Market Monday - Heirloom Finds

My baby started junior high today.  He was looking forward to it until last week when somebody (Sam would not reveal who) told him he that everyone would be way bigger than he was, he would probably get "jumped" the first day and the principal would send him home from school because his hair was too long.  My husband and I couldn't figure out why he had a sudden interest in weight-lifting over the past week.  As it turns out, he was building up his muscles to fend off any would-be attackers.

After much reassurance by his sister, who just survived two years of junior high unscathed and a long talk with dad last night, our boy seemed to be a bit calmer this morning.  He had a smile on his face as he headed out the door and dad said he was happy to see his friends once he arrived at school.  Mom isn't doing so well, feeling a wee bit melancholy about how quickly her boy is growing up.  I'm sure both Sam and I will feel better in a few days!

Fall is a time of new beginnings, as the kids head back to school and the easy-going days of summer give way to the regimented days of fall.  I always have a sense of anticipating the new in September and I attempt to reorganize the house and schedule my time, the kid's calendars and all of the various family activities.

Over the summer months I neglected my little etsy shops, so I'm listing some of my sweet vintage finds and today I'm bringing you Market Monday,  highlighting some of my unique treasures.

I always wanted to learn how to knit or crochet.  When I was a little girl one of my great aunts very patiently attempted to teach me how to knit.  Her attempts were in vain, but I still had visions of chunky knit sweaters and colorful scarves that I would someday create.  Years later, as a married woman, my mother-in-law took on the daunting task of teaching me once again and I patiently sat down with the knitting needles in my hands and began knitting a sweater for my new husband.

Ten years passed and I finally asked my sweet Aunt Hope to finish that sweater (finishing meaning taking it apart and making it all over again.)  I finally admitted to myself that knitting is not my thing.  When a dear friend tried to show me how to crochet just a few years ago, I got that sparkle in my eye once again.  Within a few short hours I realized, that like knitting, crocheting requires patience.  Unless I wanted to devote the next ten years to the project, I figured I better quit while I was ahead.

I admire the patience required and the beauty involved in the art of crocheting and I recently acquired a stash of lovely vintage crocheting threads along with other vintage sewing supplies.   I know the true craftsperson will be delighted with these special finds.  I will be listing more over the next week.

So,  now I've demonstrated my lack of domestic skills in the areas of knitting, crocheting and pie baking!  After last week's pie fiasco, I couldn't resist showing you this beautiful pie plate.  I love the gorgeous fall colors of rust gold, brown and blue.

I may not know how to bake a pie, but my mother bakes the best apple pie, hands down!    I have ordered apple pie in restaurants time and time again when I smell one baking.  I can't resist that tantalizing smell of cinnamon and apple mixed together, but I'm always a bit disappointed.  It's never quite as good as mom's!  She mixes in just the right amount of cinnamon and can roll out one mean pie crust - tender and flaky.

This beautiful pie plate would be the perfect reward for the pie maker in your life!

There is also a lovely matching casserole dish, perfect for a green bean casserole or those sweet potatoes topped with crispy browned marshmallows that everybody loves to eat at Thanksgiving (well, at least I love to eat at Thanksgiving.)

I have a kitchen utensil drawer, jam-packed with so many knives, choppers, sifters, graters, peelers, mashers and more.  It is so full that I can barely close it.  In fact I think my utensils breed at night.  There are things in there that I'm sure I've never used and other things that I don't even know how to use.  Besides that, I have a big basket sitting right beside the oven containing all the spoons and spatulas that I use most often.

For Depression-era cooks, every single kitchen item was treasured.  Nothing was taken for granted.  Everything was used and there was no such thing as waste.  It is hard for us to even conceive of in our high consumption world. 

This pair of 1930's kitchen utensils have survived the years.  Imagine the stories they could tell.  Seventy years of being used in the kitchen while families cooked, laughed, fought, cried, ate, prayed and lived together through lean years and plenty.

I love the apple green paint on wooden handle of this tin crinkle cutter and stainless steel Ace chopper.  They would make a great addition to a country kitchen or a great gift for a collector!

These are a few of things I have waiting for you in my etsy shop.  Remember, I'm posting new items weekly and Christmas is just around the corner!

What I Like Doing Best Is Nothing

"How do you do Nothing?" asked Pooh,  after he has wondered for a long time.
"Well, it's when people call out at you just as you're gong off to do it, What are you going to do, Christopher Robin, and you say, Oh, nothing, and then you go and do it."
"O, I see," said Pooh.
"This is a nothing sort of thing that we're doing now."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh again.
"It means just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering."

I'm feeling nostalgic.

My two youngest are heading off to junior  high and high school next week.  The years of doing Nothing are behind us, even our summers are filled with doing Something, now.    It seems like yesterday that summers stretched out endlessly with lazy days spent doing...well, Nothing.

I'm not one to get caught up in sentimentality, but Winnie the Pooh was my son's favorite character from the time he was an infant and "The House At Pooh Corner" is, in my mind one of the sweetest pieces of literature ever written.  There is something about summer drawing to a close and school beginning that always reminds me of the tender words between Pooh and Christopher Robin at the end of this heartwarming book.

Christopher has spent his childhood deeply absorbed in the world of Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and his other friends in the Hundred Acre Wood.  Now the time has come for him to leave for school and enter the world of "Kings and Queens and something called Factors, and a place called Europe, and an island in the middle of the sea where no ships came, and how you make a Suction Pump (if you want to), and when Knights were Knighted, and what comes from Brazil."

Pooh Bear begins to feel left out, being a Bear of Very Little Brain, as he realizes that Christopher Robin will eventually leave him behind to enter this strange new world where he does not belong.

Every time I read this, my heart beats a little faster and I feel like shouting, "Don't go, Christopher Robin!  Stay.  Live in the Hundred Acre Wood forever."  But I know that he can't - and he shouldn't.    This is the tug and pull of growing up.

We have already been through this with our oldest child.  We survived and so did she, the growing pains of adolescence.  She is now an  adult and a beautiful young lady.  She is excited about the future looking to get married next year and start her own family.  If our children never left the Hundred Acre Wood, if they stayed with Tigger and Pooh forever, they would never grow to be mature, healthy adults.

Yet, there is something so sweet, so innocent about those days of childhood, that we long for our children to cling to them as long as they can, knowing that they will grow up soon enough.  Those early years of childhood have now passed for my precious three and oh, how I cherished every minute.  I glance back with a smile but look forward with great hope, knowing their future is bright as they place it in the Lord's hands.

The final paragraphs of Pooh and Christopher Robin's story expresses the tug of a child's heart but I think we hear more the heart of the parent/author A.A. Milne, as Christopher's childhood wanes and adolescence begins.

Then, suddenly again, Christopher Robin, who was still looking at the world, with his chin in his hands, called out "Pooh!"
"Yes?" said Pooh.
"When I'm-when--Pooh!"
"Yes, Christopher Robin?"
"I'm not going to do Nothing any  more."
"Never again?"
"Well, not so much.  They don't let you."
Pooh waited for him to go  on, but he was silent again.
"Yes, Christopher Robin?"said Pooh Helpfully.
"Pooh, when I'm-you know-when I'm not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?"
"Just Me?"
"Yes, Pooh."
"Will you be here too?"
"Yes, Pooh, I will be really. I promise I will be, Pooh."
"That's good," said Pooh.
"Pooh, promise you won't forget about me, ever.  Not even when I'm a hundred."
Pooh thought for a little.
"How old shall I be then?"
"Ninety-nine."
Pooh nodded.
"I promise," he said.
Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh's paw.
"Pooh," said Christopher Robin earnestly, "if I-if I'm not quite--"he stopped and tried again-"Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won't you?"
"Understand what?"
"Oh, nothing."  He laughed and jumped to his feet.  "Come on!"
"Where?" said Pooh.
"Anywhere," said Christopher Robin.

So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way,  in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

The Gift of Pain - Chapter 10

Last night I learned a lesson from a beagle. 


I couldn't sleep and lay in bed for hours before I finally decided to get up and read.  While I was sitting in the chair, our dog Casey came into the room and whimpered to be let out. 


Some time later I called to her to come back in.  Getting no response, I stepped outside and called again.  I called repeatedly and went to the side of the house where I discovered the gate was wide open.  I quickly threw on my shoes, grabbed my keys and headed out to find her, knowing her chances of survival through the night in our neighborhood were slim, with coyotes on the prowl. 


I cruised up and down the streets for over half an hour with visions of my twelve-year-old son's tearful face floating in my mind as I told him that his beloved dog was lost forever.  I finally returned home, discouraged and praying that someone would find her and call the phone number on her tag.  I trudged down the hallway heading to bed, but as I turned to enter our bedroom I heard the familiar tinkling of dog tags.  Turning my head I saw Casey look up at me from the end of Sam's bed where she had been calmly laying all along.  Apparently, I had been absorbed in my reading and hadn't noticed as she slipped back in the door.  I had seen the open gate and assumed the worst.


So, where does the lesson come in?


This little incident with our dog reminded me of the way I treat my relationship with God.  I am so absorbed with myself, with what I'm doing and with the busyness of life.  Finally, I take the time to stop and be with him.  If I don't find him exactly where I expect to see him, I wonder if he's gone.  I begin, in a panic to race around physically or mentally, when all I really need to do is "Be still and know that HE is God" (Ps. 46:10).


And to think, a sofa-scratching, hair-shedding beagle could be used to remind me of this.  Amazing.

Well, here we are at Chapter 10.    (For chapters 1-9 of My Story, The Gift of Pain, click on the link at right.)  When I started chronicling this, a few months ago, I expected this story would take two to three chapters and a couple of weeks to tell, but it has taken me more time and energy than I imagined.  I have had to dig deep into the past and recall times that I would just as soon forget.

"Why bother?"  You may ask.  In the words of the author Brennan Manning, "grace and healing are communicated through the vulnerability of men and women who have been fractured and heartbroken by life.  In Love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."

I am simply a wounded soldier in the service of the One who first loved me.

This is this chapter where the cure is found, the problems are solved and everyone rides off into the sunset.  This story, however is real life -  my life.  Like I said from the beginning, there isn't a neat ending, in fact, there isn't really an ending.

I completed the pain management program and received so much incredible help and invaluable information.  I have been able to slowly wean myself off of all but the most basic of pain medications and for that I praise God.  That was an experience I do not want to revisit.

The fact remains that I am still dealing with chronic pain and the ongoing effects of my injury.  I have good days and bad days.  But, I'm glad to say, the good days outnumber the bad.  I am debating what steps to take next.  Having tried a myriad of treatments I'm not sure how to proceed and I'm hesitant to let them operate, since this injury was inflicted during surgery, so I'm moving cautiously and weighing my options.

I entitled my story The Gift of Pain.  There have been times, over these past several weeks when the use of this title seemed more like folly or hubris, but as I have come to the end of this story I realize that it is true - the pain that I have suffered has been a gift, and one that I would never wish to return.

These past several years have changed me forever.  My relationship with my husband has grown deeper.  I have developed a compassion for others that I never had before.  I have grown personally, emotionally and spiritually and continue to grow every day as I learn to "define myself radically as one beloved by God."

I conclude my story, for now, with these beautiful words by Brennan Manning in his book Abba's Child.

"there have been times...

when the felt presence of God was more real to me
than the chair I am sitting on;
     when the Word richocheted like broken-backed
lightning in every corner of my soul;
    when a storm of desire carried me to places I had
never visited.
    And there have been other times...
    when I identified with the words of Mae West: "I
used to be Snow White---but I drifted";
    when the Word was as stale as old ice cream and
as bland as tame sausage;
    when the fire in my belly flickered and died;
    when I mistook dried-up enthusiasm for gray-haired
wisdom;
    when I dismissed youthful idealism as mere
naivete;
    when I preferred cheap slivers of glass to the pearl
of great price."

"The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant seeking beautiful pearls, who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had and bought it."
Matthew 13:45,46