Ode to a sweet peach

“A Georgia peach, a real Georgia peach, a backyard great-grandmother’s orchard peach, is as thickly furred as a sweater, and so fluent and sweet that once you bite through the flannel, it brings tears to your eyes.”
Melissa Fay Greene, ‘Praying for Sheetrock’

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(Peaches /Julie Cook / 2014)

Shhh don’t tell, but these are South Carolina Peaches.
There is nothing more splendid than a summer’s ripe peach. . .

““““““““““` ““““““““““ ““““““““

Visiting cousins, who lived on a small rural farm in mid eastern Georgia, a young city girl, no more than 7, always made an immediate bee line for the orchard.
Standing small before a bountiful quest, yellow jackets zipping from tree to tree, she saw the challenge and heard the call.

Hand over hand–lifting each leg up a tad higher, tender limb upon limb, this little girl would climb higher and further until reaching the tallest branch.
Here hung the largest, the sweetest and ripest fruit.
Peach trees are not tall trees, but to a little girl, they might as well have been giants.

Haphazardly and full of trepidation, she’d unsteadily reach out with one free hand while clinging desperately to the tree with the other small hand.
Barely yet triumphantly grasping the fuzzy prize.

Settling back in the crook of the tree, yellow jackets vying for the first bite,
the young girl held the furry ball to her nose breathing in the heady fragrance.
Savoring the nano second before taking the giant juicy bite, she eagerly bites through the fuzzy outer layer, releasing a flood of sweet nectar which trickles down her chin.

As summers long past come flooding sweetly back with the sight of a single peach . . .

tiny jewels

“The earth is like a beautiful bride who needs no manmade jewels to heighten her loveliness…”
Kahlil Gibran

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(a tiny bowl of tiny Sun Gold and Brandywine cherry tomatoes / Julie Cook / 2014

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I love cherry tomatoes—those tiny little hanging orbs bursting forth with an explosion of summer all in one small bite. My husband on the other hand does not like cherry tomatoes. I suppose with his being the manly man that he is, cherry tomatoes must seem too tiny, too girly, too not worth it when wanting a “real tomato.

He rationalizes that 50 cherries would constitute one “normal” tomato—why bother with gathering up a million little ones, when truly, one decent sized tomato will do. How on earth do you make a tomato sandwich, that quintessentially summertime favorite, with teeny tiny little red balls?! And let’s not start on the fact that there are other colors for tomatoes than red. In his world, tomatoes are red and red only. In my world, they are white, yellow, purple, black, bumpy, striped, large and small.

I like my world.

He’s more of a big beef steak fan–a hardy Big Boy, a giant Better Boy or an acidic Rutgers.
They must be peeled and sliced thin. God forbid I leave the peel on. And let’s not talk about getting too creative like, say, roasting with olive oil, fresh thyme sprig, fresh rosemary, sea salt, garlic and olive oil. Is there any thing better—that heavenly aroma wafting through the house—serve over warm pasta or add to mixed greens, a drizzle of balsamic, add crumbled feta or perhaps chèvre, or slivers of pecorino romano —ummmmmm.

Each year, in our garden, my husband graciously yields to my desire for at least one plant of cherries and one plant of plums. Plums make some of the meatier tomato sauces as they are flavorful and do not render to mush when cooked.

How was I suppose to know that out of our 10 plants, now giant bushes, that 4 of them would turn out to be cherries?! I swear I had no idea! Honest!

I’ve grown full sized Brandywines and Sun Golds before. No where did the little marker, stating the type and variety of plant, did it state Brandywine cherry or Sun Gold cherry. Only one plant’s little marker stated Sun Gold cherries. The other’s read as a regular plant.

Imagine my surprise and his alarm, when the tomatoes started to form, that half of the tomato plants would be either cherries or plums. Who knew?

Oh well.
There will still be enough “normal” sized tomatoes to make his go to BLT’s but even more tiny tomatoes for a little extra creativity in the kitchen. . . sounds pretty good to me and pretty darn tasty 😉

Returning of the keys

“King of England, and you, duke of Bedford, who call yourself regent of the kingdom of France… settle your debt to the king of Heaven; return to the Maiden, who is envoy of the king of Heaven, the keys to all the good towns you took and violated in France.”
Joan of Arc

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(Julie Cook / 2014)

At some point in time, all those who have taken what is not theirs to take. . .be it land, kingdoms, homes, livestock, possessions, pleasures, time, identities, lives, esteem. . . will have to answer for their actions. It may be in this life or it may be the in the next, but answer, all must.

We often think of the act of taking what is not ours to take simply as stealing— which is something only the “bad” people do.
This comes in many guises.
Fraud, Identity theft, grand larceny, extortion, bribery, forgery, armed robbery, shoplifting, pickpocketing, corruption, money laundering, scams, etc.

Then there is the more insidious forms of taking such as kidnapping, rape, torture, brainwashing, murder, etc

We take liberties, power, charge, control all in the name of our own sense of righteousness and entitlement. Does that sense of superiority and righteousness make the taking any less wrong?

Is one type of taking more wrong or less wrong than another?
We could certainly argue such.
But is not all sin equal in the sight of God?

During the Hundred year war (which was really longer than 100 years), a young French girl had a vision from God that she was to be the voice to liberate France and her weary people from the clutches of what seemed to be the greedy English. This point could be argued depending on which side you ask— does one Nation have the right to “take” another Nation if they do so with justified good intentions or in many a king’s mind, divine right?

In 1429 this young girl dictated a letter, as she could neither read nor write, to Henry VI, the 7 year old King of England, as well as to those who spoke with authority for this young king, her intentions as instructed by God to bring an end to the fighting, the raping, the pillaging and the sheer madness of the English vying with France for total rule–the issue at stake was her people’s land, buildings, treasures, nationality as well as the actual people themselves—as the English were in France against the will of the French leadership and the people.

But try telling the English that, at the time, France was really not theirs for the seizing. The French were having their own troubles trying to determine who should be their rightful king. The best solution in the mind of the English, was indeed, the English.
What a complicated mess. As is the case when it comes to taking. The lines of yours and mine grow very murky when justification comes into play.

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(Joan’s letter to the English as written my a monk but signed by Joan / March 1429)

One sovereign nation usurping another sovereign nation for possession, as in possession equals power. France struggled within itself and England saw this as their duty to swoop in and simply take charge. Is that not what taking is really all about—taking power and possession and in turn eventually taking charge and control and then being the one on top?

And if it had not been England, it would or could have been Spain, Germany, Austria, Italy, and at some point later, France itself— or perhaps as it is today with Nations such as Russia, North Korea, China, Iran, Iraq or as some in the world would say, The United States— Nations continually vying for supremacy over what is considered to be the lesser—as in less stable, less than, less prepared, less powerful.

Is taking considered ok if it is a Sovereign Nation doing the taking?
It depends on who you ask and it depends on the reason for taking, as it depends on the level of taking—As such taking always has a justification.

We take what is ours by proximity, by heritage, by birthright, by bullying, by might.
Yet at some point, we must give back, return, let off, recant, repent, own up, acknowledge or pay the price.

Our young heroin, St Joan of Arc, was eventually captured by French forces then handed over to be burned at the stake by the English as a heretic. King Henry VI ruled for 38 years before being murdered. France and England went on to continue waging war with one another up until the Revolutionary war when they continued taking sides and vying for control.

And so it goes. . .
Today it may not be the English and the French, but it is certainly other Nations now who are taking from other Nations. This seems to have been the trend of humankind—taking. And perhaps we may trace the taking back to an apple which was told not to be taken or the life of a brother which should never have been taken—the taking has been going on ever since.

From this tiny window or portal into history, lies the history of humankind.
The vying for power, control, charge and the taking of what we want with and by justification.
Nations justify their taking just as the petty thief justifies his—and sometimes God must say enough is enough, I will send one who must sort this out once and for all. Or maybe sometimes He just shakes His head wondering if we will ever get it right.

Thou shall not covet.
Thous shall not steal.
Thou shall not murder.

Perhaps this is a history lesson of divine Commandment.

At some point we will all have to return that which is not ours. We will be held accountable. The repercussions of the taking are endless if not silent at first then monumental in the long run.

May we be mindful of taking that which is not ours for the taking.
And may we be mindful of our justifications.
May we be mindful of our intentions—are they pure and loving or are they egotistical and self indulgent?

Joan of Arc’s Letter to the English
March 22, 1429

King of England, and you, Duke of Bedford, who call yourself Regent of the kingdom France; you William de la Pole, Count of Suffolk; John, Lord Talbot; and you Thomas, Lord Scales, who call yourselves lieutenants of the said Duke of Bedford, do justly by the King of Heaven; render to the Maid who is sent here of God, the King of Heaven, the keys of all the good cities that you have taken and violated in France. She has come here from God to restore the royal blood. She is all ready to make peace, if you will deal rightly by her, acknowledge the wrong done France, and pay for what you have taken. And all of you, archers, companions of war, nobles and others who are before you; and if this is not done, expect news of the Maid, who will go to see you shortly, to your very great damage. King of England, if you do not do this, I am Chef de Guerre, and in whatever place I shall find your people in France, I will make them go whether they will or not; and if they will not obey I will have them all killed. I am sent here by God, the King of Heaven, each and all, to put you out of all France. And if they will obey I will be merciful. And stand not by your opinion, for you will never hold the kingdom of France through God, King of Heaven, son of Saint Mary; it will be thus ruled by King Charles VII, true heritor; for God , the King of Heaven, wishes it, and this to him is revealed by the Maid, and he will enter Paris in good company. If you will not believe the news from God and the Maid, in whatever place we shall find you, we shall strike in your midst, and will make so great a hurrah [hahay] that for a thousand years there has not been one in France so great, if you do not deal justly. And you may well believe that the King of Heaven will send more strength to the Maid than you will be able to lead in all your assaults against her and her good soldiers. And when the blows fall we shall see who will have the better right from God of Heaven. You, Duke of Bedford, the Maid begs you and requires of you that you work not your own destruction. If you listen to her you will yet be able to come in her company to where the French will do the finest deed that ever was done for Christianity. And reply to this, if you wish to make peace at the city of Orleans; and if thus you do not do, you will shortly remember it to your great sorrow. Written this Tuesday, Holy Week. [March 22, 1429.]

Gifts of wood

“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me.”
Erma Bombeck

“Artistic talent is a gift from God and whoever discovers it in himself has a certain obligation: to know that he cannot waste this talent, but must develop it.”

St John Paul II the Great

“The person born with a talent they are meant to use will find their greatest happiness in using it.”

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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(Percy checking out Michael’s stool or perhaps he’s looking at the peaches. . .)

I’m wondering if you were listening, or more aptly reading, back around Thanksgiving when I was extolling the talents, gifts and craftsmanship of a certain little woodworker hailing from South Carolina?
Did you fail to catch that post?

https://cookiecrumbstoliveby.wordpress.com/2013/11/26/functional-or-decorative-or-both/

or the post at Christmas-time highlighting a few of my favorite things–as in gift giving??

https://cookiecrumbstoliveby.wordpress.com/2013/12/10/raindrops-on-roses-er-well-not-exactly/

Did you not take notice of the beautifully crafted cutting boards that Michael, over on Michael’s Woodcraft & Blog, has been cranking out for the discerning and not so discerning kitchen aficionado??
Because if you never had an opportunity to do so, now is indeed the right time!

http://michaelswoodcraft.wordpress.com

I simply must share a new wonderment created by the skillful hands of our friend Michael!!
A few months back Michael shared with his blog friends a project he had taken on for his wife. He had just procured some beautiful planks of gorgeous walnut which he was going to turn into a step stool for his lovely wife Debbie.

Michael carried us through the play by play of choosing just the right boards, planing the boards, creating a pattern for the stool, cutting the wood, painstakingly assembling his pieces, sanding, staining and finally lacquering the new creation. He was curious as to the hours it would take him to make such a piece so he kept a running time journal, complete with photographs of his progress and timeline.

The end result was stunning.
Not only was it functional, as in serving a purpose, it was decorative, warm and a beautiful accent to their home.

I immediately inquired if Debbie would permit him to make perhaps another stool–one I could purchase.

As luck would have it, both Michael and Debbie were more than happy to share.
That’s when my aunt got on board.
When she was up visiting during THE wedding hoopla, I had showed her Michael’s blog with the stool. I had given her one of his cutting boards at Christmas so she knew immediately how great his work was and being a lover of fine wood products, she too wanted a stool.

Here are a few shots of the stool I recently received from Michael and his workbench.
As it is absolutely beautiful I don’t know where I want to place it as it’s truly a work of art and craftsmanship.

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And as Michael is also quite the little chef, most recently posting a recipe for homemade ice-cream, I’m thinking I may just need not only to copy the ice cream recipe, but I just may need to put in an order for one of his hand turned ice-cream scoops. . .

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, the cat and peaches are not included 🙂

The Relic, the Mystery and there’s just something about those eyes

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,
The labor of an age in pilèd stones,
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?”

― John Milton

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“Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.”
Emily Bronte

“Like Roman Catholics, they (Eastern Orthodox) believe that the grace of God present in the saints’ bodies during life remains active in their relics when they have died, and that God uses these relics as a channel of divine power and an instrument of healing.”
Timothy Ware (Metropolitan Kallistos Ware) (1993-04-29)

“Orthodox Christians respect and venerate the relics of the Saints (bodily remains) because the body along with the soul is redeemed and sanctified; one day it will rise from the grave to be with God forever.”
Anthony M.Coniaris (2010-12-29)

In yesterday’s post I had shared a little bit about my love and
fascination with history—
as it is all basically a lengthy story–and who doesn’t like a good story?
I also shared the tale of a chair and a love I have with and for antiques—
namely those things I’ve “inherited” along this life’s journey of mine–all from grandmothers and mother.

I left you with a bit of tantalizing intrigue asking you to stay tuned
as there was a quasi Part 2 to the story—

This is a story about a visit to the big monthly Antiques extravaganza known
as Scott’s Antique Market held at the old convention center located south of
the city near Atlanta’s massive airpot.
The show comes to town the second weekend of each month.
Two enormous “convention” centers are packed to the brim with every sort
of antique and dealer imaginable.
Even the outside areas are packed with a more flea market sort of vibe,
but equally interesting.

You want to find a matching plate to the set of dishes your
grandmother gave you years ago?
It’s here.

Looking for the perfect English corner cabinet for the living room?
It’s here.

Looking for the perfect old new rug for the family room?
It’s here.

You need a piece of silver or silverware?
It’s here.

Wanting to find a special gift for that impossible person to buy for?
It’s here—whatever it is, it’s here!

Old toys, jewelry, furniture–big and small, gadgets, cookware, figurines,
pottery, glassware, silver, trinkets and treasure–
it’s a fun way to spend a day hunting and rummaging.
And usually for the right price, it, whatever it is,
is going home with you.

As June’s show fell just after our big wedding event down in Savannah,
my aunt, who was staying with us throughout the big hoopla, wanted to take in Scott’s before she had to return back home to south Florida.

I also had two dear friends who wanted to tag along with us on this little antique adventure. Rummaging for treasure is always more fun with more eyes to take
it all in–
so off we all went looking for nothing in particular,
but thinking that we may stumble upon some little treasure we just couldn’t
live without.
Little did I know. . .

This show is a huge draw for the curious, the shopper and the dealer.
Buses come from all over the South.
There was a bus for the Junior League of Birmingham,
a group down from Nashville, folks from North Carolina,
Mississippi, etc—a regular “picker’s” paradise to be sure.

Once we found a parking spot, we made our way into the cavernous market.
We wandered up and down the aisles poking and prodding through the various booths,
tables and stalls when suddenly, out of no where,
a rather large and very worn crucifix catches me off guard.
I make a bee line for a closer inspection.

I stand.
I stare.
I marvel.

Remember, I am an art teacher who loves her art history and who possesses
a strong penchant for Byzantine, Renaissance and Baroque time periods—
early Christian art.
The cross and figure of Christ had seen much better days, which was making me even
more curious as to its story–
yet there was just something in that face which held me in my place.

I took a peek at the price.
“Maybe she’ll take less” I muse in a silent attempt to reassure myself.
At which point the owner ambles over. . .“it’s French you know.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
“Plus it’s a relic”
“Really?
Where?
How?”

At which point she begins to explain the part of the story that she knows.
Located at the base of the cross, or what the cross is actually mounted on,
is a small wooden and glass enclosed box which holds an ancient nail.
She gently tilts the crucifix back so I can have a better view.

“When I found this, the glass was black with age and grime,
I didn’t realize it was a box”
she continued tilting the cross back
as she continued with her story.
“It seems that the monastery which originally possessed the cross,”
a monastery she now has no idea as to its identity,
“had a nail which they actually carried to Jerusalem,” or so she tells me,
“to be blessed and to be held to the purported nails of the True Cross.”

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“Ah, a third degree relic” I interject.
“Yes, how do you know that?”
“A third degree relic is an item that has been brought in contact with a purported original relic in order to receive various graces.”
“Are you Catholic?”
“No”
I lightly chuckle, “I just know these kind things”

I ask what she’d take for it as my aunt and friends now stand and stare
at me as in a ‘have you lost your freaking mind’ kind of stare.
One of them even asking
“is this something you would want to look at every day…all that blood and agony?!”
“Oh yes, very much so” I murmur as if in a trance.

She then tells me her bottom line price, which she explains is way down from the
original price— but she has had it a while and as she is receiving a new shipment
of items from France, she needs to “clean house”
I tell her I need to walk around a bit in order to think about it.

We walk around about 40 more minutes.
“Don’t you like this tureen” my aunt almost implores holding up a
Mulberry ware covered bowl, as in, ‘get this china pot instead of that dilapidated old cross, it’s cheaper and is not so ‘falling apart.’
“Yes, it’s nice but I don’t need more china” this as my mind is still churning over the crucifix.

I’m now mindlessly walking around, rationalizing and ruminating in my head
about having saved up for a new purse and wallet, something of a small treat.
Thinking to myself that perhaps I should forego something as trite as a new
purse for a treasured piece of history.
Something so terribly personal and immensely moving.

I haven’t had a new purse in several years…
but who needs a new purse when I can take home this ancient crucifix…
it certainly won’t go out of style I muse.
There’s nothing wrong with my old bag.
This will be an investment in history.
Plus there’s just something about those eyes…”

This battle waging in my mind as we continue wandering about the maze of booths and dealers.

“Ya’ll can look around here, I’m going back to that booth to ask about the cross.
Swing by when you finish here”
this as I practically call out over my shoulder as
hurriedly I make my way back to find the cross.

Once I re-find the booth and the owner, I tell her I’ll take the cross.
She warily studies me for a moment.
I think she originally thought I had intentions of reselling it.
Probably wondering why someone like me, not looking to be the overtly
religious type as in no collar or wimple,
would want such a piece for personal use.

“It’s beautiful” I sincerely tell her.
I proceed explaining that despite not being Catholic, I have a profound draw to the Catholic Faith and that I am, believe it or not, a very devout believer.
The cross, the lifelike plaster image, with it’s peeling paint and overtly dusty and fragile appearance, calls to my heart.
The face, his face, his eyes draw me inward, beckoning, calling.
“I am here, I suffer, I bleed, I do this for you. . .”

She then tells me that it’s her understanding that many of the churches in France,
just prior to the Nazi’s invasion,
took items such as this cross out of the churches,
hiding them in fear of looting or even worse, desecration and destruction.
It’s her understanding that this cross was moved and never made its way back home.
She proceeds to show me how to open the box, showing me the nail which is anchored to
a crumbling and faded burgundy velvet pad by a small piece of old wire.
Ever so gently she retrieves a yellowed folded piece of very fragile paper.
It is a certificate of authenticity–written in Latin and stamped,
proclaiming the nail to be a relic of the true nail of the true cross–
dated 1883.

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After I get the cross home, I immediately and precariously climb up on a stool,
perched on the counter, in order to place it high on top of the book case–
a perfect place for anyone coming in the house to see it.
It’s also a perfect place keeping it safe.
But just before placing it up and away,
I retrieve the fragile piece paper from the box, one final time,
in order to make a copy so I might do a little research of my own

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My current school of thought is that the monks only carried the nail to Rome,
to a church named for Jerusalem, but I could be wrong.
The Basilica of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem—
Latin: Basilica Sanctae Crucis in Hierusalem.

Many more questions than answers to be sure.
I would love to somehow figure out where this cross came from–
what church or monastery.
Wouldn’t it be marvelous to be able to find its original home,
returning it to its rightful place of reverence and worship?!
My new goal and quest.

I’ll be keeping you posted to be sure—but for right now I need to go decipher a little bit of Latin. . .

A chair, old things and a story of self

No, no! The adventures first, explanations take such a dreadful time.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass

“A house with old furniture has no need of ghosts to be haunted.”
― Hope Mirrlees

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(engraving from a circa 1890 copy of The Pilgrims Progress / Julie Cook / 2014)

I once taught with a woman who was an exceptional story teller.
No silly, not fortune teller, but rather story teller.
She oddly enjoyed teaching, of all things, freshman english–you know the ones—those young people caught in limbo somewhere between childhood and puberty who believe themselves to “be grown”. . .
Perhaps it was because she felt her young charges were still vulnerable and mouldable, much unlike their upperclassman counterparts. In her opinion there was still hope.

She was a delightful story teller—and that is exactly how she taught, by the use of stories.
It is said that we learn best by the hearing of stories. Perhaps that is how our brain best recalls information by placing dates and events into a story sequence verses simple rote memorization. Perhaps it is mere stimulation for our brains, increasing memory capacity as the imagination is at work.

I often envied her gift for story telling as I was not one to conjure up an immediate tale. Perhaps it was her keen use of imagination whereas I had let my imagination wane long ago. Either way, her students enjoyed her class as would I on those happenstance occasions when I’d be passing by her door as she was in the midst of a full regalia of the latest tale.

Which brings me to something I had told you about a week or so ago—it was a promised tale about a chair.
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(said chair seeking shelter on the streets of Savannah during a thunder storm / Julie Cook/ 2014)

Remember me telling you that I had found a chair at an Antique shop in Savannah when we were gathered for THE wedding? I happened upon it in a massive ancient cavernous warehouse just off River Street. The place was chock full of furniture all from England, France and Italy–dating from the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries.

There were massive pieces of every size and shape fit for only the finest of homes. The most massive of homes. And most likely procured from such grand homes down through the ages. There were Tudor pieces, Georgian pieces, Colonial pieces and every type of Louis— but mainly there were heavy carved English pieces. Armoires, grandfather clocks, dinning tables, bar sets–as in entire massive wooden bars taken from taverns of long ago, wooden chests, cabinets, game tables, and chairs—a myriad of chairs.

We had actually wandered earlier into another antique store where I saw the loveliest group of Windsor chairs—old, as in 200 years or better, very early American Windsors—8 chairs going for the bargain price of $27,000! I knew right then and there I needed to leave that store. The shop keeper actually stopped me on the way out the door telling me he’d let me have them for $18,000.–a real steal. Good lord!! Who does that? Who can afford to do that?? Oh I digress. . .

So as I was weaving my way through the mazes which cut through the massive bevy of ancient wooden pieces, when suddenly, I stopped dead in my tracks. Perched up on a chest was this lone little chair–beckoning, calling out. . .”juuuullliiieeee. . .”
Rich dark wood, an ancient warm and woven cane back and bottom with the most splendid carvings imaginable. Cherubs, flowers crowns—imagine the story behind this lovely little piece!

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“ooooooo”
My husband wanders up behind me.
“What is it” he quips.
“Look” I breathlessly respond staring intently at the chair perched on an equally wonderful wooden chest.
“You like that!?” He quizzically asks as in I can tell he’s wondering why in the world I like it.
“oooooooo”
“How much is it?” he chirps
I look at the tag.
“Too much” I dejectedly respond.
“Where would you put it? The house is already busting at the seams with everything from your dads.”

My house is indeed more shrine than house I suppose. Most everything in the house is from either of my grandmothers or great aunts. A unique and eclectic blend of Italian, French, German and English pieces from the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries with my own hodge lodge of 20th century shabby chic. Nothing matches.
There are figurines, china, paintings and furniture.
And my husband is right—almost too much stuff.

And yet this is the stuff of which I am made.

All of the stuff which is stuffed into my house is all the result of everyone in my life having died relatively early on. My mother actually preceded both grandmothers and great aunts to the grave. When you’re the lone surviving offspring, most everything comes your way. And as I happen to lean to the sentimental, I could never part with any of it–selling things away would be akin to selling away pieces of the very people who meant so very much to me.

And just in case you were wondering. . .no, I am not a hoarder thank you very much.

And this now brings us to, I think in part, as to why I love antiques. These pieces laced through my house were the pieces to the lives of my grandmothers, great aunt’s and mother. They made up their respective homes and their respective lives. One grandmother was very much the grand collector–acquiring this and that, then conventionally telling my grandfather, once he noticed some new this or that, “oh that old thing. . .we’ve had that”.
The other grandmother actually worked as a hair dresser in mid town Atlanta in the 1930’s-60’s. She would be given lovely things by her clients–mostly back in the 1940s when such gift giving was not so unexpected.

I can vividly recall where each item was in their homes and of my interactions and recollections. And as I’ve aged, I’ve developed a deep appreciation for the pieces themselves.
For there is a history and a story behind each piece. A story that precedes even my grandmothers.
So many questions. . .
Who originally owned it when it lived across the pond?
Who may have touched it, come in contact with it?
Exactly how old it is?
What is its value?
Where was it located?
Why was it ever sold?
What attracted my grandmother to it?

As a history major throughout much of college, I hold a deep appreciation for the history behind things. It’s all about the story of a people–of how they, we, came to be— which is all so very intriguing.
Are we not all basically the same–those folks of the past along with those of us here and now?
We have not changed all that much over the centuries— as to what makes people, people, and what makes their things real.

The history is the story.
So many questions.
Who sat in this chair?
Who held this plate.
Who put flowers in this vase.
Who bought this as a present for a loved one?
Was this a commissioned piece or just the whimsy of a gifted carpenter?
Was it a part of a set?
What was the story of the journey from there, wherever there was, to here?
All this plays through my mind as I stand buried in a warehouse of ancient furniture staring at a lonely old chair marveling at how truly delicate the cane is woven–completely original–you don’t see such all that often.

My husband, who must have felt sorry for me as we were in the midst of wedding central and must have thought I was soon to be at my breaking point, offered to buy the chair as an early anniversary present (31 years in August)
“OOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!”
Then quickly,”Oh no, it’s too much” I exclaim regaining some composure.
“I’ll get it if you really want it. . .”

15 minutes later we’re on our way back to the hotel, chair in tow.

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(sweet husband with chair)

Imagine the sight—my husband precariously carrying an antique chair through the old historic district of Savannah, down busy Bay Street, about a mile back to the hotel, with my aunt and I in hot pursuit. People were staring and commenting on the chair.
“Is it South African?” one man inquires.
“Heaven’s no” I exclaim—as I think to myself—We’re standing in the middle of colonial America for crying out loud, as in the 13th colony, founding city, James Oglethorpe, Georgia, as in King George, for Heaven’s sake. . .South African, really. . .

Suddenly a thunderstorm appears out of no where. I shriek, yelling for my husband to seek shelter between some massive columns protruding form some downtown building. We hunker down into the narrow protected space— the 3 of us plus chair– all tightly pressed against a massive granite building waiting for the rain to subside.

The chair stayed in my hotel room during the remainder of the wedding weekend. Family and friends wandering in would exclaim “oh my, did that chair come with the room?” Again, really?!
Eventually, upon our departure, the chair was given a prime place in the car for the long journey back home. It now graces a corner in my family room—maintaining its aura of royalty.

Maybe its Scottish?
Maybe it hails from Mary Queen of Scots. Maybe she sat on it while contemplating her cousin Elizabeth’s quandary.
Maybe William Wallace or Robert the Bruce sat upon it waiting for freedom—I know, that’s a big stretch time wise.
or maybe more like Robbie Burns penning his latest forlorn thoughts or perhaps Rob Roy plotting rebellion. . .

Or maybe it’s just some little pub chair from some long forgotten little tavern– happy now to finally be out of the pub. . .
The history is truly the story. . .

(Stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow regarding the acquisition of a most interesting object last week from Scotts Antique Show in Atlanta—talk about a story)

clouds

“The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn’t it be?–it is the same the angels breathe.”
― Mark Twain
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Overhead, stretched across an endless palate, colors and textures collide in a dazzling spectacle.
Dust particles, light and various masses of air–some hot, some cold, choreograph a mesmerizing heavenly banquet–an endless feast for any skyward glance.

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Shifts in atmospheric pressure rise and fall, as foreign winds whip unseen forces into precarious unions. Colors, of radiant glory, sparkle as from a million tiny prisms suspended on an seen chandelier.

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As Winter’s evening light sets forth a tantalizing tidbit of self, explosions within the spectrum, seldom seen with such force, offer grandeur over an otherwise barren land.

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An invisible hand unfurls a massive patchwork quilt which falls languidly over a sleepy land.
“Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.
Red sky at night, sailors delight”

Echoes of ancient rhymes lyrically and rhythmically rise and fall as a lofty drama plays out guiding the ancient traveler.

Summer’s heat unleashes instability, as an ominous skyward cocktail mixes aloft.
Overhead a thousand unseen forces prepare to do battle.
Change is soon at hand as varying air masses vie for control,
As a cacophony of sound and light unleash a frightening display.

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Yet just as quickly as refuge and safety is sought, the unseen foe is suddenly vanquished.
Light emerges the victor as wary souls emerge unscathed while eyes still scan the changing sky.

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