The Wedgwood Weave

Did I ever write about the time I passed out at work?  No, I don’t think so.  It was a long time ago, either 2006 or 2007.  One morning, I was standing outside a counterpart’s cubicle and she was talking on and on about a project we were working on.  I felt light-headed and I may have said “I think I’m going to pass out.”  I don’t remember anything that immediately followed.  Fortunately, there was a doctor in the house, although he was an orthopedic surgeon.  Nevertheless, what I’ve been told is that I was guided to a chair and I was “out” for a few seconds.  I did not lose bowel or bladder control.

The office director called 9-1-1 (standard protocol) and I was taken by ambulance to the emergency room of a local hospital.  One of the nurses from my office went with me, kind soul.  I was discharged with a preliminary diagnosis of “syncope.”  I did not return to work that day.

Following this incident, I had the usual “workup” after such an event which included a “tilt table test.”  The results of this test confirmed my “fainting spell” had most likely been a “vasovagal response.” 

It’s never happened again, in spite of the fact that I sometimes work hammer and tong on projects early in the morning and late at night.

Maybe I just had the vapors.

That’s the musical group, The Vapors, a British power pop band; they were musical “cousins” to The Jam.

Speaking of power pop, I’m writing a feature on Museum L/A’s latest exhibition called “Covering the Nation:  The Art of the Bates Bedspread.”  If you’re anywhere near Lewiston, Maine from now until April, 2017, you should visit the museum and view this marvelous display of American ingenuity and creativity.  Guest-curated by textile historian Jacqueline Field, it features pristine examples of five of the former Bates Manufacturing’s major fabrications, including this beautiful 1962 matelasse bedspread called “Wedgwood Cameo.”

bates-wedgwood

I got a little light-headed when I was walking through the exhibit with the museum’s executive director.  Her father had worked in the mill for most of his life and she had an appreciation for the work and the workers who had once toiled in the long-gone textile plant.  The selections on display live on as a testament to quality and beauty.  And not only can you still buy original Bates bedspreads on Etsy and eBay, you can buy new creations crafted by Maine Heritage Weavers in the Bates tradition.

You’ll have to read my feature once it’s published.  I’ve got to finish it first, though, and make my way through this pile of notes and recordings and bedspreads.  Handy says he’s making dinner tonight, Chicken a la King or some such old timey dinner that’s perfect for keeping me focused on the past.

Powering through!

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The Order of Things

Like most Americans, I remember where I was on September 11, 2001.  I remember the drive to work, the clear blue skies, and the order of things.  I had just finished facilitating a conference call and one of the participants casually mentioned a plane had hit the World Trade Center.  Her name was Diana; she said “it was probably just a prop plane.”

Earlier in 2001, before September, I had become a “provisional” member of the Junior League of Boston.  In retrospect, it was a strange intersection of people, places, and things for me.

Sometimes, it seems like none of it ever happened.

orderLate last week, humidity moved in and made it seem quite warm.  A fog settled over this part of Maine on Saturday night; Handy and I noticed it on our drive home from Rockland.  We stopped at Moody’s Diner and shared a piece of pie like it was 1949.

The fog and damp hung on through the night and during church on Sunday, the sky grew dark.  After the congregation finished the old Protestant classic “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” sounding as powerful as it must have sounded almost 500 years ago, it began to rain.

It rained steadily until noon, but by 3:00 p.m., the sky had cleared and the humidity’s oppression vanished.  It was good weather for moonflowers and morning glories and deep red tomatoes on the vine.

That was the order of things fifteen years later.

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This is How the Story Ended

As some blog readers might recall, I started some moonflowers from seed in April.  I tried to grow them last year but they didn’t amount to anything.

Interestingly enough, I grew them one summer, in pots on my chicken coop-sized condominium deck.  That must have been the summer I made a firm resolve to leave “The Coop” after a member of the condominium association board of directors told me to take the climbing vines down because they were against regulations.  That was a dark summer, indeed.

moonflower

They were so beautiful; how could anyone object?  Ugliness of heart can lead to a rejection of beauty.

I’d like to tarry longer on the topic of regulations, hearts, and flowers, but the sun is on the rise and I’ve got miles to go today.  Feel free to linger a moment and contemplate the moonflower.  What a creation!  I only planted the seed.

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Heavenly Blue

This spring, along the back wall of my fenced-in garden, I planted sunflowers, scarlet runner beans, and morning glories.  I didn’t read the “Heavenly Blue” package closely and watched the dense green foliage cover the fence with nary the sight of a flower.

The Green

Then one day last week it happened.

Heavenly BlueI am still waiting for the moonflowers; you’ll be the first to know when they arrive.

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The Vines are Heavy

Early yesterday morning, before the newspaper arrived, a woman in a pickup truck drove up the hill beeping her horn and shouting out her window.  Although I couldn’t comprehend exactly what she was saying the syncopation and the syllable count could have translated to “wake up, wake up.”

Yesterday was the first day of school in most communities in Maine as confirmed by the rumble of the school bus a few hours later.

Here at a house uncomplicated by the dictates of school bus schedules, the vines are heavy with fruit.

The Vines are HeavyHandy and I harvested all the tomatoes from Uncle Bob’s garden; my eight tomato plants here are still thriving.  We’ve started making tomato sauce and freezing it for the winter.

The days are getting shorter and although there will be many beautiful summer and summer-like fall days to look forward to, you can feel the change of the seasons.  There is sadness in the cricket songs that drift in through the early morning’s cool air.

I comfort myself looking forward to November 6, when we get our stolen hour of time back.

Meanwhile, everyone is racing toward the Labor Day weekend ahead, the last three-day weekend for a while.

I had planned a different post for today, something about the intersection of Dawn dish washing detergent, The Fifth Dimension, and Secretary of State John Kerry’s recent comments about media coverage of terrorism.  Thinking about it was exhausting and I hit the snooze button several times in contemplation.  I preferred to think about the coming promise of stolen sleep returned.

We’ll have to discuss the “dawning” of all such things at a later date, once the tomato sauce is done.  Take it safe and slow this weekend.

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Pleasant Books

It’s a drag to finish a pleasant book.  Then there are the books that are not delightful but once begun, must be finished.

Cast IronThere are always interruptions.  File this under “reading more than I thought I would this year.”

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Wednesday Like No Other

It’s hard to imagine a world without fork-split English muffins, isn’t it?  The toasted tasty flat pieces of bread with “nooks and crannies” full of butter and jam are a staple of modern morning life.  Samuel Bath Thomas made them popular in 1880 and the Thomas brand has existed ever since.  These days, Thomas sits amidst store and other baked brands, although only Thomas declares itself to be “breakfast like no other.”

Interestingly enough, back in December, 1948 a local newspaper printed a ham spread recipe for English muffins.  The article said “if these are not sold in your community, then use cold biscuits.”

Apparently, there was once a world without enough English muffins to go around.  Imagine that.

A few weeks ago, I fell for the enticement of Thomas’ corn English muffins.  I was intrigued by the bright green, orange, and yellow packaging.  I imagined a basic bread muffin with a corny as Kansas bite, smothered with butter.

I was sadly disappointed.  The muffin was overly sweet and the corn taste?  Non-existent.  Nothing could make that muffin better than a “cold biscuit.”  At least Thomas labeled honestly, as I noticed while examining the packaging.  They are “partially produced with genetic engineering.”

I should have known better than to read the label too closely.  Thomas’ muffins are now owned by Bimbo Bakeries which is a subsidiary of Mexican company Grupo Bimbo, allegedly one of the worldwide leaders in the baking industry.  A hedge fund is baking your English muffins.  And there’s probably nothing wrong with that; it’s the way of the world.  Nothing is as it seems to be, not even English muffins.

Meanwhile, I had yesterday’s good fortune of lunch with one of my oldest and dearest friends.  She made her delicious spinach-raspberry-pistachio salad with a balsamic glaze and a scoop of curried chicken salad on the side.  Mugs of hot coffee and conversation.

I wish that every Wednesday could afford such pleasant hours.  It lifted my sagging spirit, which had been brought to a new low by the English muffin revelation.

Not a MuffinBlue skies, warm and gentle summer breezes, and a good friend.  Thank goodness for such simple things.

It was a Wednesday like no other.

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How About Wednesday?

Dear Friend,

This will be the first week I have not hand-written my weekly letter to you.  I fell asleep with the twelfth Mitfod book on my chest and too many pillows under my neck.  Around midnight, the rain tapped on the garage roof and I shut the light.

A look at the calendar and I realize I’m behind in the week’s writing already, including your letter.  The good news is my week’s lunches are prepared and I have dinner inspiration for tonight; I only need a can of creamed corned.

Thank you for your encouraging e-mail and the invitation to visit any time after Tuesday.  How about Wednesday, maybe in the afternoon?

San Marzano TomatoesDo you need any tomatoes?  These are the “paste” variety with very few seeds and nice firm flesh.  They’re wonderful for cooking.

Tentatively until Wednesday,

Julie-Ann

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The Beehive of Truth

I’ve cast a disdainful eye on television in the years I’ve been blogging.  I’ve referred to it as “Tee Vee” and taken a position that it’s like a termite chewing through the gray matter of the nation’s collective brain.  Regardless of what I think about the current state of “Tee Vee,” with its preening weather puppets and veneer-toothed news readers, once upon a time I watched it.  Once in a while, even now, I watch it at Handy’s house.

But I only watch it in controlled doses and with no particular pattern.  Like my occasional viewing of the 1960’s television western series The Big Valley

I don’t remember watching the series as a small child; it ran for four seasons beginning in 1965.  Barbara Stanwyck stars as Victoria Barkley, the widowed matriarch of a wealthy California ranching family.  Her children, Nick, Jarrod, Heath, and Audra live at the ranch with her and manage the family’s land and business holdings.  Given their prestige in the big California valley, someone is always showing up at their doorstep, trying to cast a shadow on the Barkley name.  Like most Tee Vee shows prior to the post-modern era, such dilemmas were generally resolved in the 60 minute time slot allotted and if not, there would be a two-part episode.

All you really need to know about the Barkleys is that they were as pure as the driven snow and always looking out for their many friends and neighbors.

Last week, I watched an episode called “Target” which originally aired on October 31, 1966.  Josh Hawks, a politician running for governor of California, rides into Stockton and says the Barkleys are thieves and their land holdings were stolen from the people of the valley.  His statement, entirely false, grabs headlines in the local papers; his strategy is to ride out of town on the wave of publicity and move on to another town to run a similar scheme.

The old “shake a beehive and run.”

Bee HiveHawks’ campaign manager is pleased with the popularity surge which results from the lie, but urges his candidate to quickly move on to another town and another libelous scheme.  Fortunately, for the Barkleys and the state of California, Josh Hawks has a problem with booze.  A series of drunken missteps leaves him dead in a courthouse explosion and truth prevails like a bee sting.  The Barkley name is restored as the dust from the explosion clears and peace returns to the big valley.

Aristotelian theory holds that art imitates life; I’m not saying The Big Valley is art, but the second season’s Halloween episode had a spooky and prescient resemblance to our current political maelstrom.

As the daily thump on the front porch provides my thin packet of “news” I’m going to close today’s blog post with some thoughts from my Aristotelian philosopher friend, “At Your Service.”  We were talking about the past, and how quickly we stuff it in the drawer for the promise of the present and future.

“What is more interesting still is the constancy of man’s attitude to the present; it is always pushing the envelope of human existence, the now, the best, the most engaging, the important, the significant, that to which all must pay moral and political homage –lest we perish!

Whatever it was then, it’s of little interest now, relegated to microfiche, stored in the dusty bins of history, no longer the object of amazement and fear.  Maybe we do learn something from the past; it’s just like the present will be.”

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The Window on Wiscasset

Before my brother left for the Iowa State Fair, he kept talking about “the butter cow.”  Silly me, I thought “the butter cow” would be some gentle bovine creature with big brown eyes and a set of abundantly generous udders.  I looked forward to my brother’s selfie with said creature.

Had I just done a search of the internet, I would have known that “butter sculpting” is a century-long tradition in the Midwest.  There would be no selfie of my brother and a living, breathing bovine.

I was devastated.

The Window on Wiscasset
Perhaps one day, the Nickels-Sortwell House will be carved in butter.  Until then, I’ll remain adverse to all butter carvings larger than one inch in diameter.

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