Crafting Dreams: A Poetic Journey into Quilt-Making

In the quiet realm where threads whisper and dreams unfold, the art of quilt-making takes shape. It is a journey that transcends time, weaving together fragments of stories, memories, and the very essence of the human spirit. This poetic essay embarks on a lyrical exploration of the intricate dance between hands and fabric, as a quilt blooms from the fertile soil of creativity.

In the soft glow of dawn, the quilter, a silent architect of warmth and comfort, begins her pilgrimage. The sacred space, her atelier, resonates with the hum of anticipation. Cotton, like clouds, lies in repose, waiting to be transformed into a tapestry of dreams. Each piece, a harbinger of stories, carries whispers of laughter, tears, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind.

The quilter's hands, weathered by time and blessed by the touch of generations past, caress the fabric. With a tender reverence, she selects hues that mirror the palette of memories - the golden warmth of summer, the azure depths of endless skies, and the muted tones of autumnal nostalgia. The pieces come alive, converging in a kaleidoscope of colors that dance like fireflies in the twilight.

Thread, an ethereal strand that binds the quilt's destiny, cradles the dreams woven into each stitch. The needle, a conductor of symphonies untold, pierces through layers, connecting the present with the echoes of yesteryears. With each gentle pull, the quilt unfolds its secrets, revealing the stories etched in the fabric's very fibers.

As the quilter navigates this sea of memories, she encounters the labyrinth of emotions stitched into the quilt. Love, like a river, flows seamlessly, creating intricate patterns that reflect the interconnectedness of hearts. Loss, a shadow that dances on the edges, is embraced by the warmth of the quilt, transforming pain into a tapestry of resilience.

The quilt, a living, breathing testament to the passage of time, takes shape like a phoenix rising from the ashes of disparate fragments. It is a patchwork of triumphs and tribulations, a reflection of the human spirit's ability to mend and persevere. The quilter, an alchemist of sentiment, stitches hope into every fold, crafting a sanctuary of solace and rejuvenation.

In the final embrace of completion, the quilt unfurls its majestic wings. It is a testament to the quiet strength of the quilter's hands, a homage to the threads of shared experiences, and an ode to the timeless tradition of quilt-making. Each square, a chapter in the story of resilience, converges into a harmonious whole - a symphony of memories, a blanket of love.

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a palette of hues upon the quilt, it becomes a vessel of warmth, ready to cradle weary bodies and restless souls. The quilt, a living testament to the artistry of creation, now whispers tales of courage and connection. In its folds, we find not only shelter but a woven sanctuary, a vessel for dreams to rest.

In the heart of quilt-making, we discover a sacred alchemy where memories, emotions, and creativity converge. It is a poetic dance, a timeless journey that transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary. The quilt, like a celestial constellation stitched with love, invites us to wrap ourselves in the comfort of shared stories, reminding us that, in every stitch, dreams find their eternal abode.

Ponderings

an essay by Shannon Ashby | 2011

When the Old Beda Road was replaced by highway 231 North and South, a valley had to be filled in order for level construction on the new road to continue. The path of highway 231 was originally called the Buffalo Trail or Trace. Native Americans followed buffalo across the shallows of the Ohio River into Kentucky territory where hundreds of buffalo left the river, about where Frederica Street in Owensboro is today, and headed south along the same corridor year after year. The state highway department contacted my grandfather, Orville Tichenor, the landowner. They offered to build a large pond in exchange for the dirt that was needed to fill the deep gully. Sources of water at that time were scarce — no city water … just wells, cisterns and a few springs from which people and animals could drink. Water on the west end of the farm would allow cattle to graze if this small pasture and corn patch could be fenced. Fencing was too expensive, at the time, for my grandparents, but it eventually happened.

The pond was an exciting place for the Beda Community. Couples and families drove in on the large pond bank and emptied their cars for a day of swimming, picnicking and fishing. Often, farm trucks, fancy color cars and other 1940’s vehicles lined the banks. At night it was a favorite place for lovers, or ornery people, to “park” or drink liquor and beer. I never visited the pond at night, but my Papaw would walk to the top of the hill and see if he recognized any of the cars parked there. Oftentimes he would whisper their names to my grandmother.

Beda Cumberland Presbyterian Church used the pond to baptize church goers and wash away their sins into Christianity. It helped a lot because no cattle used the pond at that time and stirring the water helped keep the pond fresh as opposed to stagnant. Church members would walk or drive from the small white wooden church to the pond and the preacher would wade into the water up to his waist. He would then beckon those on the bank, waiting to be baptized, to wade to him. He’d place one arm around the new Christian and raise the other hand high toward heaven, his shirt sleeves dripping with pond water, and pray loud enough for all the gathering to hear. The new convert grabbed hold of his arm as he lowered them backward under the pond water and lifted them back to their feet. It was an inspirational moment that gave you a pacified feeling as church members sang all four stanzas of “Just as I Am, or “I Surrender All”… acapella, in four part harmony.

I remember our closest friends and family, Jerry and Wanda Allen, being baptized in that pond. The pond banks were lined with people around the shallow end. It was a place of notoriety for there were no other farm ponds as close to the highway and church as ours. I think at least one bird dog was converted there as well. Often times the family farm dog followed his master into the water only to be affectionately dunked by the minister. And so it was — the pond on our farm became a significant part of Beda’s social and spiritual life.

After the newness of the pond wore off and the church started sprinkling as a form of baptizing new members rather than immersing them, a new era began. The pond was one of my thinking spots. Mom and I lived with my grandparents for a time and my grandmother (bless her heart) could send me into the “squimmin’ mimmies” in a short period of time. Papaw, who was calm and never laid a hand on me, was totally opposite. When Mamaw got in one of her moods to convince me of my guilt, total unworthiness and to assure me that I was bound for hell, I’d slip out of the house with my Australian shepherd in tow, go around the bend, over the hill and down through the late summer corn and sage brush to the pond bank and pour out my heart to the tiny ripples created by the warm weather breeze. At that time, I was a lonely, only child, with no one to talk to; furthermore, there wasn’t anyone to talk to my Mamaw either. I think most folks were about half scared of her. I’d stretch out on the bank of the pond and listen to the warm breeze, or a slow moving car that occasionally passed. I’d stay just long enough to keep from worrying Papaw.

Twenty years later we fenced in the property and my parents built a small barn to house a flock of as many sheep as we could afford. “Pop O” found twelve ewes from Wyoming – a different breed with white faces. He paid over twenty dollars apiece for them. They grazed the fence line and kept it picked clean. They also kept the pond bank cleared and it could still be easily seen from the highway. We’d always had sheep on the big farm, but not near the pond by us. Sheep are a different kind of farm animal. They attach to their human family like pets. They are sensitive and can be scared to death if you aren’t careful.

Dogs posed a big problem to sheep. If they ever got into a herd and started running them, most ewes would fall on the ground from exhaustion. If you didn’t get them up as soon as it happened, I guess they’d lie there and die with lambs standing by their side. We had one horrible experience with Jerry Allen’s bird dog, Queen. Queenie got off the chain by her dog house and ended up in our sheep. It was mid-winter and the pond had iced over, but not too thickly. The lambs hadn’t started coming yet and the herd hadn’t been sheared. On this cold, snowy, day, Queen scared the sheep and I imagine she circled them. The whole lot ended up on the pond ice, scared, with a dog constantly barking and barking. The ice broke through and we lost every one of them. The pond was too far away from the farm house for anyone to hear Queenie barking. It was devastating to find all the sheep, their wool and lambs gone. In a brief discovery, the sheep could be tracked to the pond, their wool had caught on low branches, briars and underbrush while they tried to get away, but they couldn’t save themselves and we weren’t home to help them.

Later that evening, Jerry Allen came to see Pop O. He held his hat in his hand as he walked into our tiny kitchen. He was a dark-eyed, handsome man and a cousin of my mother. He’d come home from work and found Queenie off her chain and with some evidence that she’d been into something. Wool was tightly pulled about her collar, blood on her face and chest, and she was wet. He told us he’d heard about our sheep falling through the ice and thought Queenie was at fault. He didn’t have to come to us or admit to his dog killing our sheep, but being the man he was, he did. He had a home-owners’ insurance policy with Farm Bureau so we were partially compensated with a check for $200.00

Often, when I look into the vivid green hue of the pond, I think about all the community excitement and the sheep that were there, but that’s been nearly 60 years ago. I’ve ice skated there, all alone, enjoying the quiet…away from Mamaw. I could escape into any world and be anyone I wanted. It was a healthy escape that took me to places so far away that it would take me hours to get where I was going and hours to bring me back again. I’ve canoed and paddle-boated on that pond. It served as a background for a beautiful prom party for one of my sons. We gathered dozens of home-made lanterns filled with sand and lit candles. They cradled the pond’s shore line and gave off a magical glow in the water and on the pond bank. It cast flickering shadows in the woods as if fairies magically created it all.

We don’t allow many people to fish or swim in the pond anymore. Fishing and enjoyment are just for our children, grandchildren and other family members. I even turn people away when they ask. I’ve been known to walk to the pond and tell people to leave for there are some people who don’t ask permission. I guess that’s selfish, but times have changed and so have people.

The pond is fairly well hidden and grown up more now. Her banks are surrounded by birch, cedar, and sycamore. In the spring she becomes forty shades of green and reflects her surroundings like a huge vanity mirror. Buck bushes provide a home to red winged black birds in the summer. This time of the year, I can hear the spring peepers and see a few tadpoles that will become bull frogs. A dead snag of a tree in the water permits turtles to sun …big ones and little ones all bunched together basking in the warmth of the day. The blue gills begin their dance soon. Occasionally there will be turkey or deer tracks around the shallow side. I have one special place, between two pine trees, where I buried Abigal, my favorite cat. This pond has served her purpose well. Papaw deeded her to me when I was twenty-something, to help teach me responsibility and to appreciate her history. We care for her now, no sheep, no traffic, no diving board …just a haven for her wildlife.

Now the pond gives off the sound of the filament being cast from an adventurous family member’s reel and the occasional sound of a frisky bass breaking top water on warm summer nights. It’s time for her to rest now and let us enjoy her beauty. I have to respect her and keep her safe in the winter of her years. I enjoy seeing her every morning as I look out the front windows of our country home. She may look a little differently each day, but I can smile at her and know that we share the same secrets and the passage of time. Those things never change on Shannon’s Acres.

Southern Cornbread: A Story by @bethkirby

Our lives are like layers of soil, histories heaped upon histories, stratified by the major events in our lives. We can rediscover all manner of fossils and artifacts, and in turn fertile topsoil can cover the volcanic ash of the past. We have an infinite capacity for growth, rediscovery, and change, and as I’ve gotten older I’ve rediscovered many things: my feet on the earth, the kitchen, and Tennessee.

— Elizabeth Kirby

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My grandmother’s cornbread was a crisp golden brown. It was cast iron. It was a mason jar of bacon grease kept in the cupboard and a jug of buttermilk in the door of the Frigidaire. It was “home again home again jiggity jog”. It was Lincoln logs. It was sitting at her dining room table looking out the sliding glass door onto the back porch where we cracked walnuts and my brother and I smeared lighting bugs onto the pavement in senseless acts of childhood iridescence. It was torn into pieces into a glass of milk and eaten with a spoon. It was badminton and the smell of birdseed. It was childhood, and it was her.

Until a month or so ago when I finally decided to make it myself, I hadn’t tasted cornbread like hers in fifteen years, really didn’t eat cornbread at all. Didn’t bake it either. It might as well of died along with her when I was fourteen. At least it seemed that way for far too long. I didn’t expect her to die when she did. I wasn’t prepared. I hadn’t taken notes. I didn’t know what they would do with all her preserves, and I wept. There just didn’t seem to be anything to be done about any of it. It was hard, losing her, and for a few weeks I tried to pretend it simply hadn’t happened. She was like a second mother, and it appeared to me like some impossible necromancy to attempt to make that cornbread, so I just never did. Grandmother was dead, and cornbread was over. That was just how it was or so it seemed. Around the time she passed away I was beginning to develop that girlish sort of madness common at that age, and over the course of my adolescence I drifted farther and farther into the self-obsession that is being a teenager, and by the end I’d forgotten about cornbread, fireflies, badminton, and all that.

But. That was not that. Our lives are like layers of soil, histories heaped upon histories, stratified by the major events in our lives. We can rediscover all manner of fossils and artifacts, and in turn fertile topsoil can cover the volcanic ash of the past. We have an infinite capacity for growth, rediscovery, and change, and as I’ve gotten older I’ve rediscovered many things: my feet on the earth, the kitchen, and Tennessee. In this past year I’ve also put many things behind me, and as I form a new layer in the geological history of my life there is again cornbread and cast iron and therein lie fragments of the intricate, complicated histories of both myself and the south.

Cornbread in milk (or buttermilk) is an older southern midnight snack: when the day’s cornbread had become dry it was torn into pieces and soaked in milk and eaten with a spoon. Last month I sat at my dining room table and eagerly crumbled a piece of cornbread into a glass of raw milk for the first time in fifteen years. The taste possessed the same immediacy of memory as a familiar scent. I almost cried. I was effervescent, prattling on in excitement about how “it’s just like...just like”. None of it was gone at all, not her, not cornbread.

As for the ingredients, I use freshly milled corn from both Simple Gifts Farm (a beautiful roughly hewn mix of blue, red, and yellow corn from the Signal Mountain market on Thursdays) and River Ridge Mills (a finer textured yellow corn from the Main Street market on Wednesdays). I prefer to use the former for the coconut cornbread and the latter for the buttermilk as it gives it the most traditional taste and texture, the one I remember. I use Cruze Farms Buttermilk and bacon grease from Link 41 bacon that I save in a dedicated mason jar. I often use canola oil or coconut oil in place of the bacon grease in the buttermilk cornbread, content to merely smear the bacon drippings on my pan.

CAST IRON CORNBREAD

Whether you like it slathered in butter or drizzled with honey, plain or with milk like I take mine, each of these two variations has it’s own virtues. So I give you cast iron cornbread, two ways: the classic buttermilk and bacon grease cornbread of my youth and my own nouveau southern interpretation using coconut oil and cultured coconut milk. Southern food is an ever evolving, living organism with new innovations constantly being born of traditional recipes, and I think making the food your own is important. It keeps our cuisine vital. So feel free to play with fats, the cornmeal, the liquid, and various flavorings. I’m a purist so I don’t tend to put cheese and the like in my cornbread, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. These recipes are blank slates for endless sweet and savory variations if you like.

BUTTERMILK BACON GREASE CORNBREAD

Ingredients

1 1/4 cup (175 g) cornmeal

3 tablespoons flour

1 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

3 tablespoon bacon grease, vegetable oil, or shortening

2 eggs, lightly beaten

1 cup (240 g) buttermilk

1/4 teaspoon baking soda, dissolved in a bit of water

Bacon grease for greasing the pan

Heat oven to 425°. Grease a cast iron skillet with bacon grease and place in the oven while it heats. Mix the first four ingredients in a medium mixing bowl. Cut in the fat with your fingers or two knives, mixing well until you have a sandy texture. Combine the eggs and the buttermilk, add to the dry ingredients, and mix to combine well. Add the baking soda and stir to combine. Pour the mixture into the hot skillet and bake for 20 minutes. Invert onto a plate. I like to serve it upside down with the nice crispy side up like she did.

CULTURED COCONUT MILK CORNBREAD

Variation

Substitute 3 tablespoons refined coconut oil (you need refined coconut oil as opposed to unrefined to withstand the heat of baking) for the vegetable oil, and 1 cup of cultured coconut milk (can be found in the dairy aisle usually next the kefir) for the buttermilk. Grease the skillet with the coconut oil as opposed to bacon grease.

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Repurposed Traditions: Christmas with @earthangelsstudios & @skippydoodledesigns

Traditions are kept by the certain magic of sharing them—whatever “they” might be—among family and friends. By imbuing a holiday with them, a collective memory of the annual event is passed along the generations in taste, color, song and story. Traditions evolve as they’re enjoyed in familiarity; the best nod to all that’s fresh among those that share in them, with something new added each year.

Story by Jen O’Connor | Folk Art by Sue Parker

MORE THAN ANY OTHER AMERICAN HOLIDAY, CHRISTMAS IS TETHERED TO CHILDHOOD through a web of memories. Many of our fondest recollections are fragranced with yuletide’s annual treats, those fancy cookies and lovely cakes that beg us still to indulge each season. Along with those home-baked confections, carols, and of course, gift-giving form the cornerstones of so many of our holiday traditions.

So, while the season simply wouldn’t be as fond in memory without the scents and tastes we know and adore, there’s another truly handmade tradition to note. Each year, amongst the platters of sugar cookies, eggnog and rum drenched tortes, chances are there’s something handmade that’s serving to set a mood as holiday décor, and has been used as such for some time!

It’s often these decorations that are touchstones in memory; they’re the handmade something that comes out of its box in basement or attic year after year to stand sentinel to the season, again and again. The object—whatever it is—becomes dearer as the years accumulate along with the patina of age.

You must know something like that… something you recall from Christmases past and still might see on your mother’s hutch, mantel or Christmas dinner table?

For me it was a small hand-carved wooden Santa I played with each Christmas as a little girl. He slid down a thin spring only for me to pull him up and drop him time and again with his sack of toys into a flocked paper chimney. He was special to me because I played with him year after year while he was out of his storage box and displayed on the coffee table. I adored that this tiny handmade decoration waited for me, much like I waited for Christmas each year, a child truly smitten with the season.

Most of us – even if it was a decade or two ago – have made some kind of holiday decoration and kept it out of sentiment. Or maybe what we treasured most was something handmade and given to us as a gift …something for the home or tree that reflects the season and its sparkle.

Indeed, crafting for the season was de rigueur in the earliest of modern Christmas celebrations. The idea of gifts or decorations being mass-produced and widely available is something that has come late to this largely handmade holiday, and seems to miss the festivity’s spirit.

As gift-giving emerged as a tradition in Germany, Austria, and soon after in England, the dark evenings of fall and early winter were spent making special treats by hand to gift loved ones. Early American celebrations followed these Western European ways, and small wooden trinkets, knitted things and hand-cut paper whimsies were all common gifts to present as tokens of love and friendship at the holidays. How perfectly wonderful to still share something handmade; a simple gift from the hands is a gift from the heart.

As folks reach to preserve and refresh the tradition of handmade and add to our own Christmas memories, nothing could be more fitting for the holiday than the freshly repurposed crafts from Skippy Doodle Designs of Columbia, Connecticut. Crafting maven and designer Sue Parker concocts the sweetest of holiday décor from castoffs and vintage loot. In her merry and able hands everything from recycled cigar boxes, forgotten tree-trimming paraphernalia and even tinsel fragments find new life on her one of a kind assemblages.

Indeed, her studio reflects the North Pole as she merrily combines textures and objects creating a crop of new holiday décor that simply suits the season’s folly and joy. Among her favorite techniques are marrying disparate castoffs in color to tell a new story. In her able hands and with a dose of festive imagination, an oddball 1950s paper house might meet up with a lonely reindeer and become something more fitting in a frenzy of mica-drenched snow. Likewise, a wayward elf finds a new home among vintage bottle-brush trees and wee tarnished bells. Her pieces each tell a story of Christmas past with a nod to the freshness of recycling and renewed crafting traditions.

Handmade things hold all the joy and sentiment with which they were created. Season after season they can be visually relished, and then tucked away to keep the good memories in store for the next holiday. So, if you don’t have something handmade around the house to help celebrate the holiday, consider the handmade spirit of the season and reach for something – or gift something -- that can become dearer as it holds the memories of each annual celebration.

A New Heritage: Christmas with @mustloveherbs

Deep in the eastern Kentucky mountains Lauren of @mustloveherbs is creating a new style of heritage.

LAUREN, A TEACHER BY TRAINING, IS AN AVID BAKER, GARDENER AND FORAGER. Her New Heritage style of cooking embraces using ingredients at hand, while paying homage to tradition and old-fashioned simplicity. She loves spending her time reinventing traditional family recipes to fit today’s tastes and ingredients. Lauren’s kitchen garden not only feeds her household in the warm months, but also throughout the winter by utilizing many ancestral food preservation techniques.

Where do you live? Where did you grow up? I live in the Appalachian Mountains of Eastern Kentucky, in the same small town I’ve lived in all my life. My family’s roots in this area run over 200 years deep. The road I grew up on was actually named after my great-great-great-grandmother. 

Tell me a little about yourself. I grew up in an a very artistic family. My mother is a teacher with a degree in developmental psychology, and has a gift for decorating and making things beautiful. My father is a talented musician who owns a recording studio/production company. I grew up in a home with a beautiful garden, next door to my grandparents. My grandfather, Big Daddy, had an acre garden and a greenhouse; this is where my love of gardening started. My family spent a lot of time together. We were known to share multiple pots of coffee and stacks of magazines in the evenings.  I met my now-husband when I was a junior in high school. We have traveled, remodeled, and raised 5 wonderful pups together in our 13 years of marriage! So much of who I am now, I can attribute to his love and support. 

What role have food and cooking played in your life? When did you start cooking? I come from a long line of very good “country cooks” as well as professional bakers. I was taught at a very young age how to string beans and peel potatoes. My grandmother would put a chair at the kitchen sink for me while she cooked, and let me make my “stews” with scraps from whatever meal she was cooking. I truly felt like I was making something delicious along with her. As I got older, she taught me how to correctly make gravy and cornbread, along with countless other meals. 

Who taught you to cook? Was your family culinary? My maternal grandmother, Meme, taught me how to cook. My mother and father are both excellent cooks, but were afraid I would burn the house down. My grandmother often nearly burnt the house down herself, so that didn’t faze her. 

When did you first realize you had a passion for cooking? Around the age of 5. I have always been drawn to the kitchen. If someone was cooking, that was exactly where I wanted to be. Seeing someone stir a pan of gravy is almost hypnotic to me. 

What is it about food and cooking culture, or dining, that you love? I adore that we can share so much of who we are through cooking. Heritage is often spoken through a dish or while enjoying one. Cooking bonds people by allowing us to try new things together or to enjoy comfort foods that bring back the fondest of childhood memories.

How would you describe your cooking style? New Heritage -- country cooking that has been updated only when it needs to be, in order to adapt to today’s ingredients. 

Where do you find ideas and inspiration for your recipes? My biggest inspiration is my garden. In the winter this often means I pull out things I’ve stored from summer harvests or use what is in season, such as apples, root vegetables and cold-weather greens.  I am also heavily inspired by family recipes. Lately I have been doing my best to make my grandmother’s Christmas cookie recipes! They are a family tradition that I am determined to get right.

What is your favorite thing to cook for others? Bread. Whether it is cornbread, biscuits, focaccia or even a Babka, everyone loves bread! 

What is your favorite item in your kitchen? My favorite kitchen item is my grandmother’s cast iron skillet. It was originally my great-great-grandmother’s. She received it as a wedding gift in 1919. It has been passed down through the generations of our family ever since. 

What has been your biggest challenge with your cooking? Your biggest accomplishment? My biggest challenge has to be my newly-developed red meat allergy. Being Appalachian means that pork goes into nearly any dish. Cornbread is often made using bacon grease. Soup beans aren’t complete without a ham hock. Making all of my favorite meals taste just as good without using pork has been my proudest moment. Even my pork-loving momma said, “they taste just like Granny’s” when referring to my fresh green beans.

CHOCOLATE & PEPPERMINT BARK

Ingredients:

12 ounces semi sweet chocolate (chips or bars)

Chopped old fashioned peppermint candy sticks and/or candy canes

Holiday themed sprinkles

Directions:

Prepare a baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.

Melt the chocolate in a microwave-safe bowl using 30-second increments. Stir after each increment. When the chocolate is nearly all melted remove it from the microwave and continue to stir until it becomes smooth and glossy.

Pour the melted chocolate onto your prepared baking sheet and smooth it out until desired thickness is achieved.

Sprinkle the peppermint candies and sprinkles evenly over the melted chocolate. You may need to lightly press in some of the ingredients.

Allow the chocolate to cool at room temperature for 3-4 hours before breaking. You can also place in the fridge for 30 minutes if you are in a pinch.

Once completely hardened, carefully break apart the chocolate using your hands. Store in an airtight container until ready to serve or gift!

CRANBERRY, ROSEMARY & ORANGE CAKE WITH ORANGE CREAM CHEESE FROSTING

Ingredients for Cake:

⁃3 cups of flour + more for dusting

⁃1/2 tsp of Baking Soda

⁃1/2 tsp of Baking Powder

⁃1/2 tsp of Salt

⁃Zest of 3 oranges

⁃Juice of 1 orange

⁃Zest and juice of 1 lemon

⁃3/4 cup of buttermilk

-2 cups of cranberries

-2 sticks of butter (1 cup) at room temperature

⁃2 cups of sugar

⁃2 tsp of vanilla

⁃5 eggs

⁃2 tbs of fresh rosemary

Ingredients for Icing:

⁃2 cups of confectioners sugar

⁃4 oz. cream cheese at room temperature

⁃1/2 tsp vanilla extract

⁃3 tsp freshly squeezed orange juice.

Directions for Cake:

Preheat the oven to 350°.

Grease and flour your Bundt pan.

In a medium bowl combine 3 cups of flour, baking powder, baking soda & salt. In a small bowl combine the zest and juice of the oranges and lemon with the buttermilk. Set aside.

In a separate bowl add the cranberries and 2 tbs all purpose flour. Stir until all the cranberries are completely covered in flour. Set aside.

In your stand mixer cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add in the vanilla. Add the eggs in one at a time. After all eggs are added turn the mixer off and scrape the bottom and sides of the bowl making sure there isn’t any unmixed butter and sugar.

With the mixer on low add the buttermilk and flour mixtures to your butter & sugar mixture by alternating between flour and buttermilk until both are gone. Add the rosemary in and mix until evenly distributed.

Take the cranberry and flour mixture and fold it gently into your batter. Make sure the cranberries are even throughout the batter but do not over mix.

Pour the batter into your greased bundt pan and bake for about 40-45 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the middle of the cake comes out clean.

Allow the cake to cool in the pan for a minimum of 30 minutes. This is imperative to it coming out cleanly! After 30 minutes flip the cake out carefully onto a wire rack and allow to cool for another 30 minutes. While the cake cools you may prepare the icing.

Directions for Icing:

In a medium sized mixing bowl combine the confectioners sugar, cream cheese, vanilla and orange juice. Use an electric mixer on medium speed mixing thoroughly until icing is smooth and creamy. Add more juice 1/2 tsp at a time if the icing is too thick. Add powdered sugar in 1 tbs at a time if mixture is too runny. The consistency should be somewhere between a frosting and a glaze.

Spoon the icing evenly over the cake. It should spread nicely over the edges on its own.

FUDGE & ALMOND PINE CONES

Ingredients:

1 cup semi sweet chocolate chips

2 oz unsalted butter

Pinch of salt

7 oz sweetened condensed milk (1/2 a standard can)

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

2 cups sliced almonds

Directions: In a heat safe bowl combine the chocolate chips, butter, salt, condensed milk, and vanilla. Using the double boiler method, heat your ingredients. Be careful not to let the water touch the bottom of your bowl. Stir constantly until all the chocolate has melted and the mixture is smooth.

Take off heat immediately and place mixture in fridge to cool for 20-30 minutes.

The mixture should hold its form but still be moldable.

Form the chocolate mixture into a cone shape and place it on parchment paper. Begin sticking almonds into the bottom of the cone. Move your way up placing each row behind the next in an overlapping pattern until you reach the top. Place the finished pine cone in the fridge to set up for a minimum of 1 hour! Makes 15 pine cones! Recipe Can easily be doubled.

Around the Christmas Tree

An Essay by Ellen Tichenor

I suppose it all began a few years before my birth in 1952. My grandparents, Russell and Hilberta Pannett, were visiting a Christmas worship service where the altar table was adorned with a small tree branch wrapped in cotton and decorated. Russell leaned over to Hilberta and said, “If they could do that with a branch, we could probably do that with a whole tree.” I was told those were his words. Thus began the tradition of the “cotton” Christmas tree.

As long as I can remember, my family never had a normal evergreen like most families.But, the cotton tree was truly a family affair. I don’t remember how old I was when I first went with Daddy to cut down the sweet gum tree, for which we had been searching since early fall. Momma was always ready to get started immediately after Thanksgiving, after helping her mom, Hilberta, with her tree.

Each branch of the tree was carefully wrapped with a strip of quilting cotton. This was usually Momma’s job, but we all had our turn to help. Daddy’s job was to put on the lights-C7s, not the little mini lights used today. Next came the tinsel, or icicles, as you might call them. They were gently placed on each limb to cover the entire branch. Then the ornaments were carefully placed throughout the tree. Last of all we did “the bottom.”

My grandfather made a fence in which Momma placed a little village to the right of the trunk. A pebble path led across a bridge (placed over a mirror pond) to the manger scene on the left of the trunk. Newspapers were wadded, and a piece of quilting cotton laid over them for the snow on which the village and manger were placed.

For the entire month of December we had friends over every Sunday night after church to see the tree. Everyone would comment that it was even more beautiful and bigger than the year before. You see, nighttime was the best time to see it. The darkness from the picture window made the tinsel shimmer more brightly from the lights.Many pictures were taken of the tree, but none could capture the true beauty of it.

We didn’t know that the 1986 cotton tree would be the last one that Momma would ever do. She died just 2-3 weeks after Christmas. As far as I was concerned, this tradition died with her-too much trouble if you asked me!

As Christmas 1987 approached, my sister was planning a trip from her home in Indiana to wrap the tree. Over the past 18 years, she has used Mom’s decorations (even the same tinsel) to have a cotton tree in her home if it were big enough and time allowed. Four years ago, my brother’s children experienced this tree in his Utica home.

Despite my thoughts of a dying tradition, I too, will be proud to share a cotton tree with my friends and community this year. My new home will be featured on the Ohio County Hospital Auxiliary home tour December 4. However, the only place large enough for my tree is my bedroom! I am very excited about sharing this tradition, but this will be the last one for me!

Timeless & Classic: Christmas with KJP

No one does Christmas quite like Kiel James Patrick and Sarah Vickers.

I’M KIEL JAMES PATRICK, A BORN AND RAISED NEW ENGLANDER, FASHION DESIGNER, PHOTOGRAPHER, AND FAN OF ANYTHING OLD, TIMELESS AND CLASSIC. My wife Sarah and I formally launched our brand in 2007, but the dream that ultimately came to fruition as KJP began long before that. My high school, Bishop Hendricken, had a strict uniform policy that I just couldn’t abide by. Luckily for me, I was handed down my grandmother’s sewing machine. I started making fabric bracelets for my friends and me to wear under our uniforms. Man, I must have made at least a thousand of the first KJP bracelets on that machine.

Shortly after that, I met Sarah – we were two teenagers crazy in love, with big dreams. We’ve spent nearly every day together since then. We always had long conversations about where we saw ourselves in the future, and we kept returning to the idea of working for ourselves and creating something that was both unique and representative of our New England lifestyle. We are both avid collectors of vintage clothes, and our first foray into fashion was selling old clothing under the name Wicked Vintage. A lot of our original ideas for KJP were born out of that endeavor. Working with vintage fabrics and patterns, we were invigorated to try some new takes on classic fashion accessories.

We used any materials we could get our hands on at first: old ties, vintage pants, beat-up shirts, and of course rope, to design our accessories.

We’ve always had this untamed ambition and a steady sense that we’re living out our own version of the American Dream. Eventually, we hit our stride, and started our first KJP workshop in the space above my parents’ garage, hand-dyeing hundreds of ropes a day in old lobster pots we found in the attic. Thankfully for everyone’s sake and sanity, we’ve moved out of my parents’ garage, and now the lobster pots are reserved for Memorial Day Weekend.

In many ways, KJP has developed and matured alongside Sarah and me. When we first started out, we’d spend any free time we had at the beach, riding bikes in Nantucket, sailing in Newport, and having bonfires at Beavertail Park -- long summer days with the ocean as the backdrop to all our adventures.

That was reflected in the designs and products we were making at the time. Back in those days we were only an accessory company, focused on nautical “New Englandy” summer styles. Moving through life together, we grew, we changed, we became more well-rounded people and in turn a more well-rounded company. What you see from KJP now reflects where and who we are today. We have our own family with our own growing traditions. More than ever, we really highlight the four seasons that New England is famous for. Those breezy carefree days at the beach have blended into family beach adventures with sandcastles and lots of sunscreen.  And for every trip to Nantucket there are two trips to the mountains for a cozy cabin getaway. That’s why KJP nowadays reflects a total seasonal indulgence. The Cozy Cabin Collection is basically all the things we love to wear on leaf peeping trips, decorating the house for fall and winter, or spending the holidays with family and friends.

We still love our New England summers but it’s the cold weather months that spark that magic of our favorite seasons.

Our style has developed and really been influenced by my love and appreciation for art, particularly the art that’s inspired my photography, like that of Norman Rockwell and Thomas Kinkade. Their work embodies the ease with which you can get lost in a surreal scene. It’s probably why one of my favorite hobbies is going to antique stores, because there

I’m always finding little pieces of Americana that remind me of a painting, a Christmas card or a page from a book I grew up reading. I love that combination of familiar but fantastical. It’s a welcome escape from the craziness of today’s world, and definitely something I think of when we’re capturing and creating our own photos. When you look at one of our pictures, if it doesn’t take you away for a second and transport you that place and time with a warm feeling in your soul, then it’s not a picture worth remembering. I want to remember every photo I take these days.

My favorite Christmas tradition begins at Thanksgiving. Every year we go to my family’s cabin in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. After dinner we decorate the Christmas tree my parents planted in the yard when they bought the land. When Sarah and I started doing this, the tree came up to my waist. Now it’s about three times taller than I am.

We’ve had to keep buying bigger ladders as the tree grows. But my favorite part is that almost without exception, it snows there on Thanksgiving Day. It’s our oldest tradition as a couple and I really look forward to it. Then it’s a race back inside before my dad and brother eat all of the apple pie.

My favorite New England “staple” is, believe it or not, shoveling snow. I love layering up in the morning, throwing on our gloves and Bean boots and spending a couple hours in the cold tossing some snow around. The best part is leaving your wet clothes by the door while you warm up by the fire with a cup of hot chocolate.

My mom’s gingerbread cookies are easily my favorite Christmas food. My mom’s an amazing baker and she uses a gingerbread recipe from her mom. Every year she and I have a blind taste test to see who made the best gingerbread cookies. Some years she wins, some I win, and the loser always goes home a little bitter, but I guess they go home with gingerbread too, so it’s a pretty sweet consolation. As for my favorite Christmas song, that’s a very hard question! It has to be older than me to make the cut as a favorite, but if I had to pick one it would be “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” by Burl Ives.

That’s more than just a song for me, as it reminds me of being a kid in anticipation of Christmas and knowing this was the one time of year we could watch the Rudolph special on TV. My dad told us it was what he looked forward to most as a kid. No matter what was going on, we watched it as a family together, and to this day we still wait until we’re all together to watch it. Now when the song comes on the radio, I get a kick out Harry singing the same song his dad and grandfather sang joyfully as kids.

Sarah and I got married at Christmastime 2015 at Henry’s Christmas Tree Farm. Henry’s is a special place to us that we’ve been visiting since we were teenagers, and there was never any doubt that’s where we were going to get married. We got our Christmas wish and it snowed just enough on our wedding day to cover the whole farm in a light hue of green and white. It’s definitely my most precious Christmas memory.

Christmas has a way of freezing time. A certain song comes on the radio, or you’re looking out the window when it starts to snow and just for a second you think you might be ten years old again. It doesn’t matter how many years go by, I love watching the same movies, putting up the family’s old ornaments, and even eating the same pot roast I’ve pretended to like for the last 30 years. Tradition is what I look forward to most about Christmas; to me, it IS Christmas. Now, the best part is I get to see it all over again through Harry’s eyes.

Celebrating is going to be a little different this year, but the best parts of Christmas have always been the simple things and I’m really thankful we can still do those. I love driving around the neighborhood to see everyone’s decorations, setting up the projector for Christmas movie marathons, wearing all my classic Christmas sweaters, and drinking too much eggnog with my family. I’ve got everything I need to celebrate right at home.

It's Spectacular: Christmas in New York City with @ethanbarber.co

Christmas in New York City is unlike anywhere else in the world. Ethan Barber shares his memories and images from past years of merry moments.

GROWING UP AS A KID IN CENTRAL NEW JERSEY, DAY TRIPS TO NEW YORK CITY WERE A FAIRLY COMMON OCCURRENCE. My family’s annual Christmas trip to the City however, was by-far my favorite of them all. As far back as I can remember, December has always been synonymous with New York. I can still vividly recall a childhood moment of holding my mom’s hand while walking up 34th Street—the blistering, cold wind stung whatever small peeks of my face were still visible behind layers of my favorite scarf and Carhartt hat.

While the long days of walking around Midtown would quickly switch from fun to exhausting, the magic flowing through the City always made up for it. From the moment I emerged off the escalator at Penn Station on to 7th Avenue, I could physically feel a shift. Car horns were blaring, Christmas music was flowing in the background, and people were rushing in all directions. From the edge of Central Park and the tree at Rockefeller Center, to the Empire State Building and Macy’s on 34th, down Broadway into Soho and even further still; Manhattan was always full of people rushing to get their gifts and souvenirs. While the smell of candied nuts overpowered the city air, an inexplicable energy swirled around me—one that could only be best described as the magic of Christmas—just like in those cheesy Hallmark movies

Ultimately, I think it was these annual trips into the City at the holidays that inspired me to work towards being based in the City full-time. While I love the City and it continues to be the main source of my creative inspiration, I think I’ll always be a Jersey boy at heart. (It’s likely the root of why I refuse to move into New York City proper—I just can’t let go of my suburban roots on the west side of the Hudson!)

My current office is based in Soho, the neighborhood where I derive the most inspiration for my work. From historic cast irons to cobblestone streets, I’m drawn to the most minute details—they don’t make ‘em like they used to!

If you wander into the city on the right winter day, you just might be lucky enough to catch a passing flurry or the beginning of a strong, winter storm. Seeing whirlwinds of snow rush across the historic facades of Soho up to the towering skyscrapers of Midtown is without comparison—just mind your hands and face, or you might catch a touch of frostbite!

Always Cozy: Christmas with @keeleymckendree

Keeley McKendree (@keeleymckendree) has created a cozy cottage world that comes to life with the Christmas season and spirit.

I LIVE IN A COZY COTTAGE NESTLED OUT IN THE COUNTRY IN THE BEAUTIFUL STATE OF NORTH CAROLINA, with my husband, Nick, and our two cats, Arnold and Lenny. I’m a maker, creator, gardener, baker, and lover of all things cozy and vintage.

Gosh, there is so much I love about Christmas! At the top of my list are the cozy, warm feelings that Christmas brings, and all the time spent with family. At Christmastime, everything just seems so magical and happy. Even simple housekeeping tasks seem almost joyful by the warm, peaceful glow of the Christmas tree. The fun little activities, like baking and making crafts together, are special to my close-knit family.

I have so, so many favorites Christmas memories! When I was growing up, Thanksgiving night was the kickoff to the season. My daddy would drag in all the Christmas boxes from our storage shed and put on Christmas music. My mama, brother, and I would go to town decorating the house and putting up the tree! I also remember decorating my grandparents’ and Granny’s house for the season. They had a huge, white two-story house, and we decorated their staircase with a collection of vintage elves my MawMaw and Granny had. Every year, we’d wrap the garland around the railing and line the elves up the railing.

Those elves were my most favorite Christmas decoration ever, and still are. My mama has them now, and she sets them on her mantel in a sleigh. 

Every Christmas morning, my daddy would wake us up at about 5 am with a singing Tigger Santa -- Tigger from Winnie the Pooh, dressed up like Santa, singing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”!  The four of us, my parents, my brother, and I, would spend Christmas morning together. Then we’d head to my grandparents’ and Granny’s house for our big extended family Christmas with a huge breakfast and lots of presents. I will never forget feeling swallowed by all the wrapping paper and toys everywhere! My MawMaw and Granny were very, very important women to me, and they have unfortunately passed away. But every year when I’m decorating my house or baking my Christmas treats, I feel them right there with me! They loved the holidays so much.

Nick and I have our own set of Christmas traditions now. Every December 23, we begin our three-day Christmas-palooza! During that day, we celebrate our little Christmas together — me, Nick, and our fur babies, Arnold and Lenny. Nick and I bake treats together, open presents, drink lots of coffee and hot chocolate, watch Christmas movies, and let our kitty babies open their gifts. They’re always far more fascinated with the paper than the toys!

On Christmas Eve, Nick’s mom makes us a yummy supper, and we open gifts and visit with family and friends. Then on Christmas Day, we wake up super-early and head to my parents’ house. My mama makes breakfast, we watch A Christmas Story, and enjoy the morning together. And of course, the family pup, Nestor, gets to open all his little gifts. Then we head to my PawPaw’s house and gather with my aunts, uncles and cousins to eat lunch, open presents and spend the afternoon together. On Christmas night, Nick and I make Christmas dinner for my parents and my brother. When everyone has left for the night, Nick and I snuggle up on the couch with our fur babies for some decaf coffee and reminisce about the wonderful day.

Over the past few years, my source of Christmas inspiration has been more of a “feeling”, as opposed to specific visual images: I like to think about old-fashioned Christmases. What would Christmas have looked like in an old country farmhouse 100 years ago? It always strikes me as something natural, simple, and cozy. Always cozy! I roll that around in my head, and just imagine how I can keep it simple. From there, I’ll use Pinterest to search for “simple Christmas” or “natural Christmas” ideas. Usually, I come across an image that inspires me, like a naked Christmas tree with just lights, against a window with a candle in it. I think about how I can recreate that look and that cozy feeling of pure happiness and calm that the image elicited.

I’m a music junkie, and Christmas music is no exception! I adore anything Elvis sings, especially his versions of “Here Comes Santa Claus” and “Silver Bells”. Oh, and I can’t leave out “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch”! I do love that! My favorite Christmas movie is another hard choice. But I’m going to have to say the original How the Grinch Stole Christmas cartoon. And my family never missed watching Rudolph or Frosty on TV. As for my favorite Christmas food, that’s an easy one! Hands down, my mama’s stuffing balls! The recipe was my MawMaw’s, and now my mama carries on the tradition.

This Christmas, despite all the difficulties this year has presented, I am hopeful that we can still celebrate with family. We all might be wearing masks and keeping our social distance, but the room will still be filled with love, happiness, and thankfulness!

Merry & Bright: Christmas with Hayes Cottage

Amy Whyte takes us inside her home filled with vintage Christmas finds and festive good cheer!

I LIVE IN LEESBURG, VIRGINIA WITH MY HUSBAND AND SON, AND OUR THREE DOGS AND NINE CHICKENS. When we first discovered our home in Leesburg, it had been abandoned for 10 years and was in very rough shape. We spent a year fixing it up and moved in 2012. It’s still a work in progress, but I love our home and it’s my favorite place to be. We also have a little cottage in the mountains not far from our home that we are in the process of restoring (@hayes.cottage).

I’ve been part of the Old Lucketts Store since we opened in 1996. At Lucketts, I spend most of my time transforming the Design House, an old farmhouse on the property, with décor and treasures both old and new. I also perform design work on the side.

I love old houses and antique furniture...basically, all things vintage! I have found joy in making spaces beautiful since I was a child. I first started collecting in earnest when I began going to local auctions for my shop. I caught the auction bug fast! There was nothing like the thrill of sorting through rows and rows of treasures at a beautiful old farm. The first thing I started collecting was vintage textiles. I am a textile junkie! Vintage cabbage rose bark cloth, Beacon blankets, old plaid wool blankets, timeworn ticking remnants, classic white pillowcases with sweet crocheted edges... these all make my heart go pitter-pat! For a while, my taste took a turn toward shades of white, but lately I’ve felt a return to my roots of all things color.

My favorite places to hunt for vintage treasures are the Old Lucketts Store and Hip and Humble Interiors in Berryville, Virginia. You never know what you are going to find at either of those places, and they are constantly bringing in fresh stocks of cool old finds at great prices! When I go hunting or picking, I like to make a day of it... I load up all three dogs in the car, hit the local country roads and shops, and try to end the day with a hike at the State Arboretum.

For Christmas, I collect old plaid wool blankets, folky farmhouses, and old toy trucks. I like to decorate for Christmas by bringing greens in from the yard. I take clippings from the pine trees and boxwood shrubs and place them over picture frames or in big bowls around the house. To me, the smell of fresh pine in my home just says Christmas. It’s so simple, and instantly transforms everyday objects into Christmas decor.

For anyone who wants to start collecting, whether at Christmastime or throughout the year, my advice is quite simple: just buy what you love. If it speaks to you, then bring it home! Fill your space with what fills you.

Personally, I don’t feel that I have a particular collecting or decorating style; I just collect what I love. I can say that I am inspired by color and nature. Right now, I’m really into shades of green and brown, and am starting to collect pieces of pottery and transferware in those shades.

My favorite memory of Christmas is a recent one – I love recalling the way we spent the holiday last year. It just didn’t seem right to let our little fixer-upper cottage sit alone on Christmas. So, we packed up a tree, a Crock Pot and a bottle of wine and headed up to the cottage for the day. We clipped branches from the yard and decorated the front door and mantel. We put lights on the tree and made a fire. We had our Crock Pot dinner in deck chairs by the fire. It was simple and quiet and peaceful -- perfect. This year we hope to do the same thing!

— @amycwhyte

Christmas will always be as long as we stand heart to heart and hand in hand.

­— Dr. Seuss

Homestead: Christmas with @underatinroof

Under a Tin Roof (@underatinroof) shares Christmas memories and traditions from the Iowa farm she and her family call home.

GROWING UP, CHRISTMAS WAS A MAGICAL EXPERIENCE MADE UP BY ALL OF ITS SHINY BAUBLES AND ORNAMENTS, the glitter and the flashy wrapping papers. I spent most of my Christmas holidays walking down Michigan Avenue in Chicago and staring with wonder at the decorated windows of Marshall Fields. It was mesmerizing and beautiful to me as a child, and for that, I will always be grateful. Now that I am an adult, I’ve turned to a more simplistic way of living. Christmas is not as shiny and high-strung as before; rather, it feels as if we’ve stepped back in time.

When we bought our Iowa farm several years ago, never having farmed or homesteaded before, we made the decision as a family to live a more sustainable and wholesome lifestyle by cutting out the unnecessary. We loved the idea of an old-fashioned Christmas. You’ll find our packages wrapped in brown paper we’ve saved all year long, our wreaths and garlands are fresh from local farms and our own yard, and we decorate with natural materials that we’ve foraged like pinecones and bittersweet.

We make time for family activities rather than spending all of our time hunting for the perfect gift. While we will still always spend a day or two holiday shopping for the thrill of the season, my hope as a parent is to spend our wintry days baking cookies and sweet breads, decorating the tree, and snuggled up with a warm cup of homemade chocolate listening to a favorite Christmas record. To us, family is everything, and we hope to pass that down to our children as well, when they move on to their own homes and families.

On the homestead, the winter months bring a period of rest. It is about keeping warm. We pile the bedding high in the chicken coop and hang a wreath of evergreens on the door for a touch of fun. The field is tucked in under a blanket of snow and compost to prepare the beds for the spring season. We spend our days by the fire inside, working with our hands yet again on projects we cannot seem to get to when the weather is warm: knitting hats and gloves, decorating our home, and sewing up clothing and quilts. The larder, where we keep the delicious food we grew and preserved over the summer, is slowly but surely emptied ready to be restocked in early summer. Our Christmas supper table is graced by the animals we raised and butchered in the fall, and we say many thanks over what was sacrificed and harvested. Gifts are made with our hands, tied in twine and scrap pieces of fabric. We make new traditions to pass down to our children from the old ones of generations past.

I am not sure that we will ever leave our home here on the farm. Because we live in the beautiful, hilly countryside of southeastern Iowa, we are graced each winter with the gorgeous cover of snow on the rolling fields. We are lucky to live in a place that honors the traditions of older generations, where food is still canned and preserved and cooked upon the stove at home. Christmas makes the place we live even more special, as we gather with friends and neighbors to celebrate the season and say a blessing for the year ahead. I do not know of anything more wondrous and magnificent!

Pass It On: Christmas Cards with Earth Angels Studios

Jen O'Connor educates us on the history of Christmas postcards.

TRADITIONS, ART, AND LITERATURE ARE LADEN WITH BIRDS who carry meaning in the use of their images or are said to bring a message with their appearance.

A favorite Celtic tale documents the annual feud of the Holly King – winter’s Wren, and the Oak King – summer’s Robin, and their exchange of season and power. Another tale tells of the Robin as the bird in the manger who fanned the flames to warm the Christ child, burning his breast red in the effort. And those are just two among a myriad of folkloric tales in which Robins appear. Suffice to say... Robins have earned their place in story and memory.

Antique postcards from the Christmas and winter season often showcase Robins. Indeed, Robins – like the darling red-breasted English Robins on these cards dating from 1901-1916 – are among the birds that have a huge number of symbolic meanings attached to them. Robins are said to mean everything from good luck and spiritual renewal, to representing an omen of change.

The sending of holiday cards was extremely popular in Victorian England where predominantly German-printed cards and postcards were used to send holiday greetings. Interestingly, the mail carriers wore bright red uniforms and were nicknamed “Robins”. In a nod to this and in the whimsy of adding yet another symbol to the Robins who appear at this time of year, artists and illustrators took to adorning holiday cards with Robins; a double-entendre of Robins as messengers of the season in folklore and in the common parlance of the daily mail delivery!

In the United States, printed postcards flourished in the marketplace following the Private Mailing Card Act of Congress, passed in 1898. This made the cost of sending a postcard just one penny—instead of the two-cent letter rate—and allowed private publishers to print cards. German companies made exquisitely printed cards for export and American printers expanded with more readily available lithographic-produced cards that could be purchased and then be stamped with a one-cent stamp sold by the US Postal Service and its agents. With the post delivered twice a day in cities and more populated areas, postcards were much like today’s quick text to confirm a meeting, ask a question or send a note of regard.

Seasonal themed cards proliferated for daily correspondence. They were not used to extend what we think of as traditional season’s greetings, or as formal Christmas cards.  Instead, holiday-themed cards were used for regular correspondence during the holiday season. So, even more than 100 years later, these cards were so common that they are still easy enough to find and remain an affordable seasonal treat and are lovely to collect. They are not only charming in appearance, but a quick read of the messages on them reveals a peek into the daily life of those long ago.

Robins – perhaps because they are so easily identifiable and so prevalent – carry more meaning for many of us than most of their winged counterparts. Setting tale and theory aside, they make a lovely statement of the season’s hues, and herald a vintage-style nod to the lovely tradition of sending a thoughtful greeting.

The Wise Men Smelled Like Smoke

THERE IS AN OLD JOKE THAT ASKS, “do you know why the wise men smelled like smoke?” Of course the answer is, “because they came from afar.” In my area of the country, the word “fire” often sounds more like “far”.

Another version of the joke tells of the traveler passing through a small town during the Christmas season. This particular town had the tradition of displaying a live nativity scene on the city square. The traveler stopped to admire the scene and reflect on the real meaning of Christmas but found this scene to be a bit different from normal. The “usual suspects” were on display: Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, an angel, shepherds and even a donkey and a sheep. What made this a most unique nativity scene was the presence of three firefighters, all decked out in their bunker gear. The visitor turned to a local and inquired as to the reason for having firefighters in the display of the Holy Birth. The local fellow answered, “Why, stranger, don’t you recognize them? They are the wise men.” To that, the traveler responded, “The wise men? Why are they in firefighting gear?” “Don’t you know your Bible? It plainly says ‘they came from afar.’”

This leads to my small town and church Christmas pageants. No, we didn’t exactly replay “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” with the Herdmans, but we did have a similar version one year.

My hometown boasted a population of 300 in the 1960s and that figure hasn’t changed much since. Although small in number of people, there have always been an abundance of small churches. My home is Centertown United Methodist Church. Much like our town, my congregation is relatively small in number. That never hindered the production of a Christmas pageant each year.

The year was about 1964 or ‘65, as I recall. I was about 10 years old and not quite old enough to be a member of what was then known as MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) so I landed a lesser role in the play. I think that was the year I had a non-speaking part as an angel in the nativity scene that unfolded as the program progressed. My older brother, Ronnie, played the innkeeper. He was 16 and probably thought he had outgrown church Christmas plays and was “too busy” to bother with rehearsals. The night of the production he did show up and gave the performance of a lifetime…all without rehearsals and therefore, ad lib. It was truly a great performance that nearly stole the show.

Remember, I said nearly. My sister, Janet, played the role of Mary. Her best friend, Vicky, was the angel who appeared to Mary. “Hell, Mary!” she exclaimed. As you can imagine, that had the entire cast in stitches every rehearsal. She, of course, was supposed to say “Hail, Mary!” but it always came out like “hell”. Rehearsals invariably had a friendly argument between Mary and the angel.

“Vicky! The word is hail, not hell.”

“That’s what I’m saying. ‘Hell’, Mary.”

That went on for a couple of rounds before an adult stepped in to move forward with rehearsal. All the while we younger kids were taking our places in the manger scene at the appropriate point in the story. As most 7-11 year olds, we found it difficult to keep from giggling all the time anyway. Our angel proclaiming hell and our ad lib proficient innkeeper only gave us fodder for laughter.

We made it through the acting portion of the program and then prepared for the grand finale…our youth choir concert. We prepared several traditional Christmas carols and had settled into a more serious mood. A couple of ladies had taken sheets of crepe paper and made choir robes for all the young people. We assembled in the pulpit area and arranged ourselves into the practiced formation of a Christmas tree. A few select “branches” carried small candles to serve as lights on the tree. All went well as we sang “Away in a Manger” and “Silent Night” in our best angelic voices. The candle-bearers had been well-coached and no candle came close to the paper robes. Since I was one of the younger and smaller singers, I didn’t carry a candle.

A fellow classmate of mine, Kathy, did, however. She stood behind me and followed directions carefully. She did not let her candle get near her robe nor mine. She held it high enough to be seen but by the time we sang “sleep in heavenly peace” the final time, her arm apparently got tired and she had lowered her candle to a point right behind my head…and a bit too close. My hair, in some recollections, caught fire. Mom played piano for us and as soon as the last note was played she saw what was happening. She quickly jumped up and “patted” my head to keep the fire from burning my scalp. I didn’t realize what had happened but did notice an odd smell. Although my head didn’t actually burst into flames, it did singe the hair on the back of my head enough that I had quite a bald spot for some time.

Needless to say, now we never use real candles in such a manner. Our Christmas pageants may not have as much flair (or maybe that should be flare) but the tradition of small town church Christmas plays continues. Strains of “Away in a Manger” and “Silent Night” often mix with more contemporary carols but the spirit stays the same. We all probably grumbled about having to be in those productions each year but I’m willing to bet every one of us will have to admit that some of our best childhood memories center on those rehearsals and presentations…complete with shepherds in bathrooms.

I may not have been a wise man/woman but I definitely smelled like smoke!

The Best Santa

A love of Santas becomes a collection. By Sharon Schwalbach

Santa Photo: @ryaninmanphoto

YEARS AGO, I’M THINKING AROUND 40 YEARS OR SO, MOST EVERYONE HAD SOME SORT OF COLLECTION, SPECIFIC COLLECTIONS. Some collected salt dips or butter molds, maybe baskets or pewter. It wasn’t so much like the collections of today where you have a few of a special type of antique or vintage item that you choose selectively to add to your home, I’m talking a collection. I think that might be defined as many, like maybe a hundred or more. I know many of you remember those days, and for those of you who don’t, it was real. I chose to collect Santas and all who knew that seemed to find one more unique than the one before, just for me. I purchased some myself but many of them were gifted to me by family and friends. Each year I emptied a big cupboard to make room for them all to be displayed. I found so much joy each year in unwrapping each one and remembering where he was discovered or who gifted him to me.

There were so many Santas that held a special meaning, invoking thoughts of those who had gifted each one. Some were more special than others, much like many things to all of us, but one of my Santas was the most special of all. My Dad was always on a mission to find me an antique that he knew I would love, and he was so very good at it. From a wonderful old Hoosier cupboard and later the bread board with the shoofly to display on such cupboard. The two of us were junking when I purchased my very first memorable antique, a #3 salt glaze bee sting crock. I was 18, didn’t really have the $5 they were asking. Dad offered them $4. They accepted and that crock is a treasure to me still today.

I still hold dear the memory of the day he dropped in with the brown paper bag, handing it to me with a grin and an “I think you’ll like it”. I opened with anticipation.  A bit tattered and torn. A smudge of age here and there. An arm with a bell in the hand that no longer was able to animate as the motor was worn out. Shiny little black boots and the sweetest of faces. His beard was less than perfect and his cap a bit askew but to me he was the most perfectly beautiful Santa I had ever seen.

Each Christmas I take this special Santa from the tissue he’s wrapped in and most often a tear falls.  He finds a special place to sit to enable him to view those who surround him and all the holiday happenings. The happenings of a family enjoying life and its offerings. A son and daughter, the grands and all the extensions. A family who misses their Patriarch, each and every day, but most especially over the Holidays. Thirty years have passed and Dad has been gone 25 of those 30 years. He left us at 62 years young. He spent his last Christmas in the ICU waiting for a heart transplant, a heart he would never receive. I like to believe that there just wasn’t one out there quite good enough for him. Yes, that’s what I believe. I also believe that somehow through the eyes of my special Santa, Dad sees it all and the love he created. Through the eyes of that tattered and torn, but still so perfect Santa with the sweetest of faces. The Santa gifted to a daughter who loved him more. The Best Santa ever.

Eliza Meets Santa: Christmas with Christie Jones Ray

a Christmas story by Christie Jones Ray

THERE WAS A VISIT TO NEW YORK CITY FOR ELIZA THE MOUSE to attend a performance of the The Nutcracker Ballet. She had always dreamed of being a ballerina, but alas, her feet were too wide, her ears were too big, and as hard as she tried, she could not twirl. But oh how she had loved watching the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy...and would dream big dreams sleeping in the ballet slippers worn by a real ballerina.

The next day, we made our way to the Plaza Hotel to see Santa Claus. Little Eliza had quite a conversation with Santa, sitting in his gloved hand, whispering into his ear all her hopes and dreams...her pink whiskers mingling with his whiskers of white.

I enjoyed a conversation with that jolly elf, myself. We sat upon the chaise, there, talking for quite some time, and I found myself believing in him all over again. Upon our arrival back home to Tennessee, I relayed to my friends and family, “this Santa is the REAL one!” He had listened to me tell all about my toy mouse...for it really is all about her....and I had given him my card.

I didn’t need his, because we ALL know where to find HIM! Anyway, I shared that we lived in Franklin, Tennessee, and silly me, asked if he had ever been there, to which he replied “I’ve been everywhere...” Well goodness gracious, of course he has!

We had been fortunate to have such a long chat as it was mid-afternoon, and there was a lull in the stream of visitors. He was smitten with Eliza and told the photographer to make sure she could see her. To my delight, he had been the one to ask to hold her. As I reflect upon that visit, I wonder...do we all just turn into little girls and boys when we sit and talk with Santa? He was as wonderful as all of you have always hoped he’d be!

What a magical time we enjoyed there in the city that never sleeps...where little girl dreams do come true at Christmas.

This is the illustration I created based on the photo of that visit, and it is included in the pages of my book, Eliza Visits the Ballet. — christiejonesray.com

Sweet Christmas Traditions with @tifforelie

an essay by Tiffany Mitchell

CHRISTMAS IS A TIME FOR TRADITIONS.  I grew up in a two family home in the suburbs of northeastern New Jersey where Christmas was the event of the year.  Birthdays were fun, Thanksgiving was exciting, but Christmas was the big deal - the major deal.  Our traditions started on Christmas Eve.  The whole family would gather at my aunt’s house where we would play games, eat, do the “cousins grab bag”, eat some more, and sing Happy Birthday to my aunt (who was born on Christmas Eve).  At midnight, everyone would trek out to the front yard in the freezing cold where we would complete the nativity scene with a baby doll and sing Happy Birthday to Jesus.  We would then sing carols until us “kids” began sneaking off one by one either out of fatigue, or the desire to avoid scaring any more of the neighbors.

Getting home from the Christmas Eve party was a tradition in and of itself.  Whoever snuck away first would arrive at the house and ascend the stairs to our second story living room where they would be met with the warm glow of a fully decorated Christmas tree and the familiar scent of pine needles.  Christmas morning was only hours away and even though as adults we don’t experience it the same way we did when we were kids, it’s somehow just as magical.

I’ve always been the first to wake up on Christmas morning.  My mom had a rule not to wake her until 7:30, so my 3 siblings and I would tackle the stockings while we waited for her to join us.  Once we were all up, we would open one gift each (in age order) until we ran out of presents.  At that point we were both starving and exhausted, so lots of eating and napping followed.

We’ve done the same thing every year for as long as I can remember.  Without those traditions, I don’t think Christmas would have been the grand occasion my family made of it.  When my husband and I moved to Lexington a year ago, we had only been married 2 years and were looking to start holiday traditions of our own.  This will be our 4th Christmas together and it still feels like we’re starting from square one.  Maybe it takes a few years before a tradition actually starts to take root.

Each year we’ve added something new.  The first year it was visiting our families.  The second year it was making hot cocoa from scratch.  Last year we visited our families, made the cocoa and took funny Christmas card pictures of our cat.  This year we’ll be adding something to complement the cocoa - sugar cookies!  Our traditions seem so simple, but I guess that’s how all great traditions start out, right?

Bringing Back the Magic of Christmas

An essay by Melissa McArdle

WHEN SHE THINKS OF CHRISTMAS, I want shimmering stars, scents of evergreen, warm cups of hot chocolate, and rooms filled with jolly laughter to fill her mind. Cozy blankets wrapped around our shoulders as we read classic tales beside the roaring flames of a burning fire. The tingling trace of pure peppermint oil as she continuously licks the stick of chalky peppermint candy, the old-fashioned kind that my great-grandfather used to fill his shirt pocket with and hand out as if we won the jackpot of tasty bliss. Afternoons spent in the kitchen preparing baked goods with our own hands, chasing flour clouds in the air, decorating our noses with buttercream icing, and giggling non-stop from the sugar high. Choosing the tree we know needs the most tender loving care because no one else would have it…channeling A Charlie Brown Christmas. Creating gifts for those we love, cherish and hold dear to our hearts, gifts that mean something and have a story we want to share. Decorating our tree with offerings from nature, garland strung of cranberries, pinecones hand-painted with glitter, leaves gilded golden, and mistletoe hung in all the right places.

Christmas is meant to be magical. The very roots of Christmas are considered other-worldly. When did we lose touch with this magic? For me, it is vital to plant the seeds of wonderland in her mind, fill her thoughts and soul with the simple beauties of giving with love, receiving with pure gratitude, and absorbing the true essence of the season. A season meant to be filled with joy and peace. She is young, she is impressionable, and now is the time to engrave the pureness of Christmas onto her heart. Lists can be made, but let’s allow those lists to be filled with good tidings, wishes for others and special achievements, and prayers of hope for better tomorrows. She is my one and only, and I have vowed to bring back the magic of Christmas. So far, her enthusiasm for painting cut-out stars, singing “O Holy Night”, and running with wild abandon through a Christmas tree farm lead me to believe I’m on the right track.

O Christmas Tree

A lifetime of plastic-fake Christmas trees makes way for the annual Christmas tree cutting trip.

IN KENTUCKY, YOU DON’T REALLY HAVE THE LUXURY OF FRESH CHRISTMAS TREES. The stories I’ve heard about people going out to the old mine lands and cutting a cedar tree truly confuse me. Every cedar tree I’ve ever known has bent and bowed with the addition of even the lightest ornament or light. I’ve also learned that pine trees, while pretty, aren’t particularly shaped to be a Christmas tree. Beyond those two imperfect choices, you are pretty much left with “fake” down here in the Bluegrass State. Today, the options for fake trees are endless, but twenty years ago, the stereotypical cone-shaped green fake tree was all that could be found.

I believe there is a real science to fake Christmas tree development.  Right now, as you read this, there is someone in a lab (yes, a literal laboratory) creating more advanced fake Christmas tree varieties and technologies. In some small way, those people will change the world. However, on countless farms across the country at this very minute families are celebrating the time-honored tradition of cutting their family Christmas trees. In a world where chocolate and vanilla soft serve can swirl out of the same machine, I believe we have a place for both fake and real Christmas trees. This year I have already put up ten fake trees, and before it is over there will be at least one real one in the mix.

I grew up in the 90s with strictly the fake variety of Christmas tree, for the reasons explained above. In Kentucky, we simply didn’t have fresh tree farms, and even the Boy Scouts quit selling them down in front of the grocery stores sometime around 2000. Ours was a Walmart special bought in 1994 at the Walmart that is now a Mexican restaurant in town. It claims to be a six-foot tree, according to its box, but you and I both know it is a five-foot tree at the very most. That extra foot of alleged height only comes into play if you stretch, pull, and fluff that long branch on the very top like Alfalfa’s hair in The Little Rascals. That tree is currently displayed next to a bright green velvet sectional in my backroom. It is looking rough after twenty-five years, but is still going strong.

There is one place in our town that does sell live Christmas trees, but they truck them in from Alabama, which feels weird to me. I’ve only ever bought one tree from there, but I do highly recommend their fruit baskets. However, each year I do buy a live tree, be it at a random tree farm out in the country or somewhere in the Catskills. I wouldn’t say I am a Christmas tree expert by any means, but I have learned a few things over the years.

My first lesson, and one I still don’t fully understand the logic of, was the lesson I learned the year I cut down a tree for a photoshoot, but forgot that I had to actually buy it. Somewhere it escaped me that I had to take the tree home with me until it was being stuffed into my car for the forthcoming two-hour drive. I’m not sure whatever happened to that tree. I think we ended up keeping it until June to use for crafts.  I guess the moral of the story is, make sure you have the right vehicle to transport your tree home, and a place to put it once you get there.

Another lesson was: just don’t buy a blue spruce. One year before I knew better, I was really specific that I wanted a tree that looked like it belonged in Martha Stewart Living. For the record, blue spruce isn’t one of those, but I was cold and hungry and just ready to cut anything I saw. If a porcupine could be made into a Christmas tree, it would be a blue spruce. Spruce needles became literal needles as they dried. Skip the blue spruce. Just skip the blue spruce.

There is something magical about a live Christmas tree. It is equal parts nostalgia for the images of the past, and the general peer pressure that the perfect Christmas must include a live Christmas tree. Homespun Christmas trees bedecked with homemade ornaments and shiny glass balls fill the photos of the past, making us feel that to achieve the perfect Christmas, we must have our own photo-worthy tree.

If I were to offer any form of advice for cutting a live tree it would be to be realistic about the size, and to measure – both your home and your potential tree. Your living room is a much smaller scale than what a tree looks like on a farm. It is way too easy to end up cutting a tree that you think will be perfect in your living room with its eight-foot ceilings, only to find you’ve cut a ten-foot tree.

I do believe that there is magic in the annual trip to the tree farm: the search for the perfect tree, the thrill of cutting it yourself using the hand saw, carrying it to that silly little machine that cuts off all the extra branches and wraps it in netting, and figuring out how to best secure the tree to your roof with the hope it won’t launch into oncoming traffic, Final Destination-style, as you head down the New York State Thruway at ninety miles an hour. The magic is especially tangible in those years when snow is on the ground, the sky is grey, and the chilly weather is just right. The year I took these photos we were lucky enough to find that true magic. These were taken at Bell’s Tree Christmas Tree Farm near Accord, New York.

I used to believe that a tree had to look perfect; it had to be Martha Stewart Living-level perfection. Yes, that is a common theme in my belief systems. Over the years though, I’ve realized I like trees that just feel good. Over-the-top trees that look like art installations or a clearance sale at the Hobby Lobby are fantastic and awe-inspiring, but I think the magic is in the idea that the tree is an altar to all the ornaments and memories it supports.

Many of us get lost in the quest for the perfect Christmas. We have somehow convinced ourselves that everything has to be across-the-board perfect. For many of us, we also don’t have a clue what that perfection looks like, yet we ruin the season and the holiday while on that fruitless quest. We are just racing and searching for a goal that isn’t even real. I’ve learned that Christmas is a season much more than it is a day. It is a vestige of an era where we lived slow, lived authentically, lived within our communities, and lived as families and neighbors. Christmas, in my opinion, extends well beyond the religious connotations that are oftentimes connected with it, and represents a more universal set of ideals. I’ve learned that for me, the secret to enjoying Christmas is stripping away the pomp and circumstance of perfection and truly enjoying what makes you happy during the season…be it 50 pounds of pralines and fudge, a half-dozen fake Christmas trees, an endless supply of Cozy Cabin sweaters and socks, sneaking candies from tins in the side room, seeing Santa up on the top floor at Macy’s after a stroll through Rockefeller Plaza, a trip to the Christmas tree farm, retelling the stories of cussing angels, sending cards, or simply enjoying the season with family and friends.

This year, whether it be a brand new fake tree, a worn-out fake tree, a grocery store variety “live” tree, or a freshly-cut farm tree, I urge everyone to create a Christmas tree and a Christmas season that make you happy, but for the love of God, don’t get a blue spruce.

The Coming of Fall

An Essay by Ruth Barnes

The end of Summer is approaching and I don’t remember when it began. As I sit looking out of the window, watching the leaves on the huge oak tree turning colors before my eyes, my mind wanders to another time. A time when this large oak tree was just starting its new life. Oh, the stories this tree could tell. As Fall approaches, the leaves on the old oak tree are preparing for the next season. They will slowly change color, starting with a beautiful yellow, and moving on to a golden amber. When the sun’s rays hit these beautiful leaves, oh how beautiful they are. As the ]days progress and the temperature starts to fall these beautiful leaves will take flight. The wind picks up and one by one the leaves from the old oak tree sail like airplanes, gliding through the air until they reach their destination on the ground.

Often times, I feel like an old oak tree. I change with each season preparing for the next. The Fall brings cooler weather, which gives you a sense that something is in the air! A tingle of excitement, that you can’t explain. You just sense that something is different. As the long hot summer days drag out, we are ready for change, just like the old oak tree. We are ready to shed our own leaves and prepare for new. This is a time to celebrate the “Coming of Fall”.

The “Coming of Fall”, means warm scents in the air, cinnamon, nutmeg and pumpkin. The Farmers are cutting their hay in the fields, and the smell of fresh cut hay is something you will never forget. The cotton in the field down the road is green and I can see tiny buds appearing, preparing to bloom.

A plant that produces a fiber, cotton, what an amazing thing. When the cotton is in full bloom, it is beautiful. The soy bean field across the highway puts off a scent that I can’t describe, but I know it is the “Coming of Fall”.

There is a crispness in the air, it takes my breath away as I walk barefoot in the cool grass under the Old Oak Tree.

I look up to see the leaves flying around me. I watch one leaf as it slowly floats, and the wind picks it up and carries it to its resting place. Over time, the leaf will break down, and go slowly back into the ground from where it came. I step on something with my bare feet, I look down to see an acorn. I pick it up and think to myself, I am holding a new life in my hands. I gently place it back onto its resting place, where one day, a seedling will appear and the little acorn will begin a new life. This is the “Coming of Fall”.

“The Coming of Fall”, brings Festivals to life.

Oh the scents of cotton candy and corn dogs!

The County Fairs, the Barn Shows, and the Craft Festivals! There is music in the air with the sounds of laughter and craftsmen selling their wares.

The night brings bon fires, roasting hotdogs and drinking hot chocolate while sitting on a bale of hay, snuggling with the ones you love! Fall is a family time. It is a time to be thankful for family and friends.

As I look out my window at the old oak tree, I wonder, is it, “The Coming of Fall”?

Within These Reflections

WITHIN THESE REFLECTIONS

ESSAY + PHOTOGRAPHY: LUKE FRANCIS BIGGS

Two years as a child in Pennsylvania near Penns Creek have affected my vision ever since. We lived as a family of seven in a cinderblock hunting cabin five miles from Coburn on a dirt road, the last place on the hill, past the tunnel and truss bridge of a former rail line. While there was never a lack of movement at that age, the memories of light and space and sound from that time, in that forest, along those banks, have forever taught me to stand still. Wherever I have lived since, from Brooklyn to Philly to Wyoming, that lesson of realization in the present has allowed me find beauty everyday.

Philadelphia reminds me of Ray. We used to drive around West Philly, listening to jazz, talking about life and good coffee. His laugh and smile are incredible. He once took me to his storage unit in the Northeast where he collected old furniture to later resell. It was his ‘side hustle’, as he described it, and it was there that I found a water-damaged Degas replica that has been watching over me ever since. He sold it to me for $20. Then there’s Norma, who, when she writes an email, italicizes the whole of it. She says it reminds her of cursive. She is a continuous moment of grace and wisdom. George will be the best man in my wedding. Despite knowing that I would one day leave, he took the time to share his soul and taught me how to fly fish. Then I left. Through the countless back roads and hours spent with him, I have forever learned what is real. It is with pride that I can say that these friends are in their 60’s and 70’s. It is friendships like these that I have always based my confidence on. I’ve long felt that we are all just diamonds cutting away at one another, becoming ever more faceted as we slow down the light that surrounds us. For your refracted light and patience, I thank you all.

It seems the words hardest to find are for those we love the most. Recently, I tried to find them in a letter written to my father. There were usually two chairs in our backyard where we sat in the fading light, listening to the final gestures of squirrels and catbirds, watching the stars rise. While I always wished for words then, I only recently came to realize how few there were that would plunge beneath the placid depths of his eyes and expression to the current below. It was his silence in these moments of unspoken understanding that taught me how to care. My mother understood this silence, but her sincerity (something I’m still trying
to attain) would never allow her to keep it. She would always try to find words. She would always be willing to take time as I drove countless country lanes looking for the right combination of light and lines. She would always endure. She will always be loved.

Within these recollections lies the hope for an explanation of where I am now, some 2,000 miles away from that backyard, those country lanes and those friends, trying to leave again. Recently, I wrote in that letter to my father, that the only things I had going for me was caring and wanting to understand. Those desires and these experiences affect the interpretation of the daily as I move to stand still somewhere anew, and have become a continual reminder to “see without a camera.” They help me to see the wisdom and joy of my friends in the faces of strangers. They help me to find the silence of my father and feel the sincerity of my mother in all that surrounds me. It is the beauty of the patient unknown...It is everyday.