note. It may be simple, but because it rises and puffs and is always beautiful with any assortment of fresh fruit, it is a great way to make guests feel special, whether served at breakfast, brunch, or a lovely dinner dessert.

                                                                  1/3 cup butter
                                                                   4 eggs
                                                                   1 cup milk
                                                                   1 cup flour

Begin heating oven to 425 degrees.  Put butter into an 8 inch round iron skillet and place in oven.  While butter is melting, put eggs, milk, and flour into blender jar and mix throughly.  Take hot skillet out of oven and pour batter directly into melted butter.  Do not stir.  Place back into oven for about 20 minutes, or until puffed and browned.  I cut it into fourths and top with fresh berries or peaches and sprinkle lightly with powdered sugar.  If you wish, add a dollop if whipped cream.  Garnish with a sprig of mint.
Optional:  Add vanilla or a dash of nutmeg for flavor.  We like it plain.

Together, Alone

I enjoy participating in an online reading group.  We take turns leading a book each month.  For July, I am moderating discussion questions for this book.  I bought the book and Susan signed it at a Story Circle Network conference in Austin shortly after it was published.  During my second reading, Together, Alone draws me once again to examine the power of place in my own story.

A Week with Maddie

My granddaughter, Madelyn, has been here for over a week.  She loves to cook as much as I do, so we have baked cupcakes, made Amish Friendship Bread, mixed up egg salad for a picnic, used the vegetable spiraler on zucchini and cucumbers, and enjoyed making Papa's dinner.  That doesn't mean she didn't have time to catch tadpoles, pick dozens of bouquets, raid the dressup basket for fashion shows with her cousin Skye, cut herbs, and harvest every tomato, okra, and cucumber that wasn't hiding under a leaf.  This list hardly begins to tell all the fun we had.  One morning when she woke up and ran in to give me a hug, she asked what I was writing.  I showed her the little journal and told her every morning I write down 5 things I am thankful for.  She wanted me to read her what I had been writing all week. Every day had her name written...Maddies' songs, Maddie's smile, snuggling with Maddie, reading with Maddie, Maddie's prayers.  She took the pen and asked if she could write something in the Gratitude Book and asked me for a little help with spelling.  When she gave it back to me, I read  I  AM  THANKFUL  FOR  GRANMARY. I don't know if she will always remember this week, but I know that I will.  Thank you God for Maddie!

Congratulations to Lauren

Our oldest granddaughter graduated from high school a few days ago.  One of my gifts to her is a book of pictures we gathered in a photo session in our back yard.  As she went from porch to path to pond and I stopped to receive images of her, I was taken back to times when her running, skipping, dancing feet took her home from first grade to an after school snack in my kitchen.  Blessings for the path that lies ahead, Lauren! 

Packing the Christmas Dress

When my mother was growing up, they never put up the Christmas tree until Christmas eve.  All the festivities and celebrating came after Christmas.  They  celebrated the 12 days of Christmas beginning with Christmas day.  Now that we decorate our and trees much earlier (ours is usually done on Thanksgiving weekend) we have longer to enjoy our house with its Christmas dress on, but I still don’t like to take anything down until Epiphany.  As I pack away ornaments and manger scenes, I remember that I am not putting away the Christ-light.  Nearly 30 years ago I wrote about “undecorating”. 

The mantle seems lonely without the little manger scene.

The house looks plain, bereft of red and green.

The tree is down, the front door bare.

No wreath or garland festooned there.

Our mailbox no longer yields its daily harvest of cards.

The lights and Santas are gone from all the yards.

We packed away the manger scene,

But not the shine of the star!

For His new birth within us, no time or season can mar.

Because He was born, we have Christmas.

Because He died we have life.

Because He lives we have new years

No matter what serves us with strife.

We thank Him for peace and for promise.

We thank Him for love and for sight.

We thank Him for meaning and purpose.

We live to show darkness the Light.

Definitely older, hopefully wiser...I sing along to Andrea Bocelli's Christmas album, allow a few tears to fill my eyes, and am aware that the gifts of Christmas continue.

An Irish Blessing

In 1967, as the birth of our first son approached, Joe and I were fond of a San Antonio radio announcer who signed off each day with this Irish blessing.  Although I can't remember his surname, I do remember his given name because that is the name we chose for our son, Sean, who is now a father himself and still loves all things Irish.  Signing off for now...