Winter Bouquet

Sewing by Tasha's Fire

Winter Bouquet

            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.

            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.

            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.

Tasha's front porch

Garden bedroom

Seed Packets

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.

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.

 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.

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.

“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.”

“It sounds like fun,” I said, envisioning Tasha kneeling, her long skirt brushing a brick path as she peered into the gloom.

“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.”

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.

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.

“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?”

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.

“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.”

“I’ve always wanted to grow wallflowers so I could inhale their fragrance. I hear it’s heavenly.”

“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.”

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.

Sweet Home

Sweet Home, Canada, Canada

            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”.

            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.

            In the early 1990’s, Tasha invited my family to attend her Summer Solstice Party. So near June 21^st, 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.

            “What can I do to help?” I slipped on an apron. “What needs to be done?”

            “Why don’t you water the large pots? The ones scattered about outside,” Tasha said.

            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”.

            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.

Teatime near the hearth

                                                                        A Different World

            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.

            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.

“See this mist of snow? It tends to snow up here, but will only be cloudy in farther down the mountain.”

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.

“You never know what you will see these days,” she remarked. “I would think she’d be warmer in a long skirt.”

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.

“I could take you out for tea, or we could go home and enjoy the last of the brownies.”

“Let’s go home.” I knew that few bakers could rival Tasha’s skills, and her fireplace called to me.

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.

Celebrating Pumpkin Moonshine 

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^th 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.

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.

“She’ll be here soon,” Beth Mathers said as she hugged me. “Everyone, Tasha should be here in about five minutes.”

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.

“Happy 50^th Anniversary,” Beth said. “Fifty years of Pumpkin Moonshine.”

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.

Summer Afternoons

My sons and Tasha' grandsons in her canoe on Tasha's pond

Summer Afternoons

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.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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.

Birch Bark

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            “In the spring, when the sap is running, I will send you some,” Tasha said. “Your children will especially enjoy drawing on it.”

            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.

            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? Now the roll rests in a place of honor, a reminder of Tasha’s generosity and the slender birches crowning her woods.