tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28160637319846942682024-02-19T18:00:20.536-08:00Visits to Corgi Cottagesparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-45448882478003220442020-02-14T08:05:00.003-08:002020-02-14T08:05:42.618-08:00Winter Bouquet<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlzQCGwor42DYAVEnwTntKsc0XdrOT5no5WapSExXs-uh0UnktOgq5dBsE867mYXUI45I_UJUMEboua-hlx3f-RCq6si-BsXe7o0VEi38vBSHiOfd9gE-njctAGAWXNXJpfk-JO2qpvK5/s1600/Pussywillows+TT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="692" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlzQCGwor42DYAVEnwTntKsc0XdrOT5no5WapSExXs-uh0UnktOgq5dBsE867mYXUI45I_UJUMEboua-hlx3f-RCq6si-BsXe7o0VEi38vBSHiOfd9gE-njctAGAWXNXJpfk-JO2qpvK5/s320/Pussywillows+TT.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Sewing by Tasha's Fire</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Winter
Bouquet<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most of my visits to Corgi Cottage occurred in the wintertime
when snow smothered Tasha’s gardens. Sometimes I slipped down to her greenhouse
to breathe the air rich with the scent of moist earth and her climbing rose, Cecile
Brunner. The pale pink blossoms defied the snowdrifts mounded outside the glass
panes. When the camellias bloomed, Tasha would cut several and float them in a
pink luster bowl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One winter I spied a large bouquet of pussy willows sitting
on her long table covered art supplies, her latest painting and other creative
projects. A friend had dropped off the gift so Tasha could force the fuzzy
blooms to crack their hard, brown shells. Now, the silvery catkins snuggled on
the branches, hinting how spring was not too far off. The humble bouquet represented
many elements of Tasha’s simple life…a love of nature and beauty, her pride of calling
herself a housewife who created a welcoming home, where she celebrated the seasons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A few days ago, the snow crunched beneath my clogs as I
walked on our farm, and I noticed how a few tiny gray pussy willow buds were poking
their noses out. So, I cut off several branches, brought them into my warm
house and set them in a mason jar filled with water. Slowly, the buds are sneaking
out and will soon gleam in the afternoon sunlight, reminding me of Tasha and
the advent of spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-58921462890620300592019-03-16T07:47:00.001-07:002019-03-16T07:50:32.842-07:00<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRM_CSO6A6DdkKUxn-AUJyyBrqh72mAhe_mNA1UO_FeFfq1h0uWNWcvGy3yVfuxCdUxaqOEvP1XOvslAUM246vOpIezf4TfhzVftKC8BcdIkLHozp2a-ZOqsq_H9oZRjqrkCTV4Mo-zVc/s1600/Cat+tasha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="608" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRM_CSO6A6DdkKUxn-AUJyyBrqh72mAhe_mNA1UO_FeFfq1h0uWNWcvGy3yVfuxCdUxaqOEvP1XOvslAUM246vOpIezf4TfhzVftKC8BcdIkLHozp2a-ZOqsq_H9oZRjqrkCTV4Mo-zVc/s320/Cat+tasha.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha's front porch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSDualORkA5vlPkN5apZe6xSZE6gQXQ15hY7lKbtXKBg6M7IT1Eb1NOtqZHoSHyD20AJtIxY4NkOhmGJRxit9ewUFjV8kx7Z59k2WlZlUoCSmPpdpKXjvu4n_YDE8m56wuMZztZq8CQ2eJ/s1600/Canopy+Bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSDualORkA5vlPkN5apZe6xSZE6gQXQ15hY7lKbtXKBg6M7IT1Eb1NOtqZHoSHyD20AJtIxY4NkOhmGJRxit9ewUFjV8kx7Z59k2WlZlUoCSmPpdpKXjvu4n_YDE8m56wuMZztZq8CQ2eJ/s1600/Canopy+Bed.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garden bedroom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Seed
Packets<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On
my first adventure to Tasha’s home, my husband, John and I parked our car near
a meadow filled with blooming daisies and wondered if we had arrived to the
correct place? We had taken several turns down narrow, dirt roads before
reaching her long driveway. When a corgi’s head popped into view and then a
large gray wolfhound, John and I knew we had reached Tasha’s abode. Naturally,
as soon as we walked towards her weathered house, we recognized it from her
illustrations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Tasha
welcomed us into her kitchen where the corgis and the wolfhound greeted us,
sniffing as they investigated the animal scents on our clothing. From the
various cages, the canaries sang, the zebra finches whistled and the parrots
squawked “hello”. Her gray tabby, stretched and rubbed against my ankles. We
had stepped into one of Tasha’s illustrations and felt at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the afternoon, Tasha and a friend had
explored local greenhouses, picking up a new rose tree and other perennials
that she wanted for her gardens. Those pots stood on her front porch that
overlooked the orchard and gardens, waiting to be strategically planted in the
flowing landscape. When we offered to help in anyway, Tasha sent us to plant
her potatoes while she cooked dinner. Digging in the earth and dropping in the
chunks of potatoes was the perfect way to experience her garden and a restful
activity after spending many long hours in a car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Twilight
was falling as we settled into Tasha’s kitchen table with bowls of her wonderful
chicken soup and warm squares of cornbread. The mountains cast long shadows
across her land and the temperature was dropping. Steam rose from our bowls,
filling the air with the rich scent of chicken and carrots. The corgis slept,
Owen and Meg splayed out on the small rugs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’ve
just returned from England,” Tasha said. “I had the best time prowling around
greenhouses and potting sheds. I don’t think the folks who invited me over to
sign books thought that I would peek under tables in shed, searching for old
flowerpots, but I did.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It
sounds like fun,” I said, envisioning Tasha kneeling, her long skirt brushing a
brick path as she peered into the gloom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
spied some dandy old pots but had to wheedle and bargain with the gardeners for
them. But I brought them safely to Vermont. Such a wonderful addition to my
collection.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">While
we ate dishes of Tasha’s lemon jelly, she asked John a few questions about the
care of her fruit trees and he provided tips about how to prune them. The
conversation continued, focusing on goats and other farm animals as Tasha told
us stories. After washing the dishes, John and I retired to the upper bedroom
where she kept her collection of gardening books. On other visits, I spent many
hours viewing different books, writing down titles that I wanted to read,
gazing at the many lovely photographs of inspiring gardens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
the morning, we awoke in the famous canopy bed and beneath a masterpiece spread
created from hundreds of squares of white cotton knitted lace. On the lower
level, Tasha talked to her birds as she fed them breakfast. The scent of wood
smoke floated through our open window along with a rooster’s crow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Good
morning,” Tasha greeted me. “I’ve a pot of oatmeal cooking. If you want to
help, could you please water the plants I just purchased?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
my bare feet, gripping a metal watering can. I sprinkled the containers, and
admired a tall foxglove with many buds, and a flat of baby blue
for-get-me-nots. Back in the kitchen, I spied a cluster of seed packets sitting
on the table that held a large cage full of canaries. I didn’t recognize the
seed company’s name on the bright package. One bore the name of wallflower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
picked those up in England,” Tasha said. “Over there, I always find different flowers
or varieties of plants that are not offered in the States.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’ve
always wanted to grow wallflowers so I could inhale their fragrance. I hear it’s
heavenly.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh,
their perfume is rich and sweet. Here.” Tasha picked up the packet and gave it
to me. “You plant and enjoy it. You can write me about how well it grows in
Michigan.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That
simple act displayed Tasha’s generous spirit, always ready to share and to
encourage another gardener. Later that summer, I bent over red and yellow
wallflowers and inhaled their sweetness, remembering Tasha’s kindness and the
magical memories of my days spent with her.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-70069649494387790982019-02-20T11:52:00.002-08:002019-02-20T11:52:44.970-08:00Sweet Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGTEVg52LYvg32rbq8v1dpzNP7sKDUpEA2FDwF-abfuVz5s0cDG5DKQPowPdQM4NzKx5jQjNre22Pg1B0l6e_eIbMfcornghGx_ILPXgfDVqEJS1i3QwwfNej2BRwAjubWKGCzOeE33eR/s1600/Tasha%2527s+spring+garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGTEVg52LYvg32rbq8v1dpzNP7sKDUpEA2FDwF-abfuVz5s0cDG5DKQPowPdQM4NzKx5jQjNre22Pg1B0l6e_eIbMfcornghGx_ILPXgfDVqEJS1i3QwwfNej2BRwAjubWKGCzOeE33eR/s320/Tasha%2527s+spring+garden.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCEPo3P-48zGDIZUVveej7Cw2e7VSqRUcgioRI6eYRTC7OCOmQ8kMfW2p5dKGY93omvh-NRllz1imj68CkJ2ad2vO-7Ykz7wLlaeG_xAnE2wcLzpeOCzs-kkxHaNFPU6vpWSJlIJ0qvzbN/s1600/Tasha+forgetmenot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCEPo3P-48zGDIZUVveej7Cw2e7VSqRUcgioRI6eYRTC7OCOmQ8kMfW2p5dKGY93omvh-NRllz1imj68CkJ2ad2vO-7Ykz7wLlaeG_xAnE2wcLzpeOCzs-kkxHaNFPU6vpWSJlIJ0qvzbN/s320/Tasha+forgetmenot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Sweet
Home, Canada, Canada<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Although snowflakes drift from the low-hanging gray clouds,
signs of spring abound. Now, I serve supper in daylight, the chickens are laying
more eggs, and our goat has kidded. Flower and herb seeds thrust up tiny leaves
from the flats positioned on warm mats beneath grow light. And in six weeks or
so, one morning I will hear the sweet voice of the White Throated Sparrow
singing, “Poor Sam, Peabody, Peabody” or as Canadians say, “Sweet Home, Canada,
Canada”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The migrating sparrow with its white bib will peck at seeds
beneath my bird feeder and flutter through the pine trees shading our home. For
about two weeks, his voice is part of the fugue composed of spring peepers, and
the calling of the chick-a-dees. When the first round of warm weather moves
across my farm, the White-Throated Sparrow flies north.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the early 1990’s, Tasha invited my family to attend
her Summer Solstice Party. So near June 21<sup>st</sup>, we packed our car and
drove across Canada, and onward through upstate New York, commenting about
places that had appeared in James F. Cooper’s novels. Finally, we rolled
through the Green Mountains of Vermont and parked our car near Tasha’s barn.
Her corgis greeted and escorted us to Tasha who was baking a cake while
discussing plans for the party with Beth Mathers. We shared hugs, and John carried
our luggage up to an upstairs room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What can I do to help?” I slipped on an apron. “What
needs to be done?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why don’t you water the large pots? The ones scattered
about outside,” Tasha said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I found a watering can in the greenhouse and wandered the
garden, sprinkling a tall foxglove, a container holding a white bleeding-heart,
and finally, Tasha’s beloved bay tree. A cloud of blue forget-me-nots hovered
over beds filled with blooming lettuce poppies and daisies. The fragrance of
peonies floated across the lawn. From a hemlock tree, a familiar voice sang, “Sweet
Home, Canada, Canada”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While I had known that White-Throated Sparrows nested in
the north, I had assumed these birds traveled on to Canada. While many other
members of his clan had probably traveled above the border, this fellow had
chosen well. Who wouldn’t want to live in Tasha Tudor’s garden? A blur of
colors and fragrances, protected by woods and with a pond near-by made the
location the perfect spot for a nest. While I continued to water plants, the
sun drifted behind the trees, and the sparrow filled the evening with his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-390373016559063162019-02-12T10:39:00.001-08:002019-02-12T10:45:45.828-08:00<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVB90Z5m-OMOySf7OgtdP3HyBOV0pGp7AnAQ5CorYP6rm_05wUmU6QccKwu3jvn_yRVXzjDgOgqZ54WhHKKB9CB4uv6-X2wcZoHiQdPop7bLjJSYE1sv11kl7eLz_Gqgh-QrZQYHbyl7ft/s1600/Tasha%2527s+fire+place.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="637" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVB90Z5m-OMOySf7OgtdP3HyBOV0pGp7AnAQ5CorYP6rm_05wUmU6QccKwu3jvn_yRVXzjDgOgqZ54WhHKKB9CB4uv6-X2wcZoHiQdPop7bLjJSYE1sv11kl7eLz_Gqgh-QrZQYHbyl7ft/s320/Tasha%2527s+fire+place.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teatime near the hearth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A Different World<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I visited Tasha, we normally remained at her
cottage, enjoying the fire, the trilling of the canaries, and the rasping
speech of the parrots. We filled the hours baking brownies or small cakes for
tea time, stitching on handwork, and Tasha constantly drew. The bird feeder
provided drama as the blue jays and chick-a-dees battled for the seeds. Of
course, the corgis entertained us as they raced through the house or wandered
the barnyard. A couple of times we ambled over to Seth and Marjorie’s home for
tea and also watched the latest version of Jane Eyre, a book that Tasha loved.
While neither of us wanted to step into the boots of the Jane and experience
the dark world of Mr. Rochester, the story offered a view into a different time
and romantic world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But one morning as tiny snowflakes sifted from the
low-slung clouds, Tasha announced a trip to town. We climbed into her green
Volvo with heated seats, rumbled down her long driveway bordered by snowbanks
and white birch, and headed into Brattleboro.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“See
this mist of snow? It tends to snow up here, but will only be cloudy in farther
down the mountain.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Of
course, Tasha not only lived in a world of her own making, but dwelled in a
place that selected its own weather. As her car traveled the road winding
around and down the mountain. A little at a time, the snow faded to a few
flakes, and then abated when we reached Brattleboro, a classic New England
town, with clapboard homes, brick stores and narrow streets. Pedestrians
bustled around the shops and hurried down the sidewalks. When one woman walked
by in leggings that looked like long underwear, Tasha and I eyed each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You
never know what you will see these days,” she remarked. “I would think she’d be
warmer in a long skirt.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
visited the post office in order to mail a small package, and drove on to the
food coop where Tasha bought the supplies that she could not grow. A bag of
flour, cocoa, and a stash of small chocolates…she kept the bag in the top
drawer that held silverware…and finally, a bunch of spinach to feed the
canaries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
could take you out for tea, or we could go home and enjoy the last of the
brownies.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Let’s
go home.” I knew that few bakers could rival Tasha’s skills, and her fireplace called to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Back
in the Volvo, Tasha steered her car back up the mountain. Snow frosted the dark
green hemlock trees, and yet a stream edging the road still rushed around rocks
and under candle-levered layers of ice. As we approached her farm, we entered
the mist of snow that blurred the outline of her barn and welcomed us back to
Tasha’s world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-62644397468863497952017-10-12T13:28:00.002-07:002017-10-12T13:28:30.924-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCd7cbkKHZrJQse0lr3SScJ6jTa9kPAzWKIuyqF9DRSOj4ULqBFAPHf5MTYlUgNnt_r2oZ__B5DuBrcAUb66mYzn7tXFdQ4cJghwjk0ZeN_RzzQAzvgzq6f2r2s_jgYakHLlLdFpv0rnU/s1600/At+part+with+Tasha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCd7cbkKHZrJQse0lr3SScJ6jTa9kPAzWKIuyqF9DRSOj4ULqBFAPHf5MTYlUgNnt_r2oZ__B5DuBrcAUb66mYzn7tXFdQ4cJghwjk0ZeN_RzzQAzvgzq6f2r2s_jgYakHLlLdFpv0rnU/s1600/At+part+with+Tasha.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Celebrating Pumpkin Moonshine </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Because
of Tasha’s affinity with the 1830’s, Conner Prairie in Noblesville, Indiana was
one of her favorite places to visit. Located east of Indianapolis, the village
features log cabins, clapboard cottages, a restored inn and other buildings
that were transported to the 19</span><sup style="text-indent: 0.5in;">th</sup><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> century homestead of William
Conner, my ancestor. In her old-fashion frocks, Tasha felt at home as she
wandered the narrow streets and visited in the cottages that embraced her time
period. On one hilltop stands Conner’s restored two-story brick home that
overlooks the White River. Conner was both a trader and a statesman who could
afford a grander home than the average settler.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On
a mild October afternoon, my husband, John and I drove from our Michigan home
down to Conner Prairie. We rolled by fields where brittle cornstalks waved
their golden-brown leaves as flocks of Sandhill Cranes flew overhead,
trumpeting their eerie cry. At last, we parked our car and slipped through the
time warp of Conner Prairie, strolling toward a large barn that had been moved
to a location near Conner’s home. The sun’s last rays illuminated the wide
boards both as flooring and as siding for the barn. Inside, dozens of people
scurried about, hanging streamers, setting up snacks on trestle tables, and
storing musical instruments in one corner. Strings of lights twinkled. Every woman
was dressed in an 1830’s gown while the gentlemen sported dark broadfall
trousers, suspenders, high collared shirts and sometimes a satin waistcoat.
Straw hats and bonnets still adorned smiling faces.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“She’ll
be here soon,” Beth Mathers said as she hugged me. “Everyone, Tasha should be
here in about five minutes.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The
sun painted sky orange and gold when Beth signaled for everyone to shush. We
waited in the shadows, for the sound of Tasha’s footsteps. At last, her voice
floated through the gloaming, and she appeared in a pale rose gown with a lace
pelisse and wearing a large satin bonnet. We clapped and cheered as Tasha
entered the barn, wide-eyed and astonished.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“Happy
50<sup>th</sup> Anniversary,” Beth said. “Fifty years of Pumpkin Moonshine.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">With
Tasha as the honored guest, she picked up a plate and urged everyone to partake
of the lovely spread of food. Friends clustered around Tasha, offering small
gifts to commemorate her publishing successed. She rode in the first wagon ride
through the dark village, and then small parties took their turns, rumbling by
grazing sheep and oxen. Paul Peabody’s marionettes told stories and referred to
Tasha’s days of performing with her creatures. A Conner Prairie interpreter
tuned his fiddle and lined everyone up for the Virginia Reel with Tasha as the
lead dancer. For a few hours, we explored the past’s entertainment with our
beloved author and illustrator whom I was blessed to call a friend.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mF8Y79xVKD6_JEddWZMZ1cURaK_mxOD7c8lUG4xHoF7TUPrFdcNZYE4I8JPlKEjKq1ual0vcFXii0w6Z21KTCkI_g7R0JDWIjZWXXVmFqhKcQTTgPLvr0p7gU5FhKKk9xzuAGGBPfOOY/s1600/wagon+ride+with+Tasha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1mF8Y79xVKD6_JEddWZMZ1cURaK_mxOD7c8lUG4xHoF7TUPrFdcNZYE4I8JPlKEjKq1ual0vcFXii0w6Z21KTCkI_g7R0JDWIjZWXXVmFqhKcQTTgPLvr0p7gU5FhKKk9xzuAGGBPfOOY/s1600/wagon+ride+with+Tasha.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRu_evwsEZ5LVKLhPHGMO1dnGCfJPfLmXtFm_7Jt5Jee480i6kev5oD-c91gMTkDqlv9yzGR-3pkQVZPOBw8-_Dx6UHO3TMUWEVDY9eS_f4DH8a9GlUtMSq00K0FfiILHXS-4aYiy0BFiU/s1600/Tasha+at+barn+dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="238" data-original-width="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRu_evwsEZ5LVKLhPHGMO1dnGCfJPfLmXtFm_7Jt5Jee480i6kev5oD-c91gMTkDqlv9yzGR-3pkQVZPOBw8-_Dx6UHO3TMUWEVDY9eS_f4DH8a9GlUtMSq00K0FfiILHXS-4aYiy0BFiU/s1600/Tasha+at+barn+dance.jpg" /></a></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-72102062557426091992017-06-12T13:15:00.001-07:002017-06-12T13:17:57.836-07:00Summer Afternoons<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRky418q0us90rs8AB9d7Dx6IAIdX7IMEIfxwbyHyuH__PA2DUXHGgjEeD2YL4RRickO-BAAxvSg4Wy7A7rnwNLI1rcMvIEoyYWqtfc36jCd0xXjzTjslezZ5qcfyXKIF8G4gthxwbTkI7/s1600/Pond+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRky418q0us90rs8AB9d7Dx6IAIdX7IMEIfxwbyHyuH__PA2DUXHGgjEeD2YL4RRickO-BAAxvSg4Wy7A7rnwNLI1rcMvIEoyYWqtfc36jCd0xXjzTjslezZ5qcfyXKIF8G4gthxwbTkI7/s320/Pond+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sons and Tasha' grandsons in her canoe on Tasha's pond<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">Summer Afternoons</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When
I was a young mother, one of Tasha’s greatest gifts to me was her example of
discipline. My husband, John and I were thinking of homeschooling our two sons,
but I wondered how could I fit in even more work into both my creative and farm
life? Like Tasha, we lived a fairly simple life with only a few solar panels
for electricity, a wood cook stove that heated our house and our hot water, and
a huge garden to feed the family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“How
did you manage?” I asked Tasha. “You raised four children without electricity,
cared for your animals, garden, and established a career as an
illustrator/author? And for a while, you home schooled your off-spring.” I
didn’t add the book tours and countless other roles she had fulfilled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes,”
Tasha said and stirred cream into her tea as we sat on her porch on a mild
spring day. A few snow drops bloomed and her garden was stirring with hints of
buds. A blue jay flashed by us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It
takes a certain amount of discipline to accomplish goals, and, of course, my
children had responsibilities. They weeded in the garden, helped with the
animals, and performed in the marionette shows when we created. So they truly
contributed to the life of the farm.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
nibbled on a buttered biscuit with a sliver of cheddar cheese in its middle.
Minus the marionette shows, my sons also attended to our goats and chickens and
weeded in the garden with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“And
I always made sure that if they finished their lessons and their work, we would
spend part of the afternoon at the river. While they splashed and swam or
paddled the canoe, I would sketch and find ideas for the next book or cards.
But if they didn’t do their work, then we skipped that special treat.” Tasha
sipped her tea. “They learned early that the discipline of completing their
responsibilities was much better than staying home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Back
at my home, I applied the same parenting technique to my boys. If they finished
their lessons and jobs, then they could swim in our pond or dig in the sandy
shore. Sitting at our picnic table in the shade of a tall maple tree, I could
write letters or even read. Tasha’s wisdom was good advice, and today when I
spy our quiet pond, I recall my sons enjoying the summer afternoon, just like
Tasha’s children when they cooled off in their river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-25960908327474946632016-09-20T08:36:00.000-07:002016-09-20T08:36:10.955-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALQDNHSXMWjIzvb8LewJtzjVDUky4CDi596E2n4wWcRktjD-IGzvE4aH27kXhYdwOAD424QSw5u138DtXzckYgIHliYzwu1fTAywBwtYWXn_o3dQsAyK1LxAKx1DseKA7yn2aKwxX7Qp4/s1600/birches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALQDNHSXMWjIzvb8LewJtzjVDUky4CDi596E2n4wWcRktjD-IGzvE4aH27kXhYdwOAD424QSw5u138DtXzckYgIHliYzwu1fTAywBwtYWXn_o3dQsAyK1LxAKx1DseKA7yn2aKwxX7Qp4/s400/birches.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Birch
Bark<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Most afternoons, after a wonderful lunch of soup and
biscuits, Tasha and her corgis would retire for a short nap. Each time I visited, she
would remind me that when she was a young mother, her doctor had advised her to cultivate the habit of resting. Tasha had learned that even a thirty-minute nap
would refresh her creativity, her patience to be a good mother, and restore the
energy she would need to manage her homestead. Even after her children left the
nest to carve out their adult lives, Tasha continued to nap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Left to entertain myself, once I made the mistake of
playing my recorder in the greenhouse, and later learned that the English
Country Dance tunes had floated up to Tasha’s bedroom! After that incident, I
either read or knitted by the hearth, or bundled up and headed outside for a
walk. Because I usually spent time with Tasha in either January or February
when my own farm was dormant, Vermont offered zero temperatures with brilliant blue skies or snow clouds. Coming from Michigan, I knew to
add a few more layers of clothing, wrap a scarf around my nose and accept
whatever the weather offered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> While birch trees grew throughout the woods near Tasha’s
home, their white-bark brightened the thicket of trees that lined the driveway.
Even when snowflakes fell, like torches the birch trees shimmered midst the
gray trunks and feathery evergreens. My boots crunched against the snow, and my
breath floated in clouds as I strolled towards the dirt road that lead to the
greater world beyond Tasha’s home. Chick-a-dees called as they flitted through
the woods, along with an occasional flash of a blue-jay’s wings. Wood smoke
scented the air. Sometimes, instead stopping at the mailbox, I walked on to
view a pond only a short ways from Tasha’s mailbox. More birches stood sentry
along that road, declaring that the land claimed a northern character. After
the invigorating constitutional, I picked up Tasha’s mail and headed back to
her home and the warm fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Once while discussing her birch bark canoe, Tasha talked
about how drawing or writing on birch bark was great fun. I confessed that
because so few birches grew on my farm, that I had never stripped one of them
and tried writing on the bark.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “In the spring, when the sap is running, I will send you
some,” Tasha said. “Your children will especially enjoy drawing on it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I thanked her, grateful once again for Tasha’s
encouragement to broaden my experiences and creativity. Later that week, I flew
back to Michigan, and forgot about her promise. But sometime in June, a large
box arrived in the mail addressed with Tasha’s familiar handwriting. I cut it
open and removed a heavy roll of birch bark. With black streaks slashed the
white and small nubs provided texture that would enhance anything drawn upon
the skin of a birch. I cut off a few strips from the roll, and my sons sketched
corgis and goats on them, and later stored the bark in their play house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> While preparing for this year’s you-pick blueberry
season, I swept and tied the playhouse that now serves as a weigh-in location,
and noticed the roll of birch bark. How could I have forgotten this wonderful
piece of Tasha’s life that exemplified her love of nature and art? <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Now the roll rests in a
place of honor, a reminder of Tasha’s generosity and the slender birches crowning her woods.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-91647368953547009542016-05-17T06:46:00.001-07:002016-07-28T12:19:22.382-07:00Lavender and Silver<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyoLS8WnmtlmXTi0DZXEcfKrgdPzTEIi3RkZzRTRz371OuucB1U6w03_gmKEjw-xKxb2VpgYkPNM5_iUcXVxOAgYWtOWzPEEV_JztgreCSffMf1BcWIyxt54uHsoLhkwPkc80OsGRFo-C/s1600/wisteria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyoLS8WnmtlmXTi0DZXEcfKrgdPzTEIi3RkZzRTRz371OuucB1U6w03_gmKEjw-xKxb2VpgYkPNM5_iUcXVxOAgYWtOWzPEEV_JztgreCSffMf1BcWIyxt54uHsoLhkwPkc80OsGRFo-C/s1600/wisteria.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">wisteria opening</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The first time my husband, John and I visited Corgi
Cottage, Tasha led us to the upper bedroom with the canopy bed and long shelves
holding her gardening books. From that point on, I called it the garden room
because of the books and the splendid view of Tasha’s garden. But also, because
of the tendrils of wisteria threading underneath the window and into the room.
I’m sure Tasha didn’t plan on that vine sneaking into the bedroom, but its
presence fitted the personality of Tasha who loved her gardens and reminded me
of the garlands that often framed her illustrations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> At that time, I didn’t know that it was a wisteria vine,
because most of my experiences with climbing plants were with morning
glories, clematis and ivy. I was unprepared for the waterfall of silvery,
lavender cones of flowers cascading down the wall of her weathered cottage. The
blossoms perfumed the air beneath our window. Their scent floated through the
yard while a white-crowned sparrow sang, “Poor Sam, Peabody, Peabody, Peabody,”
and the sun painted the western sky apricot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Naturally, I pestered Tasha about the wisteria, and as
soon as I arrived home, ordered two plants from a nursery. I planted them in
front of my garden shed, envisioning a similar stunning display of blossoms.
But nothing happened. I added more compost, mulched the plants, and still they did
not bloom. So on my next visit, during the winter when Tasha’s vine slept, I
asked many questions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Try chopping at its roots, and don’t add any compost
this year, maybe cut it back a bit,” Tasha advised. “And you might have to
visit a nursery and purchase a blooming wisteria plant in order to know that
have one that has the potential to bloom.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I tried Tasha’s gardening tricks, minus buying new
nursery stock, but my plants only grew vibrant leaves. Seven years after
planting the wisteria, I notice cone-shaped buds forming along a few of the
branches. On a warm May afternoon, they unfurled, like theater curtains, and draped
the roof of my garden shed. Bumblebees hovered among the blossoms. The
sweetness of wisteria filled my lungs each time I lingered beneath the lavender
shower. That evening while walking with my corgi, a hermit thrush’s silver call
rippled through the woods, the wisteria shimmered in the sunset, and mirrored
the splendor of Tasha’s garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-63377233442534756122016-04-22T12:54:00.001-07:002016-04-22T12:54:31.160-07:00Tasha's Fireside Book Reviews<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OJxcw3BHDv2T0e_DJP9vm4i4WrQOKeOrCnInRYpvk498lRrkmLnnjsF46GzcOcuAPmDgobJctzOoHi5rXHmoLmEY5Jptx1Q0OwSeq0r_9s245G0Myx_VrVoDaMeHvBciBQ_KlR2Mf4-Q/s1600/Cranford.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OJxcw3BHDv2T0e_DJP9vm4i4WrQOKeOrCnInRYpvk498lRrkmLnnjsF46GzcOcuAPmDgobJctzOoHi5rXHmoLmEY5Jptx1Q0OwSeq0r_9s245G0Myx_VrVoDaMeHvBciBQ_KlR2Mf4-Q/s200/Cranford.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> While sitting by Tasha’s fireplace, sharing tea and
stories, at some point, our conversation moved into what books we had recently
read or the books that had inspired us. Tasha was a well-read woman with a
library tucked off her parlor, so that unless a visitor wandered through that
section of the house, she wouldn’t notice the many bookshelves. While the room
held Tasha’s literary selections, her gardening books dwelt in one of the upper
bedrooms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> One time while perusing Tasha’s book collection, I was
amazed to discover a couple of first editions with Arthur Rackham’s
illustrations. My hands shook as I viewed the pages and realized what treasures
I held.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “I found them in a London shop years ago, when I was
living in England,” Tasha explained. “Mr. Rackham’s art inspired me to want to
illustrate children’s books.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> While I had read <i>Pride
and Prejudice</i>, Tasha waxed on about Austin’s other novels, <i>Sense and Sensibility</i> and <i>Emma</i> and nudged me to read them. She
also pointed out that to some degree, they are books that women cherish more
than men.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> We both loved Thomas Hardy’s books and would muse about
certain scenes such as the chapter with country dancing at the beginning of <i>The</i> <i>Return
of the Native.</i> And of course, while living in England, Tasha had seen some
of the places Hardy mentioned in his books.<i>
</i>My husband, John and I had never read any of Wilkie Collins’ mystery novels
until Tasha praised <i>The Moonstone</i>,
and <i>The Woman in White</i>, plus she
pointed out that Collins predated Conan Doyle’s <i>Sherlock Holmes.</i> So, John and I read all of Collin’s books and
watched the film adaptations of his most famous novels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Ever generous, one snowy morning, Tasha drove us to a
bookstore housed in a barn that was managed by a friend. She insisted that
there were a few books that I must own, and that the shop owner would probably
have them. Among the volumes she chose was the novel, <i>Cranford </i>by Mrs. Gaskell, with forty colored illustrations and
sixty pen-and-ink sketches by Hugh Thomson, published in 1898. Miraculously,
the shop owner located that exact edition of <i>Cranford,</i> and Tasha showed me the illustrations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Thomson was another artist who inspired me to become an
illustrator,” Tasha said. “When you read this, think about how much his art
contributes to the story. And it is a lovely story.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHc0X2gjoEMWbJmCv2AaiJC4CKbSIzGURzDJtpPBYYbAOuMqOxsZ4PwhwbTtAEsKgjCZS_j5ZC5nHenlM0AnTMYFEs6qKXhtIk_KRUVSPJwjqcfq0FlT36d54aLjQrhJ2x3xt_KijjYO7A/s1600/Tasha+at+fireplace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHc0X2gjoEMWbJmCv2AaiJC4CKbSIzGURzDJtpPBYYbAOuMqOxsZ4PwhwbTtAEsKgjCZS_j5ZC5nHenlM0AnTMYFEs6qKXhtIk_KRUVSPJwjqcfq0FlT36d54aLjQrhJ2x3xt_KijjYO7A/s1600/Tasha+at+fireplace.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">I cherish that faded green volume with gilt lettering, a
symbol of times spent learning from Tasha, and hearing her memories of what
inspired her art, just as Tasha continues to inspire me.</span></div>
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-73156970528159326662016-04-09T12:29:00.001-07:002016-04-09T12:29:37.265-07:00Scented Treasures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKo5IO7CC9gxitWCyzkiHntC43zSFsegQiHtLShY2kIZEwL5TUlVS4WnE4wSz8lUMGRh9_q0FN5feTRsAlpAd8jcbZPn-21Fw1TT4kRDoIchgbXnsePoiYo7vFbtfd8-Axj7dSJsorV53B/s1600/violets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKo5IO7CC9gxitWCyzkiHntC43zSFsegQiHtLShY2kIZEwL5TUlVS4WnE4wSz8lUMGRh9_q0FN5feTRsAlpAd8jcbZPn-21Fw1TT4kRDoIchgbXnsePoiYo7vFbtfd8-Axj7dSJsorV53B/s320/violets.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Scented Treasures</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As a child, my mother
grew great clumps of large violets that bloomed in late April, just in time for
filling my May Baskets. I picked the purple or white flowers splashed with
purple, and encircled the bouquets with some of their heart-shaped leaves, and
stuck them into decorated paper cups. In my heart, I dearly wanted to pluck
some of my mother’s primroses so that I could add a little yellow to each
basket, but I was forbidden to pick any of those flowers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On
May Day, I snuck over to our neighbor’s house, left a basket on her porch, and
rang the doorbell, and hid in her shrubs. This delicious trick, the opposite of
Halloween’s begging, was repeated at a few other neighbor’s houses, plus my
grandparent’s home and of course, my mother found a basket at her door. Thank
goodness, for my mother’s long borders of violet plants that provided generous
bouquets, yet I often wondered why those violets had no fragrance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Once
while visiting Tasha in late March and touring her garden, she showed me a
patch of small English violets that had emerged from a covering of snow. Unlike
my mother’s large plants, these violets grew closer to the earth with smaller
leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“When
the sun warms their blossoms, they perfume this corner of the garden,” she
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Back
inside her cottage, Tasha gave me a nursery catalog featuring eight or nine
varieties English violets with different levels of fragrance. Mirroring her
taste in heirloom roses, Tasha had noted the most odiferous of the violets. The
catalog listed different colors, red, white, lavender, purple, maroon, and dark
purple, and some even had names such as “lamb’s ears” for the tiny white
variety. I was enthralled and ordered several violet plants for my garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When
they arrived, I planted them beneath a forsythia bush, eager for their blossoms
to scent the shady space. But while on a walk around our farm pond for the
first time, I noticed violets similar to the ones in Tasha’s garden, and when
their lavender buds opened, I smelled their sweet violet odor. After talking to
my husband, we discerned that the previous owners of our land were of English
decent, and Mrs. Wadsworth adored gardening, so most-likely she had planted
that bed of violets. Like so many other seasonal details, I called Tasha and
told her about the wild planting and because their blossoms had just opened,
she could expect her plants to bloom in a couple of weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Slowly,
my own bed of violets expanded, and I never walked by it without pausing to
burrow my nose into their jewel-like flowers. A few deep breaths would slow my
heartbeat, calm my mind and renew my energy. Despite their short stems, I
picked tiny bouquets to fill a doll’s teacup so that even when inside, I could
inhale their sweet scent. And come early, November, I was delighted to find a
few blossoms blooming, a final gift before snow covered my garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Now
that Tasha has passed away, each spring, my small violets remind me of tender
moments spent in her green house and garden; like May Baskets, they were full
of wonderful surprises and joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-3890263728136139052016-03-26T06:52:00.000-07:002016-03-26T06:52:13.170-07:00Goats and Artistic Cheese<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EZsTblPRwBAyi2hTNuPK8BXOesukeSwUesqGY40IAluq3o3udrl_UKn1KprqYYmLNdlvIQteYvOeUBOOJQ81IaBVpIFgnWluRgYBx-iXqV3OuvNrF_QagunWxhKHXDwR0CbFdEFOVqRi/s1600/Tasha%2527s+goats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EZsTblPRwBAyi2hTNuPK8BXOesukeSwUesqGY40IAluq3o3udrl_UKn1KprqYYmLNdlvIQteYvOeUBOOJQ81IaBVpIFgnWluRgYBx-iXqV3OuvNrF_QagunWxhKHXDwR0CbFdEFOVqRi/s320/Tasha%2527s+goats.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0DbCL5548B1UzJSDZ6R1BvdLweoRcjx9rqK1sRw1IUHZ6NDWNLTchkoIn9w9IfAR3nTGrbsPlV2GlIY5gB6ADYf6tJp50Y8FsKLfQs6eu_MSrbYXyzxpyWTJsFHEwQWSm5UjkPgxwM6D/s1600/Tasha+gardening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0DbCL5548B1UzJSDZ6R1BvdLweoRcjx9rqK1sRw1IUHZ6NDWNLTchkoIn9w9IfAR3nTGrbsPlV2GlIY5gB6ADYf6tJp50Y8FsKLfQs6eu_MSrbYXyzxpyWTJsFHEwQWSm5UjkPgxwM6D/s320/Tasha+gardening.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Starting
in March, my phone conversations with Tasha often discussed the first snowdrop
or crocus to blossom, the return of red-winged blackbirds, or the constant
cheeping of spring peepers. As much as we loved the first flowers and flocks of
robins, one of the most important markers in the progression of spring was when
our goats delivered their kids. Even though we had both kept goats for numerous
years, we confessed tidbits of apprehension when we found a doe in labor. Most
of the time the births were normal, but now and then, we had to assist the
mother as she brought forth twins or triplets. When all the does had birthed
their young, our conversations turned to how many kids now scampered in the
barn, how well they drank from their bottles, and which female kids would make
champion milkers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> But of course, the spring ritual of goat kids
actually began in a different shed where Tasha kept her male goat, nick-named
Bucky after Buckminster Fuller, who lived with another goat in a separate shed.
While Tasha never accepted my offer to milk her does, she sometimes sent me to
fill Bucky’s water bucket and to feed him hay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">During
the evening chore time, I would follow Tasha around, assisting in small ways.
Milking her does was a cherished task. Her gentle female goats knew who was to
be milked first, and without any prodding, the does would walk out of their pen,
and jump on the stanchion. They needed no restraint to keep them on the small
platform where Tasha stripped them of their milk as they munched on a pan of
grain. As soon as one goat was finished, she jumped off, and allowed the next
doe, her special moment with Tasha. The only sound was of milk flowing into the
metal bucket and the goat’s teeth crunching on her feed. As the Irish poet, Patrick
Kavanagh wrote, these sounds are the “music of milking”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Tasha
preferred Nubian goats with their floppy ears and broad Roman noses, splashes
of vanilla-colored spots shimmering on their brown coats. Nubian does love
attention and can be one of the most vocal breeds, bawling about their need for
more hay or a small snack from the garden. Because the goats provided a rich
manure that Tasha spread on her vegetable and flower garden, so that those
plantings yielded bountiful crops, and lush blossoms on her peonies, foxgloves,
and numerous roses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Although
I had crafted cheese from cow’s milk for many years, I turned to Tasha for
answers about how to perfect my goat cheese. She suggested a French
cheesemakers book, <i>The Fabrication of
Farmstead Goat Cheese</i>, and also gave me a subscription to Dairy Goat
Journal. Tasha also pointed out that cheesemaking is an art that demanded
precision, patience, and constant practice. Like the paintings and sketches
scattered at the end of her trestle table, Tasha applied these character traits
to her simple life and encouraged me to follow her example in whatever artistic
pursuit I explored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-24062847359655075692016-02-18T07:06:00.001-08:002016-02-18T07:15:38.077-08:00The Warmth from Tasha's Fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnN9ig-vtnOi5uIKmRLG-EwGbon-9bOjrEh5Vf-qQjPFxUasiBsiZaH2eQkYV7Qlko3w7l6GWB2y3AXTy4kUz2q26dc60AZiUzukypFmCcAY4chAgS94f53gdAo6AJ3VuSrZ4blc1pvifE/s1600/Tasha%2527s+fireplace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnN9ig-vtnOi5uIKmRLG-EwGbon-9bOjrEh5Vf-qQjPFxUasiBsiZaH2eQkYV7Qlko3w7l6GWB2y3AXTy4kUz2q26dc60AZiUzukypFmCcAY4chAgS94f53gdAo6AJ3VuSrZ4blc1pvifE/s320/Tasha%2527s+fireplace.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Sitting near Tasha’s Fireplace<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
thermometer at my barn registered two degrees this morning, a cold temperature
for farm, located where the breath of Lake Michigan warms our air. Sunshine
shimmers on the paths cut through the many inches of snow that fell last week.
Because most of my visits to Tasha took place before my family headed into
maple sugaring season, I associate frigid temperatures and mountains of snow
with Vermont. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Frosty
lace patterns spread across Tasha’s windows, especially in those upstairs
bedrooms farther removed from the cook stove and fireplace. Out of doors, each
step squeaked on the icy snow when I walked Tasha’s driveway so that I could
fetch her mail. Sometimes a fine mist of snow blurred the edges of the wood,
limiting the view, but most days the sunshine glittered on the snowy caps
decorating tree limbs, or on the undulating, snow-covered forest floor. A red
scarf swathed my face in order to filter some of the cold before the air flowed
to my lungs. While the trek resulted in numb toes, the joy of Tasha’s fireplace
waited for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">If
a constant fire hadn’t been burning in the Rumford fireplace, a man could have
stepped inside it and looked up through the brick chimney. First thing in the
morning, Tasha would stir the embers, add a few birch bark logs that quickly
flamed, and then add oak or other hardwood that would burn for hours. When I
emerged from the canopy bed, leaving behind a nest of the featherbed and quilts,
I slipped into my coat, hauled in armloads of wood, and deposit them on the
hearth. Throughout the day, either Tasha or I would poke at the fire, add
another log, and revel in the heat. And like a final blessing, each night Tasha
banked the fire so that it could sleep through the night and be revived at
sunrise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Once
while watching sparks dance up the back of the fireplace, Tasha brought up the
folklore connected with the sight. She and her brother had called the sparks
British soldiers because they reminded them of the Redcoats. No such tradition
lingered from my childhood, only the memories of flushed cheeks and wood smoke
clinging to my hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When
the discussion traveled on to how others loved her fire, Tasha confided, ““Often
when I invite someone for tea, the fire mesmerizes them, their faces grow
dreamy, and they are hesitant to depart. Usually, I can shoo them away by announcing
it is time to milk the goats and attend to the evening chores.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thankfully,
I was privileged to draw my chair closer to Tasha’s fire, to listen to her
stories, learn from her wisdom, and bask in the warmth of her friendship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-72644707525237513702015-03-31T07:34:00.001-07:002015-03-31T07:35:03.811-07:00Dedham Blue Rabbits<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-a84ptkXeBlWoc3j6uBluS_8QB-ko6KyxcEf__f7Ziju_jbZZdt-C-kmyr-TQBuIZxa4preO3LRC7EuHUZSpBWWUo5HZlCwZKro6MtlqkeawUb7Xb909TLBq_jOzhzwv1kB4vREGqT7f/s1600/dedham+teapot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-a84ptkXeBlWoc3j6uBluS_8QB-ko6KyxcEf__f7Ziju_jbZZdt-C-kmyr-TQBuIZxa4preO3LRC7EuHUZSpBWWUo5HZlCwZKro6MtlqkeawUb7Xb909TLBq_jOzhzwv1kB4vREGqT7f/s1600/dedham+teapot.jpg" height="246" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dedham teapot</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Blue
and White<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> While Tasha owned several pink luster tea sets and even
gave one of them to me, she also loved her Canton china and a special blue and
white tea set from the early nineteenth century. Sitting by her fire, I would
cradle the deep saucers decorated with simple blue flowers that resembled
dianthus, and sip from the thin, handless cups. In <i>The Private Life of Tasha Tudor,</i> Richard Brown featured a photo of
Tasha pouring from the blue and white tea pot as she served a young visitor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> When pausing to gaze around Corgi Cottage, the
combination of blue and white appears in the checked curtains, cream and blue
crocks, and pillows, and of course, rows of Canton china shine in the kitchen
cupboard. Much of the cherished china once served as ballast in Tasha’s
grandfather’s ship. The Ice King figured out how to transport ice from local
New England ponds to various southern locations, and return with cargo bound
for Boston.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> While Tasha loved her antique china, she also introduced
me to another, more whimsical pottery. One afternoon, she tossed tea leaves
into a cunning teapot with a crackled glaze and a band of blue rabbits racing
around its chubby middle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Where did you find such a sweet tea pot?” I asked her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> We carried the tea tray to the fireplace, where Tasha
told me about the Dedham pottery, founded by a Robertson family in 1876. After
the Scottish potter, Hugh Robertson attended the Centennial Exposition in
Philadelphia and observed Chinese pottery with a crackled red glaze, he decided
to create a similar type of stoneware with cobalt blue designs. The first
pottery was established in Chelsea, Massachusetts and about twenty years later,
move to Dedham. While the crouching rabbit with its ears back most often
decorated the pottery, sometimes other animals, flowers and leaves appeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Tasha showed me a couple of other pieces of Dedham
pottery and declared, “A woman can never have enough china. It is her prerogative.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> About a week later, after returning home, I opened my
rural mailbox to find a package marked “fragile”. A twin of Tasha’s Dedham
teapot glimmered midst the packing material; its cobalt blue rabbits snuggled
among leaves. Each time I fill it with tea leaves and steaming water, I
remember another peaceful moment, learning more than history near Tasha’s
fireplace.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYeGJVPtmib3EiMT4GRRWv4d465FTWNIUoCCNaREJtMmbLl-s4TqhPl8A27rNHrwiEgWEJDqyEGhNF8ddhqKAFpAQWNnLfhSgce24GkzSl7PdRArJXxkYBnehQYjzRKQRlPCIWPsd6axp/s1600/canton+china+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCYeGJVPtmib3EiMT4GRRWv4d465FTWNIUoCCNaREJtMmbLl-s4TqhPl8A27rNHrwiEgWEJDqyEGhNF8ddhqKAFpAQWNnLfhSgce24GkzSl7PdRArJXxkYBnehQYjzRKQRlPCIWPsd6axp/s1600/canton+china+2.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canton China</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLMnzJ-SSnRQUYqKPgeC6UXSqsaDImzuXO4NmxJA8sbAaw4aOvsBmWUdHa62n13Xd3jjbVdV_hioe3TD03770VV55ggoRn62QKcShOm2yn-UdfxJebymzE1zEgkBPmd05EwnkBnnMaYDW/s1600/washing+dishes+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLMnzJ-SSnRQUYqKPgeC6UXSqsaDImzuXO4NmxJA8sbAaw4aOvsBmWUdHa62n13Xd3jjbVdV_hioe3TD03770VV55ggoRn62QKcShOm2yn-UdfxJebymzE1zEgkBPmd05EwnkBnnMaYDW/s1600/washing+dishes+(2).jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washing lovely china</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p>sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-37647350828619599942015-03-03T10:51:00.000-08:002015-03-03T10:57:38.068-08:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FR9PN637m8IO5533lOwap5q3cMEDYY3is5umKzRjNIqRH1S-8OrEuOnxb3TAZ-CdGJES579dVKMqHR1dQb_plS99ytDoWuW2m1rPVgdBuGLbc8KhrqvRXwF019qZ2VnXX8H4tz4buKE1/s1600/_JVB1307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FR9PN637m8IO5533lOwap5q3cMEDYY3is5umKzRjNIqRH1S-8OrEuOnxb3TAZ-CdGJES579dVKMqHR1dQb_plS99ytDoWuW2m1rPVgdBuGLbc8KhrqvRXwF019qZ2VnXX8H4tz4buKE1/s1600/_JVB1307.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hollyhocks in my Garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Hollyhocks<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Tasha
loved hollyhocks. Near the middle of June, I can remember her calling me and
asking if my hollyhocks were blooming, because in Vermont’s climate, her
stately plants would not open for several more weeks. In the early part of the nineteenth
century, hollyhocks were one of those cottage flowers that surrounded homes and
even appeared near outbuildings. Their iridescent bell-shaped blossoms shimmer
in red, pink, deep maroon, white and yellow. For some reason, Tasha had lost
her yellow hollyhocks and had not found any volunteers from which she could
pluck a few seed pods until she strolled through a living history village. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“But
I just didn't feeling right about taking any seeds,” she confessed, as we sat
near her hearth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Next
summer, I’ll send you some from my plants.” While the canaries sang, I poured
myself more tea and nibbled on a slice of flaky pastry that held a thick,
sticky poppy seed filling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
reflected about playing with hollyhock dolls, and how the dolls could hold the
flowers as parasols or use them as small boats. Slowly, our conversation
drifted away from gardening and onto homestead activities, our baby goats,
cheese making and how to create pectin from green apples. While none of those
subjects would appear in flashy headlines, they illustrated the daily tasks
that shaped Tasha’s life. A remarkable life that still inspires many others to
delight in those simple pleasures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPPtmJdSVYjWGOCiWDqoDHvOD_y8PakGqDJiJyQ8vK16T-rX-msxPdIXZJO0AcnxA_dnZzVFeO-cFUGrR5ukDkuNi8ZOmm4KAdILtd5qWncMHfvDTWIctRmmudN7caLE3DBqqOlC7h2Kw8/s1600/Tasha's%2Bspring%2Bgarden%2B(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPPtmJdSVYjWGOCiWDqoDHvOD_y8PakGqDJiJyQ8vK16T-rX-msxPdIXZJO0AcnxA_dnZzVFeO-cFUGrR5ukDkuNi8ZOmm4KAdILtd5qWncMHfvDTWIctRmmudN7caLE3DBqqOlC7h2Kw8/s1600/Tasha's%2Bspring%2Bgarden%2B(2).jpg" height="241" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha's June Garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-8724978570561333202015-02-14T13:20:00.000-08:002015-02-14T13:20:01.322-08:00Feline Friend for Tasha<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GqjEwHnXvOTXhP-6VfPopiP3zstTbGnwGr4xpNdyDEGBdb6-WpxQmmCD6nHyZnRNKJqZ8O8LV4pCDllgf0kcfr0KynQouRUIv_XNug-nvqmqC40GG3MQ7NtX2fQz7tyRkUsB0KKFNHuc/s1600/Tabby+in+basket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GqjEwHnXvOTXhP-6VfPopiP3zstTbGnwGr4xpNdyDEGBdb6-WpxQmmCD6nHyZnRNKJqZ8O8LV4pCDllgf0kcfr0KynQouRUIv_XNug-nvqmqC40GG3MQ7NtX2fQz7tyRkUsB0KKFNHuc/s1600/Tabby+in+basket.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Napping in the weaving room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PaXiFXSQAxjQIGL23DVUwhl3YBXYi2WUZ759JLtn0WIxEgU3PCTbIs7fmlXIwEuwi0dob06cdjrFKT0ZOFAuDcJGHcQcxbzrov9HslrAmDMIsug1s7qHQXPUmD7glj3fj9wsqwlm_psr/s1600/sleeping+on+bed+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PaXiFXSQAxjQIGL23DVUwhl3YBXYi2WUZ759JLtn0WIxEgU3PCTbIs7fmlXIwEuwi0dob06cdjrFKT0ZOFAuDcJGHcQcxbzrov9HslrAmDMIsug1s7qHQXPUmD7glj3fj9wsqwlm_psr/s1600/sleeping+on+bed+(2).jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perched on a soft coverlet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">While most folks
associate Welsh Pembroke Corgyn with Tasha, she also loved cats and they were
attracted to her. Miaou, her one-eyed gray tabby often slept in large antique
bowls, or snuggled on the bed in the winter kitchen. But of course, she was
Tasha’s well-loved pet, but one day I saw a stray cat bond with Tasha.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Tasha and I were attending
the Spencerian Saga, held each fall near Platt Rogers Spencer’s home in Ashtabula,
Ohio. Along with the other students, we took a field trip to visit Spencer’s
grave. A cloudless sky shimmered overhead and a few trees displayed their fall
colors as Tasha and I strolled through the cemetery, looking at the flowers and
sayings on the older tombstones. Because we were there to celebrate Spencer’s
achievements and not to attend a funeral, the peace of the place settled over
us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Out of nowhere, a black
cat with white markings sauntered up the brick path and paused by Tasha. He
stared up at her with that certain look that asks for attention. She sat down
on the grass, and cuddled him. Settling into her arms, he began to purr. When
his desire for snuggles was satisfied, Tasha amused him with a blade of grass,
wiggling it back and forth as the cat pounced on it. Finally, our band of
students needed to leave, so Tasha gave kitty one last hug. He sat on the path,
a quiet sentinel watching our car drive away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBbqhBj1C-QL1iWYDJ3ho66c-k6t5VxdxW2Kcy2IlfIZr1ZzFU3DW4A8TCy5QDmCoS0Uy_SSrsj-SKXVv2VStovhw4GtjEfYeBpBk1UQaWkTENxEjoKisgC_nJs7yFMm86AvRgX3l1ty1Y/s1600/Tasha+and+cat+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBbqhBj1C-QL1iWYDJ3ho66c-k6t5VxdxW2Kcy2IlfIZr1ZzFU3DW4A8TCy5QDmCoS0Uy_SSrsj-SKXVv2VStovhw4GtjEfYeBpBk1UQaWkTENxEjoKisgC_nJs7yFMm86AvRgX3l1ty1Y/s1600/Tasha+and+cat+2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha and her new friend</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOG31dbEMCC4lvkcBWqwCAwwXm9jX0wvDjkAPq0MGBCXQgg9NdDcfXRFqEk28CSd5U3YB7tcZMrKENY7QvDZytsRBxyMgS4jwm61sgb5bWTYzUvFSltkGdFzuU4ZKIwkSxvm2oyymJ-mu7/s1600/sewing+by+fireplace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOG31dbEMCC4lvkcBWqwCAwwXm9jX0wvDjkAPq0MGBCXQgg9NdDcfXRFqEk28CSd5U3YB7tcZMrKENY7QvDZytsRBxyMgS4jwm61sgb5bWTYzUvFSltkGdFzuU4ZKIwkSxvm2oyymJ-mu7/s1600/sewing+by+fireplace.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sewing by the hearth with a sleepy tabby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-42106199213143040802015-02-03T13:14:00.000-08:002015-02-03T13:14:26.239-08:00Winter Gardening Pleasures<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZmWHMo0f4eIui127LO39Cl8e7sv8zrVYH3LXxDQIlTdsSsM6ABcajHaDq3x3o0C8zWm47B0g5V0-y5TtYdbbqt6lKapJIpjBatda1dvKsf1u0RMn3eZF7Z28VWpArxKf_B0yNQvrxsrc/s1600/20150129_131126+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZmWHMo0f4eIui127LO39Cl8e7sv8zrVYH3LXxDQIlTdsSsM6ABcajHaDq3x3o0C8zWm47B0g5V0-y5TtYdbbqt6lKapJIpjBatda1dvKsf1u0RMn3eZF7Z28VWpArxKf_B0yNQvrxsrc/s1600/20150129_131126+(3).jpg" height="320" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha's front porch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Like
most gardeners, late winter was the time when Tasha perused seed and nursery
catalogs. And because I usually visited during February, our conversations
rambled off to our favorite heirloom roses, the heady fragrance of scented
geraniums and our favorite colors of hollyhocks. Tasha also confessed her habit
of now and then, taking a cutting or a seed pod while strolling through a
famous garden. If I remember correctly, her boxwood plants were cuttings from a
plant at Mount Vernon. She nurtured the same habit in me by giving me poppy seed
pods so that I could splash their seeds around my garden. Every year, their
lavender or pink flowers shimmer between the dianthus and clumps of thyme.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When
I voiced my frustration over primrose seeds from seed companies that failed to
germinate, Tasha explained that the freshest seeds came from the American
Primrose Society. She encouraged me to join the group, and described the proper
steps for germinating primula. Later that spring, I opened a birthday package
sent from Tasha and there glowed a silver-green primula with delicate yellow
flowers that I had admired in her greenhouse. Whenever I spy primroses as a
nursery, I think of the many different varieties that bloomed in her garden and
the small pots decorating her kitchen windowsill. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: 0.5in;">For
Tasha, gardening was another art form with a three dimensional pallet of
textures, colors and scents. With her imagination and penchant for design, she shaped
flowerbeds that linger in her illustrations and inspire gardeners around the
world.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5cnd9pp8EiB2mhLog5CfUN7F3t0gQTO8-tk4gn6yF47Lx5H5Zg7w5A4UTInYlLNXZtBR3GMDLHpYQlrKUiNNe5ZecSkSF5fJM8CwO_jJ9QnhBdPQQBLH9LlsLMv4-oDNJ_Td5qhTcVt-/s1600/Tasha's%2Bgreen%2Bhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy5cnd9pp8EiB2mhLog5CfUN7F3t0gQTO8-tk4gn6yF47Lx5H5Zg7w5A4UTInYlLNXZtBR3GMDLHpYQlrKUiNNe5ZecSkSF5fJM8CwO_jJ9QnhBdPQQBLH9LlsLMv4-oDNJ_Td5qhTcVt-/s1600/Tasha's%2Bgreen%2Bhouse.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In her greenhouse, Tasha and Carol Lueck</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-84011097184916965012015-01-09T12:12:00.000-08:002015-01-09T12:12:30.170-08:00Teacups and blueberry pie<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Because
most of my visits to Corgi Cottage came during winter months, Tasha often spent
time baking various savory treats, from a scrumptious poppy seed coffee cake to
her trademark brownies. One time after the wind had blown out the pilot on her
gas water heater located in the space outside her greenhouse, Tasha was going
to call Seth to assist her in relighting the appliance. But together, she and I
managed to restart the pilot and Tasha declared that we must celebrate our
female victory with a tea. So she stoked her stove and rolled out biscuit dough
laced with shredded Vermont sharp cheddar cheese and set the rounds to baking. As
Tasha measured tea into her teapot, she explained why she preferred the Mark T
Wendell blends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“If
you open up a teabag from a grocery store, most of its contents look like dust.
But you can see full leaves in these blends, and that is why they taste
superior.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> Soon, Tasha placed golden-brown biscuits
dotted with melted cheese on a blue and white plate, and I brought the teacups
and saucers to the hearth where the teapot was steeping. We munched away while
continuing a discussion about tea, and why Tasha believed in adding warm milk to
her tea also improved the tea’s flavor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On
another afternoon when Tasha expected additional guests for tea, she sculpted a
blueberry pie. In many ways, baking could display her skills to weave a flaky
pie crust into lattice work that resembled one of the baskets she had created.
Or she might draw a wren in the top of the crust and carefully cut the image in
order to release steam and bubbling juices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Tasha
blended together art and daily life in everything, because she longed to bring
beauty to simple moments and to her friends.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Jq7fi-Byccr6L3Cgu21OqoI2picSWgLp5jQ0XcPGmPs817PscxFP_dQwpKWFQvjCFhbO2VAbsVRRrduJ7GldgMg3OtuAcWRCkUTLjwBpG_SsPLx6HYgGdjP7hRJhO_a3dR4wgORz6_Ej/s1600/Tasha+baking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Jq7fi-Byccr6L3Cgu21OqoI2picSWgLp5jQ0XcPGmPs817PscxFP_dQwpKWFQvjCFhbO2VAbsVRRrduJ7GldgMg3OtuAcWRCkUTLjwBpG_SsPLx6HYgGdjP7hRJhO_a3dR4wgORz6_Ej/s1600/Tasha+baking.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha crafting her pie with the wall of notes, signatures and dates behind her</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-65912927585820684212015-01-01T12:22:00.000-08:002015-01-01T12:22:13.213-08:00Stitched by Hand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hhIAgz9xUlPLQDnY8uZnw0cGioK_VmuSwKDqOak8kU1WJx0XQlOsPSj6kuKWtaGIbqt1nqaOVQztKhfcKTVfhIttAS7T26jJzao47S-9QClGru4nQvoaBgG9cmiuU1BSLZMY8wfkEKZ6/s1600/20141231_105202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hhIAgz9xUlPLQDnY8uZnw0cGioK_VmuSwKDqOak8kU1WJx0XQlOsPSj6kuKWtaGIbqt1nqaOVQztKhfcKTVfhIttAS7T26jJzao47S-9QClGru4nQvoaBgG9cmiuU1BSLZMY8wfkEKZ6/s1600/20141231_105202.jpg" height="178" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One
morning, after milking and hauling water to the goats, Tasha and I lingered
near the hearth, enjoying the fire’s warmth and a last cup of tea. For some
reason, our conversation wandered onto the topic of women’s day caps and
bonnets. Tasha recounted a tale of how one day while wearing an 1850’s bonnet
and walking in New York City, women kept exclaiming over her stunning bonnet.
The ladies complimented Tasha on having the courage to place such a creation on
her heads and stroll through the city. Scampering off, Tasha returned with the
admired bonnet, a small black style trimmed with a few silk flowers and tied
with a wide black ribbon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“We
need to bring bonnets back into style,” Tasha said. “And day caps are also so
feminine and practical.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
year before my visit, Sturbridge Village had released, <i>The Workwoman’s Guide</i>, a collection of household and sewing
information first published in 1838. Tasha found her copy, and we flipped to
the day cap patterns, scanning the various styles. Because Tasha had provided
me with one of her old dresses to use as a pattern, I usually wore her 1830’s
style of clothing. I had also sewn a simple day cap, yet admired the frillier
variations that Tasha sometimes donned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Would
you like to sew a new cap while you’re visiting?” Tasha asked. “I could help
you cut the pattern and have the perfect fabric for this style.” She pointed to
the first cap in the guide. “The front of that one would look even better with
a double ruffle.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">While
I needed to dissect a dress in order to have a template, Tasha possessed the
ability to simply look at a frock and cut a pattern that matched the original.
Or she knew how to tweak the design to make her creation even lovelier. So
Tasha sliced a paper bag, smoothed it out and drew me a pattern similar to the
one in the book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Now
to find some fabric,” Tasha said. From a trunk, she extracted several yards of
the most delicate white lawn I had ever fingered. “I bought this years ago in
Switzerland. You would have loved the shop; there were over three floors of any
sort of fabric you could wish for. Wouldn’t it be fun to visit it together?”
Tasha searched a sewing basket and presented to me a small wooden spool of
extremely fine <i>Styles Wax’t Thread</i>.
“Did you bring a thimble?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Because
I hadn’t, Tasha lent me one of hers. After cutting out the cap, she taught me
how to roll a tiny hem on the edge of the ruffles with my left fingers while
taking minute stitches with my needle. In fact, she told me to hem both sides
of the ruffle and then on one side, draw the threads to gather it. Over the
next few days, I sewed while Tasha drew and guided the cap’s progress. Tasha
also displayed more of her caps, bonnets and pelerines so that I could marvel
over the tiny stitches and embroidery. I wondered how nineteenth century women could
produce such fine sewing without the benefit of electric lights. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Near
the end of my visit, I finished the cap, and when my family returned for
Tasha’s summer solstice party, I wore the ruffled creation along with an 1830’s
gown sewn from calico that Tasha had given me, “because that looks like Joan
fabric”. After that party, I donned both dress and cap for other special
events. Now whenever my hands touch the delicate lawn, I can hear Tasha’s
parrots chatting, inhale the scent of an blushing camellia, and most of all,
relive the joy of sewing together beside her hearth on a winter afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ8pmw8n6CgjTzQRGtD361hI9StjwAzRJiAjsjExID11qUF8dWBBL3JXArKRhbt8oT2Zp7nWasODwmESa2_2C0pgUA65ApiYzxcD2z44EkkxIUkm9rYjHtKkz2MHpmYTz5PN2IkHbqG_BR/s1600/20141231_110044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ8pmw8n6CgjTzQRGtD361hI9StjwAzRJiAjsjExID11qUF8dWBBL3JXArKRhbt8oT2Zp7nWasODwmESa2_2C0pgUA65ApiYzxcD2z44EkkxIUkm9rYjHtKkz2MHpmYTz5PN2IkHbqG_BR/s1600/20141231_110044.jpg" height="320" width="229" /></a></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-43449253309621901302014-12-13T06:47:00.000-08:002014-12-13T06:47:59.076-08:00Friends at First Sight<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQVT4sy7d5wn599esGXxe3tSLURfLYhvESw6OdYdbcns0kH8ixBvDv0hWcwIziNVCPCncaBh32XuNIsmw0T5300F0bXfywyrUVCCAgTCP6mYuc_cfnDVv-M6mwkJewOIkFo2O5QdgcVse/s1600/Tasha+at+Kaala+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQVT4sy7d5wn599esGXxe3tSLURfLYhvESw6OdYdbcns0kH8ixBvDv0hWcwIziNVCPCncaBh32XuNIsmw0T5300F0bXfywyrUVCCAgTCP6mYuc_cfnDVv-M6mwkJewOIkFo2O5QdgcVse/s1600/Tasha+at+Kaala+(2).jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha at the Kalamazoo Public Library with Mary Rife in the background</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Friends
at First Sight<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> In the fall of 1985, my good friend, Mary Rife, who was
the head of the Kalamazoo Public Library’s Children’s Room, told me that next
November, Tasha Tudor would be presenting during the library’s author’s
weekend. Mary had heard me describe my deep love for Tasha’s artwork and how as
a child, I had sought out any book that she had illustrated. In fact, before I
could read, I pulled picture books from the stacks, hoping to land on one of
Tasha’s creations. So following Mary’s announcement, I circled that particular
November weekend on my new 1986 calendar and daydreamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Mary also understood that the best way to provide me with
extra time with Tasha was to invite me to help prepare for the author event,
because being volunteer would allow me to attend a special tea and even be
included in an intimate luncheon. Because I live by the motto that
participating is more fun that merely observing, I reveled in being part of the
team who prepared for Tasha’s visit. Mary’s main request was for me to recreate
the pink and white quilt in <i>A is for</i> <i>Annabelle</i>, because a generous donor had
paid for a replica of Annabelle who would be on display in a section of the
children’s room. After I measured the doll bed, Mary and I chose a pink reproduction
calico and I pieced and quilted the top.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The day that Tasha arrived, I marveled that my arms
carried stacks of her artwork from Mary’s car into the library. The child who
had searched for her books now touched original illustrations that attendees could
purchase. After everything was in place for Tasha to speak that evening, Mary
and I picked up Tasha who lodged at a local bed and breakfast inn so that we
could take her to lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Like any admirer, I babbled to Tasha about how much I
loved her illustrations and her lifestyle that reflected my family’s similar
values of farming and homesteading. She perked up as I described how John and I
had constructed several timber-framed buildings, including our house and a
large barn, and naturally, Tasha was interested in my large garden, dairy goats
and chickens. Over lunch, Tasha and I continued to discuss beloved varieties of
roses, our favorite seed catalogues, and even how John and I powered our home
with solar electricity. By the end of the meal, Tasha began hinting that I
should come visit her home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The next day, John escorted me into a lecture room packed
with Tasha’s fans who listened to her tell stories about her life while
watching her draw. Because everyone shared a similar love, the audience felt
like a gathering of friends, and no one minded when we stood in line for over
an hour to have our books signed. We chatted about our favorite books and
marveled over how Tasha’s creativity overflowed in so many ways, from her
marionettes to her garden, to her old-fashion home. After Tasha signed my
books, I was stunned to read her inscription: “You must come visit me at my
home in Vermont.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> A special tea for volunteers and library staff followed
the lecture, and during that time, I questioned Tasha about what she had
written.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Do you really want me to visit you?” To step into Tasha’
world was a gift that I had never imagined and could barely believe that she
had offered it to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Yes, I do, and bring that handsome husband of yours. How
did you ever convince him to wear nineteenth century clothing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “It was John’s choice, partly because I could sew all his
clothes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Well, I look forward to seeing both of you next spring.”
Then Tasha turned to chat with other guests.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> And on New Year’s Day when I hung up our new calendar, I
had already circled the first weekend in June for our visit to Tasha Tudor, the
first of several that I made over the next decade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-59733040652410045202014-11-20T12:32:00.001-08:002014-11-20T12:33:26.090-08:00<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Cevse-npxGz4g_ipq_fBigTEXJlO2-3XaBhju04nDdtjw6v4Kod8bATIkqKdm8SNO0K4P5WpwkqdxhRPLVNX7GSWXpGNvFpL_OQ2iT6OAmmaA8TNQNAqW3A5fxAWXI4uaj4kWDUg9B5_/s1600/20141120_144305+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Cevse-npxGz4g_ipq_fBigTEXJlO2-3XaBhju04nDdtjw6v4Kod8bATIkqKdm8SNO0K4P5WpwkqdxhRPLVNX7GSWXpGNvFpL_OQ2iT6OAmmaA8TNQNAqW3A5fxAWXI4uaj4kWDUg9B5_/s1600/20141120_144305+(2).jpg" height="206" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha's bird feeder and corgyn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0aaSXstP5xG8FIz_VPkWH3OuS_0yvDsnBwgeP2SRiEd-mSK4t2ieAwnHL3O1uNDrY1Bw2xxfUh_fNjghrs9RWXZ0Ygr-xGMvfkWGN93cGeamVnFn3TAF7Aleg7Ip_OqTpcmZs5TFpoeUG/s1600/20141120_144316+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0aaSXstP5xG8FIz_VPkWH3OuS_0yvDsnBwgeP2SRiEd-mSK4t2ieAwnHL3O1uNDrY1Bw2xxfUh_fNjghrs9RWXZ0Ygr-xGMvfkWGN93cGeamVnFn3TAF7Aleg7Ip_OqTpcmZs5TFpoeUG/s1600/20141120_144316+(2).jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha feeding the birds in her hand-woven dress</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Feed the Birds</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">While most folks know
that Tasha loved her many canaries, diamond doves, parrots, and zebra finches,
she also cared about the song birds who visited her farm. Each spring, she and
I would compare the arrival of the first wren and the hermit thrush. I loved
how the white-sparrow resided on her farm and its plaintive call sounded during
Tasha’s summer solstice party. Of course, some of the song birds showed up in
her illustrations, swinging on a garland or sitting in a bush. One wintry
morning, Tasha and I watched a gathering of blue jays as they swooped down to
her bird feeder and then back to a leafless branch. She had just come back
inside from filling the feeder, with a little help from Owen and Megan, two of
her corgis. She was amazed by the quantity of jays and kept counting them,
trying to ascertain exactly how many were fluttering in the trees. That moment
must have lingered in Tasha’s thoughts, because when she sent me a packet
filled with copies of the illustrations for <i>The
Real Pretend</i>, there were the blue jays, fluffed up and sitting midst pine
branches that wreathed the scene in the kitchen when the children explain their
dilemma. Tasha had also painted me as the mother, another one of her charming
ways to include friends in her books. So now when I sprinkle bird seed on the
snow and fill my feeders, I often think of Tasha and her great love for her
feathered friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-50827794990484196462014-11-13T13:07:00.001-08:002014-11-13T13:07:07.590-08:00The Parma Violets in Tasha's Parlor<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Opening the door to
Tasha’s parlor, I sniffed the scent of spring. Snow flurries sifted outside the
windows. But from somewhere in the room, floated the fragrance of violets, as
if someone had secretly placed a May basket on one of the tables. I wandered around
the parlor, searching for the source of the perfume and noticed a row of three pots
on a windowsill. Tiny white, lavender and rosy flowers trailed from plants with
shiny heart-shaped leave. Bending my head over the mounds of greenery, I
inhaled and fell in love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFlSa1o2lMdi-UNW6FqWhaU_NP5IAebn2q4t8SdIPjDdRzXdc3KduqdxR6rspWRvTk_zY-_KHPyX-oipAsflSnWI-OH9WH5eTR03cUoeUAo-U1m9EFpMI53T7xhL5jWhFYQybM8QZEASv/s1600/20141113_155017+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFlSa1o2lMdi-UNW6FqWhaU_NP5IAebn2q4t8SdIPjDdRzXdc3KduqdxR6rspWRvTk_zY-_KHPyX-oipAsflSnWI-OH9WH5eTR03cUoeUAo-U1m9EFpMI53T7xhL5jWhFYQybM8QZEASv/s320/20141113_155017+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
After Tasha woke up from her characteristic afternoon nap, and as we settled near her hearth with a tea tray, I questioned her about the violets.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> "Those are Parma violets, aren’t they lovely? In the dark
of winter, one plant can perfume an entire room. They are tender plants and
can’t survive the cold like regular violets, but they thrive in a cool place.”
Tasha picked up a pink luster tea cup, while reaching for a slice of poppy seed
cake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Tasha barely heated her parlor, only lighting a fire when
we sometimes ate dinner in that room, so it offered the temperatures of early
spring. Tucked on an east facing windowsill, the location provided for ample
sunlight, yet sheltered them from any bright afternoons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Parma violets were first grown in Italy,” Tasha said.
“Sometime in the late nineteenth century, they were brought to England where
they were madly popular in small bouquets.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “I understand why, they remind me of my small, English
violets that bloom in early April on my farm. I love to bury my nose in the
plants and fill my lungs with their perfume. On a sunny afternoon, the scent of
violets floats from that corner of my garden.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Yes,” Tasha said as she poked at the fire and tossed on
two birch logs. Their bark blazed, sending sparks up the back of the fireplace.
At her feet, her corgi, Owen, waited for crumbs or for his mistress to offer
him a bit of cake. Always ready to talk gardening, Tasha continued, drawing
from her years of cultivating plants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “When the violets were imported to New York City, they
became the rage. Young ladies liked to wear a cluster on their shirtwaist or
slip them into a wedding bouquets. I suppose when plant breeders created larger
violets, people fell for the showier blossoms.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “And ignored the lack of scent,” I added. When discussing
seed catalogs, Tasha and I admitted to reading through a plant’s description,
searching for and selecting those varieties that could claim, “highly
fragrant”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I poured each of us another cup of tea and leaned back in
the settle, listening to a canary trill. The warmth of the fire flushed our
cheeks while visions of next year materialized in our minds. Upon arriving
home, I wrote out my order and soon, Parma violets perfumed my kitchen with the
fragrance of an April afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1PrFqsZPs8vSye0ty0Cwf0FJoDRWozlGbjwlAMfRlbtnV_77hht07cwvVko65VFE9ZycpZoxTlDxacCvGWHF3xgH8pPPZ0PEtKklm8Ejm4C7WDudt1-l61mP5j4SMkHP9A_lLjwAMG0n/s1600/Parma-violets-duchess-...large_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1PrFqsZPs8vSye0ty0Cwf0FJoDRWozlGbjwlAMfRlbtnV_77hht07cwvVko65VFE9ZycpZoxTlDxacCvGWHF3xgH8pPPZ0PEtKklm8Ejm4C7WDudt1-l61mP5j4SMkHP9A_lLjwAMG0n/s320/Parma-violets-duchess-...large_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-32652748286662692372012-12-08T07:57:00.000-08:002012-12-08T07:57:03.150-08:00A Merry Christmas Dance with Tasha<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RChhyphenhyphenQf7nH4EWom0xkO048-8hAqheg3d4uctKWgHOCcl8CHPQLsxPTGJddhVwjV7wlf4mVvYYhmFeBatdm8xS9LQJpiW2NJ7OlN0ZPvxZPFfZJ83zQxX_HY-LFoy5nglxefIVWdcuJLh/s1600/tasha+t+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RChhyphenhyphenQf7nH4EWom0xkO048-8hAqheg3d4uctKWgHOCcl8CHPQLsxPTGJddhVwjV7wlf4mVvYYhmFeBatdm8xS9LQJpiW2NJ7OlN0ZPvxZPFfZJ83zQxX_HY-LFoy5nglxefIVWdcuJLh/s320/tasha+t+012.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Tasha loved to dance! The year that The Real Pretend was published, we gathered in Indiana for a special Christmas party. Tom Tudor escorted his mother and we all wore small dance card designed by Tasha. A fiddle played, a guitar player strummed chords and a caller told us how to move through the sets.<br />
<br />
Once when sitting by Tasha's fire, she talked about how she had trained in ballet, but didn't like how dance required that she stay inside for long hours. Yet at that Christmas party, Tasha displayed her grace cultivated by ballet instructions.<br />
<br />
What is your favorite Christmas memory of Tasha? Do you bake cookies from Take Joy, sing the carols found in that book? In what ways, small or large, did Tasha influence your Christmas celebrations?sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-59622202578311826222012-02-26T13:22:00.003-08:002012-02-26T13:22:48.953-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Rosemary is for Remembrance<br />
<br />
I love greenhouses at any time of the year. Tasha's was especially lovely in the winter and on one visit I took my recorder into her green house and played to her plants while Tasha napped. When she awoke, she wondered where the music was coming? So Tasha followed the notes and found me in her greenhouse. The roses were in bloom, herbs scented the air, and the camelias also blossomed. She identified for me some of the plants that I didn't recognize and we inhaled the scent of earth and roses. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ltUX80jY_Bglj90ZsyHgDENVM0w1eoxu9crm-yY9GnL1l7LKhHo7oPvEIKaLTH0FD7p1LYL4mkbFA4RKn3fvBbBZwFMmomrKYFZep6V2JkACxAt6VJYGhp61-r-4rwNQADG4M64OM-40/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ltUX80jY_Bglj90ZsyHgDENVM0w1eoxu9crm-yY9GnL1l7LKhHo7oPvEIKaLTH0FD7p1LYL4mkbFA4RKn3fvBbBZwFMmomrKYFZep6V2JkACxAt6VJYGhp61-r-4rwNQADG4M64OM-40/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasha and Carol Lueck in the greenhouse<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Tasha decided to cut some camellias for bouquets and asked about what was blooming back in my small greenhouse attached to my home. When I asked her why my rosemary plant died, Tasha explained that rosemary doesn't like either wet or dry feet, but must be kept at the proper moisture level. Tasha had recently rooted cuttings from her bay tree and offered me one. I was delighted to accept the shoot from her frequently painted bay tree.<br />
Several days later, she wrapped the cutting and tucked it into a small bag that fit into my knitting basket. This was before the days of heightened security, so in addition to taking the cutting onto the air plane, Tasha packed me a small feast of cheese and crackers, and some of her famous stuffed eggs. My cutting arrived home in fine shape and over the years has grown into a sizable tree. Every spring, my husband totes it outside and throughout the year, those wonderful bay leaves season my cooking. Rosemary is for remembrance, but bay leaves are forever green and fragrant.sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-7935898913889692172012-02-14T07:23:00.000-08:002012-02-14T07:23:45.208-08:00<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk0tNdD8FahrD_EOARFOoDEYu5HtEtR0ENQTDIxkqfRRZUBEbyZfRXvGlxrlLVRE8uSelgeMOg-zeCa-fCJb_S4z2dUC1v6b76b1N_SF2-xFbqXh2bgCWEM0G20sZgDdIRHWDrPOeycq00/s1600/Tasha+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk0tNdD8FahrD_EOARFOoDEYu5HtEtR0ENQTDIxkqfRRZUBEbyZfRXvGlxrlLVRE8uSelgeMOg-zeCa-fCJb_S4z2dUC1v6b76b1N_SF2-xFbqXh2bgCWEM0G20sZgDdIRHWDrPOeycq00/s320/Tasha+001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A reproduction created by Tasha<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWulD_SHFHZPZpVx1lDQf7qsKtJbtnQN9HdpqV4wPbV0FUaVNFtXxEryea1OR_h30cSohyphenhyphenAQqcclOZ8DCKFruCHhu7Q6iZ_IAssEHRfRkk3D71dvDOkYb5BIAhc1ocA6ymeqqn-tYQW7b/s1600/Tasha+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWulD_SHFHZPZpVx1lDQf7qsKtJbtnQN9HdpqV4wPbV0FUaVNFtXxEryea1OR_h30cSohyphenhyphenAQqcclOZ8DCKFruCHhu7Q6iZ_IAssEHRfRkk3D71dvDOkYb5BIAhc1ocA6ymeqqn-tYQW7b/s320/Tasha+002.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Antique 1830's gown<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
CINDERELLA<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Sewing is one my
passions. I sew our own clothing to save money and create garments that reflect
our love of historical living. I just finished two 1830’s style dresses with
billowing sleeves, and I have almost completed two pair of broad fall pants for
John.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Of course, Tasha loved to sew.
Sometimes she sewed frocks from yardage she had woven, but Tasha also enjoyed
shopping for fabric and stored her purchases in a huge Shaker woolen basket at
the top of the upstairs landing.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
visiting, I would pause on the landing and rummage through the stash of
woolens, calicos, and flannels. Tasha kept fine lawns and other delicate pieces
in another trunk that also stored her collection of collars, kid
gloves, and petticoats. Tasha loved to describe a tall dry good shop in
Switzerland. Each floor featured different types of fabric…. dotted Swiss,
fine lawn, firmly woven calicos and rich plaids. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
fun we would have there!” Tasha would comment.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> Once w</span>hen
she saw me fingering a certain pink and maroon calico that glowed near the top
of the woolen basket, Tasha gave it to me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“These
are definitely Joan colors. Now sew yourself a lovely new frock,” she said.
“And while you are here, you should stitch a day cap. I’ll help you cut it from
some of the lawn I bought in Switzerland.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hugged her. Tasha taught me how to roll a tiny hem along a length of lawn and
create a ruffle for my new cap. And when I returned home, I sewed the many
yards of calico into a stunning 1830’s style gown. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
night, Tasha introduced me to her collection of antique gowns, and because we
were the same size, the dresses fit me. Like a young 19<sup>th</sup> century
girl preparing for her first dance, I tried on gowns of lavender taffeta, a
gray and pink plaid, dainty sprigged lawn and rustling silks. I loved dreaming
about the women who had worn the dresses. Had one of them met her future
husband while wearing the plaid? Had they stepped to the same fiddle tunes I
played at contra dances, to Sackett’s Harbor or Petronella? I envisioned the
women twirling across wide pine boards, dizzy with the splendor of candle light and
music and romance.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alas,
all good dreams end. The dresses went back to their hangers. I ducked under the
covers and snuggled into the feather bed. Frost laced the windows. But the splendor of that winter night still
brings goose bumps to my arms and gratitude to my heart.</div>sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2816063731984694268.post-47692970709548203692012-02-05T16:10:00.000-08:002012-02-05T16:10:23.241-08:00<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcnHFYYZQW-JdNsGdmziel-bSFo31oGmEYVmOgV6JYv_hlwJHg7FySkAt5enu5nmEdy74GQYqOLRpIAShyphenhyphenZIXAegSYy_PRYuzWRvgc9vtlL1CqQ-O_BuAXji9HiUCyMoZLMRm-19jtd0I2/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcnHFYYZQW-JdNsGdmziel-bSFo31oGmEYVmOgV6JYv_hlwJHg7FySkAt5enu5nmEdy74GQYqOLRpIAShyphenhyphenZIXAegSYy_PRYuzWRvgc9vtlL1CqQ-O_BuAXji9HiUCyMoZLMRm-19jtd0I2/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tea on Tasha's Porch<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
PINK LUSTER<br />
<br />
I have been out in our sugar bush, tapping our trees and hauling in sap with our team of oxen. One year, after my family had finished with making maple syrup, I visited Tasha. Usually, I had to visit during January or February because those are the two months when fruit farmers have more free time. So I had never been to Corgi Cottage in March. Snow still lingered everywhere, but much of it had melted and the small creek that meandered near Tasha's driveway rushed by the birch and hemlock trees.<br />
Michigan sugars about two to three weeks before Vermont, so on the highway out towards Tasha's buckets hung from numerous maples.<br />
<br />
As usual, Tasha had told stories, we had inhaled the wonders of her green house, and I had viewed some of her "new" 1830's gowns that she had acquired. She also had a new loom warped with red and white check wool and was weaving fabric to sew into a shirt for Tom.<br />
<br />
Tasha and her daughter-in-law had just bought a new pink luster tea set that Tasha had "sniffed" out. They had driven off to another small town in Vermont where over the past hundred plus years, one family had owned the set that Tasha brought home. I knew nothing about pink luster china, so Tasha found me some articles about how potters use a red clay for the china and paint it with a gold glaze. <br />
<br />
One afternoon was particularly fine, and in true Tasha style, she suggested that we have tea on her porch. She had baked these wonderful little cakes and brought out this set of pink luster. During tea, I told how as a young child, I wanted to have a tea party. My small china tea set was stored on a shelf in my closet. Being short, I decided to set a box on a chair so that I could reach my tea set. But when I climbed on it and grasped my set, everything came crashing down. Broken china littered the floor. Not even one cup or saucer survived. I mourned that tea set all of my life.<br />
<br />
Tasha disappeared and returned with a pink luster cup and saucer. "Perhaps this would suit you, don't you think?"<br />
<br />
"Thank you!" I marveled at the gift. "It is beautiful!"<br />
<br />
"Of course, you will have to wrap everything very well, but I will show you how."<br />
<br />
"Everything?"<br />
<br />
"My dear, I am giving you the complete set. To replace the one you broke."<br />
<br />
I laid my head on her porch table and wept. And then I hugged her for mending a void that only she had understood. Tasha often said, "A woman can never have too much china" and enjoyed hearing about my antique china.<br />
<br />
To this day, I am overwhelmed by Tasha's generosity both with my marvelous pink luster tea set, and her willingness to mentor and encourage me as an author.<br />
<br />sparrowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15338410746022207749noreply@blogger.com5