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… Jen O’Connor Presents…Artful Décor and Accessories for the Handmade Life and Home

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Catch the Art Girls’ RoadShow Shopping Events!June 1 & 2 • “Remnants of the Past” • San Luis Obispo, CA

Special Guests Jo Packham, Where Women Create, Ben Ashby, FOLK, & Designer Lisa Leonard

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… Jen O’Connor Presents…Artful Décor and Accessories for the Handmade Life and Home

paintings, jewelry, folk art, textiles, soft-sculpture, heirloom toys, potteryart dolls, vintage items, luxury goods, books, paperies, fashion and more

Shop On-Line or Catch The Art Girls’ RoadShow!February 28 & March 1 • “heART of winter” – SOUTH • Sanford, Florida

March 27–April 3 • Old Glory Antiques “Grand TEXAS Opening” • Burton, TXJune 6, 7 & 8 • “Country Living Fair” – NORTHEAST • Rhinebeck, NY

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// 76 //

A Reader’s New EnglandPat Badolato shares a few of her favorite images from the North East

When my friend Pat Badolato messaged me with these photos I knew they were something I had to share. Pat tells me she just recently moved from New York City. While living in New York City she would journey up into New England to explore on long weekends. To see

more photos and adventures by Pat visit her blog millefiorifavoriti.blogspot.com

TOP: Neddick Lighthouse in Maine. BOTTOM (Left to Right): Whaleback Lighthouse in New Hampshire. Boats in the harbor in Maine. Covered bridge in West Cornwall, Connecticut. Cows in a Connecticut.

2 FOLK FINDS3 SNAPSHOTS4 DEAR FOLKS5 A TRAITOR’S GHOST6 NEW YORK CITY10 SUMMERTIME12 PONDERINGS46 SHORT STORY56 DEAR FOLKS

14 SUMMER READS15 RESTORATION LIFE16 AMY THAYER18 MOMMA HEN’S KITCHEN19 VIRGINIA’S ALLEY20 THE BERRY BEST23 SHORT STORY24 BOSTON32 DOG DAY DREAMIN’

CONTENTS

AMERICAN-MADEMADE IN THE NORTH EAST

FOLK FINDSWe are in love with these American-made goods from the heart of the North East.

1) Bracelet by Kiel James Patrick kieljamespatrick.com. 2) Tie by General Knot generalknot.com. 3) Painting by Jennifer Lanne earthangelsstudios.com. 4) Clutch by Tipsy Skipper tipsyskipper.com. 5) Sofa by Decades lovedecades.com. 6) Sunglasses by Randolph Engineering randolphusa.com. 7) Tote by Anchored Style anchoredstyle.com. 8) Weekender duffel by Hudson Sutler hudsonsutler.com. 9) Tart cherry soap by Beekman 1802

beekman1802.com.

1. 2. 3.

4.

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8. 9.

VOLUME 3 NUMBER 3FOLK

1. 2.

3. 4. 5.

6. 7.

SNAPSHOTSREADERS SHARING THEIR NORTH EAST PHOTOS

POSTCARDS

1) Niagara Falls by Ruth Barnes. 2) New York City by Andres Ortega. 3) Lynne Lathrop. 4) Central New York by Vicki Whicker. 5) The coast of Con-necticut by Jessica Meade. 6/7) Cape Cod and Nantucket by Emily-Kate Taylor. 8) The Charles River by Jeanne McGlinchey.

In today’s world the postcard has been replaced by the uploaded digital image.

8.

CUSTOMER SERVICE

contact@folklifestyle.com

FOLKP.O. Box 195

Beaver Dam, KY 42320

CONNECT

Shop: shopfolk.usWeb: folklifestyle.com

Instagram: @folkmagazineFacebook: /wearefolk

Pinterest: /folkmagazine

// 3 //

DEAR FOLKSMy mother had longed to visit Maine since her brother, Billy, was stationed there in the Navy during World War II. Billy had written letters describing the sea, Portland Head Light, Lewiston, and Auburn. Post cards came addressed to his father, V. A. Matthews, with the greeting, “Dear Folks.” August 11, 1944. “How do you like the look of a dry land sailor, we started wearing whites and I wash them every night.” The family passed the photograph around the breakfast table, each person lost in their own fear for the sailor. They talked about Billy walking in his whites along the Maine coast, standing at Portland Head Light gazing into the mist, imagining ships coming too close but pulling back out to sea just before being torn apart on the craggy rocks. October 23, 1944. “How are you all? I am fine, thank you. I need a rest mighty bad. I’ll send you $30 if the p.o. is open when I get there. If you need more, just say so and I’ll have it.” Billy’s mother used his money sparingly, laying most of it aside for his return home when the war was over.

November 9, 1944. “By the way, we had a fine morning, a kid came in late and laid his pea coat on the heater and when the heater was turned on, we had a fire. All that burned was the pea coat. I’m having a big time. Write soon and I will, too.” As they read the letter, the burned pea coat got a big laugh from everyone but Billy’s mother. She sat for long hours, listening to the radio, chewing on her knuckles, trying not to weep. January 10, 1945.“Got a letter that Mama is in the hospital, let me know the whole story. I’ll call W.V. tonight.”

Before joining the Navy, Billy had rarely been away from home, spending his time running the roads with his two brothers and sister. Every meal was eaten around the kitchen table with all of them in their places, passing the platters of country ham and biscuits. They all shared their stories of the day and laughed like little children. May 31, 1945. “I’m leaving Maine on my way to Boston to the Receiving Station. So long, Maine. Love, Billy”

After the war, Billy told glorious stories of Maine and Portland Head Light. My mother’s desire to go walk in his footsteps never wavered. In May 1988, her dream was fulfilled when Sister Diane, our family friend, offered to take her to Maine. They headed out in the early morning hours, the car packed with a tent, Coleman lanterns, blankets, and cooking utensils. My mother said they had a few coins in their pocket and gas in the car, what more could they need? The trip took them to many places on their way to Maine, but nothing broke my mother’s heart like Portland Head Light, where she spent hours alone walking the grounds and looking out to sea. She was treading in Billy’s footsteps and hearing his words in the wind. When my mother returned home to Kentucky, she felt as if she had left a part of herself in Maine, just as her brother had related to his family about leaving for Boston in 1945. The salt water from the coast of Maine coursed through their veins as long as they lived.

— ALICE HALE ADAMS

A Traitor's Ghost

// 4 //

New England cemeteries are living history. Interactive, open air museums that boast of colonial revolt, romance, lives lived and lost. As some of the earliest records of our nation, eighteenth century graveyards house the strongest roots of the American story. Whether you are a history buff, a taphophile, a ghost seeker, nature lover, artist or a photographer, the graveyard welcomes all without prejudice.

The key to the best New England cemeteries is a good story. One small cemetery in Norwich, Connecticut is a prime example. Located just off Norwichtown Green, at the dead end of Cemetery Lane, the Old Burial Ground rests peacefully along a babbling brook and green meadow footpaths. Revolutionary War soldiers’ remains mingle with early folk art death angels under lichen and moss. There are headstones so crudely carved it takes a few tangled looks to read the epitaph. Some stones stand hilltop in graceful repose- having withstood harsh New England elements for more than 200 years. Here, fearless sea captains rest alongside key players in the Declaration of Independence. But it is the graves that are missing in the Old Burial Ground that get the most attention. To this day, Hannah Arnold, a grieving mother and wife, is rumored to walk these grounds looking for her husband and sons. It is said, her infamous son, Benedict Arnold, returns every Halloween on a ghostly white horse to ask his mother for the forgiveness of his sins.

Benedict Arnold, famed traitor of the Revolutionary War, was born and raised in Norwich. Though he was a successful Continental Army General he felt he was slighted in both recognition and money for his service. He traded to the British side, turned “red-coat”, and gave key information to the British that cost the lives of many colonists. In one particularly bloody battle in New London, Connecticut, a ship,

ironically named Hannah, exploded fueling the fires that would destroy the town. Benedict’s mother, Hannah, and father, Benedict, died before these acts of treason occurred. But once the Norwich colonists heard of Benedict’s betrayal, an angry mob formed looking for revenge. Outraged citizens descended upon the Old Burial Ground and destroyed the gravesites of Benedict’s father and brother. Hannah’s grave, and those of Benedict’s sisters were not attacked and still stand today. Is Hannah doomed to roam the graveyard for all eternity? Is Benedict Arnold still looking for absolution?

In New England, legend and fact often mix to create campfire stories anchored in truth. Dates can be bent to fit if the story proves a moral. Playing in this graveyard as a child I heard both sides of the tale. Some say the bodies of Benedict Arnold’s father and brother were dug up and destroyed by the angry mob. Details of the destruction depended on the storyteller and the tale grew longer with every new narrator. Others say only the headstones were toppled. I remember one vivid account about the houses where Benedict Arnold served as an apprentice and the home in which he was born were both burned to the ground with all the fire and brimstone of the Lord Almighty. Be these tales fact or fiction, they were the magic of growing up in Norwich, and perhaps a parent’s best tool for keeping kids out of the graveyard at night.

No matter where one travels in New England, an early cemetery is a must see in every town. Ask a local and they are sure to share a haunted or intriguing tale. Most often the earliest burial grounds are picturesque, near to historic villages, nestling America’s founding souls in the cradle of earth. Bring a picnic lunch and your camera. You never know who might show up.

FOLKLOREJACQUIE WHEELER

Here is a story of a New England graveyards. There’s one in every New England town, the Old Burial Grounds are a New England staple of history and lore.

// 5 //

New York begs the attention of the planet. It’s big and bold, bright and boundless in its roster of successes. But never forget, New York is a handmade City. Year after year, it changes growing stronger and more vibrant with what each person there makes of it, and by subsuming the talent, style and traditions of those that come to call it home. t’s a pleasant fiction to think you can know all of New York City, even in a lifetime. So, how do you tell the story of its 400-year odd tenure among a few pages? You see, while the United States seems but a teenager among the world’s countries, New York’s the well-seasoned professional among our nation’s towns. NYC is the wise elder, the well-established starlet and the aged finance tycoon.

This City has remained sharp and at the top of its game thanks to grit, good luck and opportunity. Mix that with ambition, raw savvy and the willingness of millions to ever take on a new challenge and to always welcome the new idea, and you have among the greatest cities on earth. Make no mistake, it’s the residents that have made the City and then tended to it. It’s grown sure and steady through the trials and tribulations and the successes of those that have come to live and work in New York, promising opportunity to souls for centuries and learning quickly from its failures because in this town, timing can be everything.

The first and largest battle of the Revolutionary War was the Battle of Brooklyn (aka The Battle of Long Island). Washington and the Continentals retreated from Brooklyn Heights to Manhattan and then to the mainland. The British took New York City in September of 1776 and the City eventually burned. Patriots and POWs were imprisoned in brutal conditions on 16 ships in New York waters and deliberately neglected during the British occupation, which lasted until 1783. More than 11,500 patriots died on these ships; that’s more than in all

of the battles of the Revolutionary War combined. We call them the Prison Martyrs and their monument stands in Fort Greene Park.

The New York Knicks, are named for the Knickerbockers, and early well-known family in the colonial city of New Amsterdam. Knickerbocker became a term used for a New Yorker when Washington Irving, of Sleepy Hallow and Rip Van Winkle fame, created a literary paper under the pseudonym Diedrich Knickerbocker and later with a group of fellow writers in the mid 1800s, published a New York monthly magazine called “The Knickerbocker”.

Spuyten Duyvil means devil’s whirlpool in Dutch, it’s the name for the neighborhood and narrow creek that separates the Hudson River on the west side of Manhattan from the tumultuous East River, it’s also the site for the first recorded shark attack in the New World in 1642.

Our Dutch history is easy to spot. You sit on your stoop to watch the world go by on any block. Stoop is the Dutch word for those brick steps that go to your street — we don’t have porches.

Back to Houston Street (that’s said Hows-tin – and say it fast). I know you’re thinking it, but no, it’s is not named for the Texan hero, nor said like his name… he was an unknown teenager in Tennessee at the time. Some say it’s derived from the Dutch word “huystujn” which means garden house and there must have been some there at sometime! Central Park was started in 1857 and took 16 years to build. It sits on 843 acres of prime real estate in the center of Manhattan Island and it’s the most visited urban park in the US. Yes, it really is as great as it looks in all the movies, you can row a bow, sail a boat, ice skate, reach for Holden’s brass ring astride a carousel horse, climb a giant Alice in Wonderland, take in Strawberry Field’s forever, promenade on the

promenade, swim, skate, run, strike out, sunbathe, star gaze, see a penguin, see a dairy, ride a carriage, sit, stroll or perambulate in any manner (after all no one’s watching or judging, it’s NY… you can really pretty much do YOUR thing).

The Bronx is the only part of NYC that is on the mainland. Manhattan Island and Staten Island (that’s aka Richmond County) form two island boroughs and Brooklyn (aka Kings County) and Queens reside on the western half of Long Island.

New York with its five counties/boroughs was not the New York we know now until 1898. Affectionately called the “mistake of ’98”, several cities were consolidated into one for taxing and infrastructure purposes at that time. The Bronx and Brooklyn were their own cities while Queens was formed from several cities and towns, as was Staten Island. This made NYC ginormous, huge and tougher than ever to manage; it also pooled the resources of the population and made it what it is today.

Broadway – the street itself – has been a roadway since the Native Americans walked it north into Westchester County – that’s why it meanders across Manhattan from east to west and ever northward and does not follow the gridiron. North of the City it turns into Route 9 and goes all the way to the state’s capital in Albany.

It’s impossible to get lost in Manhattan if you are north of West 4th Street. That famous gridiron (that can breed gridlock) was laid out in 1811 and all development hence followed these rules: even streets run east, odd run west; all avenues run north/south with 5th Avenue splitting the East Side from the West Side from its origin at the Arch in Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village (that famous park is the site of a former mass grave from a cholera epidemic and later served as a military parade ground).

NEW YORK CITY PHOTOGRAHY + STORY: JEN O’CONNOR

There are only a dozen major crosstown streets in Manhattan: 14th, 23rd, 34th, 42nd, 57th, 72nd, 86th, 96th, 110th, 116th, 125th, and 155th. Know them and you’re ready for the subway, the subways run north/south and most hit these streets. Voila!

If you were not born in Brooklyn or The Bronx, give up; you will never know their roads completely. You will learn the street names in one part of the borough, but fuggedaboutit—you cannot know them all.

On the other hand, if you have an address, you can find anything in Queens since all house numbers are hyphenated with a cross street reference. It goes like this: 90-66 207th Street is the address that represents the 66 house south of 90th Avenue on 207th Street. Or 246-55 85th Avenue is the 55th house west of 246th Street on 85th Ave…ta dah!

THINGS AREN’T ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM:

Wall Street really was a wall and rampart until 1699, but if you “work on Wall Street” it doesn’t necessarily mean your office is on that street in particular. “Wall Street” is synonymous with the City’s entire financial district. It is also the site of George Washington’s inauguration at Federal Hall – our nation’s first capitol building - and where the Bill of Rights was introduced and passed by our first Congress (that original building is gone, but one stands in its place erected in 1842).

Madison Square Garden is not in Madison Square, and for the record, it’s the fourth “garden” to be built and it’s not a garden nor is it square, it’s an oval arena with an ice rink, stadium and playhouse. In case you are wondering, Madison Square Park is on Madison Avenue and 23rd Street and it’s the birthplace of baseball in the US. It also played host to the arm and torch of the Statue of Liberty where it was displayed for six years to raise construction funds for the statue and base.

Dumbo is not a Disney character, it’s a neighborhood (an acronym for down under the Manhattan Bridge overpass). SoHo is the neighborhood south of Houston Street (more recently NoHo has been dubbed) and TriBeCa stands for triangle below Canal Street. And a new neighborhood NoMad is—you guessed it—north of aforementioned Madison Square (the real park which really is square and not the arena). Remember, we like nicknames and

shortcuts; it’s the think fast, move fast, talk fast NY thing.

Coney Island isn’t an island; once long ago it was a barrier island, but centuries of landfill made it a peninsula. Folk have been heading to the seaside destination since the 1830s and 1840s for sun and fun – it’s amazing to think New York City has lots of beaches! And I know you are wondering what a “coney” is anyway. Coney was an English word for a rabbit or bunny in the 1600-1700s.

And since you’ve all seen Gatsby, Fitzgerald’s “Valley of Ashes” really did exist but not by that name, it was the Corona Ash Dump where the City’s ash from coal-burning furnaces was deposited and refuse was burned. It’s long gone, cleared in the 1930s as the site of the glorious Flushing Meadows Corona Park where the 1939 and 1965 World’s Fair were hosted and home to Shea Stadium and their Mets.

HOW WE SAY THINGS:

We speed talk. Jeetyet. That is an entire sentence in the mouth of a native. Translation: Did you eat yet? Nodjew. Translation: No, did you?

You wait “on line” in New York, not in line (that’s rollerblading).

Context is everything. The Met. It can be a baseball player, the Metropolitan Opera House or the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Other languages peek in everywhere. When you order a bagel with cream cheese for your sweetheart, get it with a schmear for your schmoopie.

You can order a soda with your hero and get it to go in a bag. We don’t drink pop or eat hoagies, grinders or bulkys, and we don’t do take away in sacks.

Going downtown can mean two things. If you are in Manhattan, downtown is the southern end of Manhattan Island; if you are in Brooklyn it means near Borough Hall and Brooklyn Heights. There’s only one Midtown and one Uptown.

FOLKS AND FOOD:

This is a town for foodies; we have everything and anything and we are passionate of all things in the realm of the gastronomic from simple street food to the best in fine dining. Verbal wars have been waged for decades over pizza, pad thai, pub

grub and pastries and where the best of each are served. And if you’re wondering, which is the “Original Rays Pizza” anyway? Ask a 10 New Yorkers, and you might get 10 different answers; we are a town of many opinions.

Why do we have the best bagels and pizza? We have what’s considered one of the best fresh water supplies in the world and dough is made from flour and water. So it’s that Catskill Mountain water that comes out of the NYC tap that makes it so good.

You can fold that NY pizza, but if you pick up a fork and knife to eat it, we will look away in shame. The first pizza in the US was served from a brick oven on Spring Street in Little Italy around 1900.

WHAT MAKES ME A NEW YORKER?

I love the town and its loved me right back. I was raised in Queens the youngest of five children and our Irish-American house knew good stories and cheer, and many visiting cousins. I navigated my neighbor-hood of Irish, Italian and German immi-grants on a blue hand-me-down Schwinn, going to the corner store for milk and fresh bread, and calling for my friends up the block to play ring-a-levio (olly-olly-in free!). I remember my first trip to Madison Square Garden to see the circus for my 5th birthday, my first cab ride to a dinner at Windows on the World for my 10th birth-day, and cutting school each year to attend the St. Patty’s Day Parade with my folks be-cause that’s really ok if you’re Irish Catholic and in New York on March 17th (my father’s family had come in the 1830s from Galway, my mother’s from Fermanagh the 1850s).

I couldn’t even think of leaving the City, so I attended NYU to study Fine Art, Politics and Metropolitan Studies. I completed a Graduate Degree in Urban Planning, also at NYU, and currently hold my AICP hav-ing practiced in both private sector and non-profits to cultivate and develop urban markets. I founded Earth Angels Studios in 1996 turning my passion for handmade things into an economy and today it’s among the most-respected sources for folk art, accessories, and décor featuring the creations of talented female artists.

These days I live 50 miles north of Man-hattan in the Hudson Valley, but I take my three kids to The City all the time. We walk the neighborhoods I know and love, and visit the sites I’ve treasured since grammar school trips first took me there. I want them to make it their town too.

// 10 //

STORY: LINDA REIDSummertime

“No more pencils. No more books. No more teachers’ dirty looks.” “School’s out, school’s out. Teachers let the monkeys out! One went east. One went west. One went up the teacher’s dress.” So were the chants of the last day of school.

Living in Western Kentucky means volatile weather. One of the good things about living here means we enjoy the weather of all four seasons…sometimes even in one day. One thing is certain. We always count on long, hot, humid summer days. Along with the pleasure of school ending came the joy of planning all that free time.

Days could be filled with baseball in the pasture, riding horses, building earthen dams in Walton Creek (before the dry weather set in), wading the creek, climbing trees, playing outside all day and thousands of other things. I never lacked for anything to do. Boredom? Unheard of! Even if it had tried creeping onto our farm, I never admitted it. Admitting to boredom meant a new chore could be added to my list and I still refuse to admit that I’m not a little care-free girl roaming the fields and avoiding work.

Helping out around the farm never seemed like work. I enjoyed being outside and the only tasks I considered work, or chores, were the inside jobs like making beds, dusting, washing dishes and such. Outside is where I wanted to be and usually where I could be found. I didn’t mind helping to “sucker” tobacco even though it meant a hard scrubbing at bath time to remove all the gooey tobacco gum. I even looked forward to being big enough to pull plants and ride the tobacco setter. We moved from the farm before I was big enough to wield a hoe. I think that I’m glad about that.

The garden always held something for me. Of course the early part of summer meant carefully planting the tomato plants grown in Dad’s tobacco bed. My part in that typically meant I placed the plants carefully beside the hills Mom or Dad had made. Then, with one of them helping me, I’d hold the plant in the hole while they pulled the right amount of dirt up around the stem of the plant. I still love the smell of tomato plants. I probably visited the garden daily to see if the plants had bloomed or if tomatoes were setting on or to see if I could find that first ripe tomato. I liked picking tomatoes when they finally ripened enough to eat. After all, they were, and are, my favorite garden treat. I never liked the spiders who managed to build their webs among the tomato plants but I didn’t let them stop my quest for filling a basket of delicious treats. As a young girl I thought it took the entire summer for tomatoes to ripen and beans to fill out enough to pick. I never was tall enough to pull corn but I did help to plant and shuck it once it matured.

Other vegetables grew in our family garden. Mom loved beets so we always had beets growing in our garden. Okra, another favorite of mine, brought a totally different set of tasks and challenges. I don’t remember planting it but I sure remember the harvest…but that’s for another time. So, the garden lured me out of the house but other things did, too.

Believe it or not, I couldn’t wait until I was big enough to use the power mower. That probably came a little more quickly than I realized since my older brother, Ronnie, was plagued with allergies. Hay fever probably bothered him more than anything so mowing really took its toll on him. Of course, once he realized I was anxious to use that mower, I’m sure his hay fever worsened. As I said, I wasn’t very big in a physical sense. That meant pulling the cord to start the mower presented quite a challenge. Someone always managed to come to my aid and away I would go. Two widowed sisters shared a home right up the road from us. I often went to help them mow using an old rotary cut mower…the kind with no motor other than human power. The grass always cut evenly and I really thought I was big using that old fashioned mower. Eventually, they decided I was big enough to use their power mower. The age-old problem of pulling the cord to start the mower followed me to Ms. Ida’s and Ms. Ora’s. One particularly hot day, Ms. Ora was trying to start the mower but the motor just wouldn’t crank. I remember how she pulled that cord, wiped sweat from her brow and pulled again. Finally, she wiped her brow, looked at me and said, “This would make a preacher cuss in the pulpit.” I nearly fell to the ground I laughed so hard! Mowing still gives me a sense of accomplishment. You can always look back over a day of mowing and see the results. Of course the days of using a push mower have given way to the riding mower but I do still enjoy a day of grass cutting as is evidenced by the 4-6 acres I mow nowadays.

Like most houses of the 50’s and 60’s in our area, our house was not air conditioned. We cooled with a large box fan in one window that drew air through the house. We didn’t want to spend much time indoors. The large maple trees of our yard afforded much cooler air than we found inside. When Mom did laundry, she hung it on a clothesline rather than use the dryer that heated the house even more. Nothing smells quite as fresh as towels and sheets dried in the sunshine and fresh air. As vegetables began to mature in quantity, Mom often sat in the shady back yard with baskets of beans or corn around her as she pulled the strings and broke the beans for canning. She would pull the shucks from the ears of corn and we (the kids) would carry the shucks to the

fence and throw them over for the cows. Mom had to do the canning inside and I remember how hot the kitchen would get and how she would sweat. I didn’t realize then how hard she worked to can fresh vegetables that we enjoyed in winter. I can certainly appreciate it now!

My paternal grandparents lived in Louisville, KY and worked factory jobs. They always looked for reasons to escape the city life and come to visit us. They helped with the garden, the cattle and the tobacco but they also helped with other jobs. Dad worked swing shift and farmed. He didn’t have a lot of time for sleep much less many of the day to day maintenance jobs around the house. He was an excellent carpenter and could fix just about anything needing his hand, but there often were just not enough hours in the day for all that needed to be done. Mamma Burgess and “Gus” helped fill in some gaps. Mamma loved to paint and “fix up” a place so it wasn’t uncommon for her to take her vacation to come help paint or hang wallpaper at our house. I remember thinking that a painter had to wear an old pair of panties on their head because that is what Mamma always did. I can still remember her having the leg openings pinned closed and those “drawers” pulled over her hair like a cap. She was a neat painter and probably never got paint in her hair anyway, but it sure makes for a happy memory seeing her in that rig!

Gus was also quite a handyman. Since we, like most everyone else of that day, didn’t have an indoor bathroom, he built a new outhouse for us nearly every summer, it seemed. If he didn’t build a new one he upgraded the existing one. Yes, summer meant a new or renovated outhouse. Now that’s a memory!! That may not sound too exciting these days but you can bet it sure was in those days! Gus also recited a lot of poetry. He had one favorite, “The Passing of the Pot” by Eva Davis Penrose. That title brings a brand new set of issues in today’s world. In his day, however, it referred to the Chamber Pot…our wintertime indoor bathroom. Thanks to Google, I found that poem. Though I don’t recall him reciting it, I also found “The Passing of the Outhouse”, by James Whitcomb Riley. Both poems certainly evoke mixed memories of my childhood.

Both of my grandmothers could sew. It wasn’t uncommon for Mamma Vance and Mamma Burgess to show up at our house ready to make new things for us. Though I never took an interest in sewing, I recall Mamma Vance teaching my sister to sew. That was another of those things that required staying inside and I just couldn’t be bothered with that. There were fields to roam, trees to climb and a horse to ride so

I left the sewing and piano lessons to Janet while I escaped to the great outdoors.

One crop required all hands that were old enough. Tobacco never seemed to be profitable to me because of all the many, many hours of work. Dad always had a plant bed in which he grew plants that he transplanted to the tobacco patch and the vegetable plants to the garden. After the tobacco plants grew to the right size we gently pulled them and put them in baskets. I thought I was so grown-up when Dad finally allowed me to help pull the plants. I soon realized it wasn’t as much fun as I thought it looked. About the same time I grew up enough to help pull plants, I was big enough to ride the tobacco setter. Since I was small for my age, I couldn’t manage a hoe so that job fell to Ronnie. As the tobacco grew, small growths, or suckers, began to grow and big green worms attacked. I thought I was a real tobacco farmer when I would crawl along the rows and break off the small growths that sucked nutrients the main plant needed. It seemed to take days to wash the gum out of my hair and off my skin. Pulling worms might have been something most girls wouldn’t do but I got a kick out of pulling them off the plants once I found them. I often collected them in a small bucket and then either threw them in the pond or mashed them with rocks I found in the short lane between our house and the plant bed. They weren’t good for bait so it wasn’t like I was wasting something of use. They were just nasty creatures who would spit tobacco juice on you if you weren’t real careful.

We always found time to play baseball. Of course we played in the pasture so we had to be extra careful where we stepped and what we used for bases. There usually weren’t enough of us around at any one time to field 2 teams so we always had a lot of extra “ghost” men helping us. As long as the ghost runners stuck to the game and didn’t spook the cattle or horse, all went well. We always enjoyed pretending to be Don Drysdale, Mickey Mantle and the like.

Whether crawling through the tobacco rows, wading in Walton Creek after a summer rain, making believe I was a master gardener, marveling at the handiwork of my grandparents or riding the range on my trusty horse (bareback, of course), summers brought new adventures with every day. I often long for those days when I get caught up in the busy life of today’s world. I look about me and actually feel sorry for youngsters who will never know the joys of growing up on a farm, learning to work (even though I thought it was play) and play outside till the lightening bugs lit the night. At the end of the day, Mom dragged the wash tub into the kitchen and filled it with water from the sink and we all took turns bathing before time to watch something like “The Rifleman” or “Have Gun Will Travel” before going to bed.

“Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

// 12 //

PONDERINGSSHANNON ASHBY

In Beda, we practice an age old custom called a shivaree. It goes back to our Scotch-Irish heritage. Shivarees are planned by ladies in our community and the men take part in the celebration as well. So when Henry Tinsley married Louise Harper, Gertie, my grandmother, schemed their shivaree on her eight party phone line. I wasn’t in school and Mom and I were there visiting from Frankfort that early starry spring night.

A shivaree is intended to disrupt the first intimate encounters of newlyweds. It has to be celebrated during the first year of marriage and always at night. So, in the spring of 1954, Gertie contacted people in the community to meet and bring all the necessary noise making contraptions each family owned to haze the new couple.

Now there is a protocol for shivarees. The couple must provide food or treats for those who shivareed them. If they failed to feed the group then they were subjected to a variety of humiliating activities that the men planned, and many of the jokes were intended to be more than a little disconcerting.

If the door of the young couple’s home did not open quickly and the crowd invited in, the group would surround the house and enter through unlocked doors and windows before the couple could dress. Then they separated the two. The couple might have been taken four miles to town and the groom made to push his bride around the courthouse in a wheelbarrow, all while walking barefooted and still dressed in their night clothes.

If it was late summer and the corn still tall in the fields, a couple might have been taken blindfolded and turned loose at different ends of an unknown field. and then left to find each other and walk home in their pajamas…or less. Tricks played on a couple were done in fun and always at the amusement of the shivaree participants.

It was therefore wise for couples living in our part of the country and in the first year of marriage to fully anticipate a shivaree. Before slumber they should place their clothes by their bed each night and keep a stock of snacks on hand to feed a band of friends. Anticipation grew among all parties and the shivaree was kept secret to assure catching a young couple unsuspecting.

So, on that cool spring night, we all gathered in my great grandmother’s front yard, where the Mount Herman Church Road meets Beda Road, for my first experience with a shivaree. There had to be two dozen or more of us. Mutt Daniel came with his shotgun and dogs, Jerry and Wanda with pan lids and another shotgun, Delmond and Morris with a car, and Remus Hudson with his shotgun. Rosalee, Shorty Cowan and Jody Moore’s bunch were there. There were cow bells, whistles, wash tubs, buckets, pan lids and hammers in the hands of a band of neighbors who rounded out quite the hideous and scary sounding percussion

section. Henry and Louise would be shivareed and no one had told them – save Lizzy, Henry’s mom, whose intentions for her son and daughter-law were caring in nature.

Some years earlier, there was a shivaree that had gone awry in another part of our county. It was told that the young bride had been thrown into a pond up by William’s Mine. She couldn’t swim and she kept telling folks not to throw her in the water, but in all the excitement, they did indeed and she drowned. So there was always concern that a well meaning, rowdy bunch would go too far and take leave of their common sense. After that, the custom lost a good bit of its popularity.

Yet, on this night, we all started on our way, an anxious and somewhat motley pack, walking the gravel road in the dark. I remember the sounds of intermittent footsteps among the gravel as it crunched and rolled under our boots and shoes with each stride. In the country then, dark was a deep dark with no reflections of neighbor’s security lighting to guide our way. Those in cars drove slowly behind us in low gear. We reached the creek that covered the road with cold rushing water and carefully waded across it. Papaw picked me up so my feet wouldn’t get wet. There was a steep hill to climb and once there, we quietly entered Henry and Louise’s yard like a covey of quail. We all stood in silence – the calm before the storm.

I wasn’t sure what we were waiting to do, but when that first shotgun fired I saw the muzzle flash light up the black sky and crack the silence. Shards of night fell around us like the empty shotgun shells from the guns. I grabbed Papaw’s leg like a cat and became almost hysterical from the noise, instantly covering my tender ears. Car horns honked, guns blasted, pans clanged, bells rang, whistles blew, people shouted, women screamed, and dogs barked together in one cacophony of hysteria. It was the loudest loud I’d ever heard and I burst into tears. I know the clamor caused a pain in my head that must have lasted two full days.

The noise kept up until Henry swung open the door with a wry smile on his face. He was fully dressed and cordially invited us in. Louise served little bottles of Coca Cola to each of us and handed out store bought cookies. Such niceties rarely were afforded but by a very few nor were they expected in the days of my youth. I forgot about the ringing in my ears and indulged in the delicacies before me.

It was with great satisfaction that Henry and Louise bid everyone good night and crawled back into bed under their warm covers leaving the rest of us to our long journey home on a rather dark, and suddenly chilly, night. No one realized that the shivaree secret had slipped out. Although the local newspaper reported, “A surprise, well-kept, provided a good time that was had by all,” Louise confided in me just recently that she knew we were coming that night.

SHIVAREEShivaree, the celebrated Scotch-Irish custom of the country south is remembered.

// 46 //

A few years later, in the early 1960’s, the next Tinsley brother married Patsy. Patsy knew Ms. Gertie would again be planning another shivaree. Patsy, a practical joker herself with a tremendous sense of humor, was not one to be out done. She made brownies and kept them in her freezer well ahead of time. She wanted to make sure she was prepared and that her shivaree would be one to remember.

Once again, a throng of neighbors gathered for the Tinsley shivaree, and we walked through yet another dark, dark night to Morris and Patsy’s. We were familiar with the walk because Morris and Patsy were living in the same house that Louise and Henry had lived years before. It was Remus Hudson’s home place. When the noise commenced, it was just as loud and raucous as Henry’s and Louise’s doings. I do think there were more revelers that time, including adults, kids, church members and dogs, which made the noise even louder.

Patsy and Morris opened up their home, and the laughter and cutting up all began while Patsy removed the chocolate brownies, iced with the thickest chocolate icing I’d ever seen, from her freezer. She made strawberry Kool-Aid and I passed around the cups and napkins to their guests. Then she began to serve those brownies on a huge platter. They were surely piled high. I reached for one as she passed by me and she shot me a “how dare you look!” She’d never looked at me that way before, and I was a little hurt and a bit embarrassed.

“Shannon! The cookies are for the kids! The adults get the brownies!!!”, she said firmly.

So this second shivaree ended with more good food, fun, friends and families, and we all traveled on our way. Those two southern gals and their husbands just couldn’t be caught off guard, but I was still in a quandary as to why I didn’t get a brownie from Patsy.

I will tell you that it came to pass that Morris’ and Patsy’s shivaree was extremely memorable for the adults, especially those who had more than one or two brownies. As I said, Patsy wanted her shivaree to be special so she affectionately used copious amounts of a popular laxative in her chocolate icing. That’s why she had cookies for the kids and I didn’t get a brownie. The following morning the effects of the partying were felt, but no one wanted to admit it or let Patsy know she’d bested anyone. I just remember a lot of adult whispering about it and Patsy doing a lot of smiling. Come to think of it, I don’t think we’ve had shivaree, of quite that magnitude, in Beda since.

— SHANNON ASHBY

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25

In his new book, with Jill Peterson, James Cramer writes “The first fifteen years of my childhood were spent living with my great-grandmother in her white farmhouse at the edge of a small town. Her large garden, mainly vegetables, started at the back door and took up the entire yard. There was a path down the middle that led to the old chicken house. I later came to realize that this was a victory garden and my great-grandmother wanted to be self-sustaining during and after the war...

For the last thirty years, I too have lived in an old farmhouse with gardens surrounding the home, at the edge of a small town. It is said that you are impressionable the first years of your life and now I see where my love of gardening came from. I realize that the things I do now all came from my growing up years—even canning. I realize as I get older how important that time with my great-grandmother was and how it has shaped me as an adult.”

The book is filled with gardening and outdoor decorating ideas and tips and page after page of amazing photos of the garden that has been a treasured sight for country style lovers for nearly thirty years. When asked what her favorite tips in the book are Jill quickly responds with “I love the upside-down tomato planter - and the ability to plant flowers in the top. James shared that idea with me a long time ago and when we were talking about the book, that was the first thing I wanted to include. I also love the idea of putting cut flowers in a container with fresh cut vegetables such as the asparagus.”

To find the book head to frontierhomestead.com to order or visit the Museum of Appalachia this September to meet Jill during Days of the Pioneer Antique Show.

PHOTOGRAPHY: JILL PETERSON

The Gardens & Accoutrements of James Cramer

27 Old rakes make a unique

recycled trellis for any climbing plant.

41

The gem of New England architecture is undoubtedly the iconic colonial home. Stark lined salt box houses wrapped in primitive color clapboards. Stoic and serene, their simplicity speaks to their origins in an austere new world. New Englanders and visitors alike marvel at these beauties, sometimes voicing how cool it would be to buy one for themselves. But ask anyone who owns such a beast and has attempted a quick fix-up project and they will tell you there is nothing simple about these homes. Ask the maniacs who devote their lives to restoring these confounded structures, and they will weave a tale like that of an early whaling expedition. (Using my best sea captain voice…) The waters were rough, often unfriendly. Many a foe were encountered. At times it seemed all would have to abandon ship, but in the end the whale succumbed to the will of man. Reluctantly.

My parents were two such restoration maniacs. They possessed the Yankee ingenuity, the iron wills and perseverance necessary to spend fifteen years restoring their 1759 Connecticut colonial. My brother and I would be the unwilling deckhands in their quest for historical accuracy. Weekends were not meant for relaxing when I was a kid. My friends knew not to call or knock for fear they too would be drafted into service. On any given morning, I could wake to the sound of a buzzing table saw sometime before sunrise. The battle cry of the “Great Restoration” declaring another Saturday would be spent holding up sheetrock, hauling debris, and sweeping up dust held captive for centuries. This scourge for preservation would last throughout my childhood. It was a war my parents appeared to enjoy, much to my dismay. Though I didn’t know it at the time, the days working with my parents would build a strong foundation for my future.

When I was in elementary school I regarded my home like a dangerous lair with wide planked floors, low plaster ceilings, and skinny staircases leading into dark crevices. Any visitors taller than six feet left with a cramped neck and a bruised forehead from a low flying beam. One bedroom’s floors sloped so badly my brother and I could roll from one side of the room down to the other. At times we had to watch our feet as we navigated repairs between the bedroom floor and dining room ceiling. Complaining was not allowed. If we fell through, it was because we weren’t watching our step. There were no hallways. Each room connected to the next and the only bathroom was the very last room on the second floor. Anyone needing to use the toilet, had to go through my room to get there. Privacy was often a luxury surrendered when one wishes to live authentically in a colonial house. Our home was in a constant state of architectural chaos as one by one, each flaw was corrected.

Cerberus, as I affectionately referred to my childhood home, was also pure magic. For every wall that came down, or floorboard pulled up, treasure waited to be found. Colonial coins, papers, signatures on wooden beams spelled out the mystery of the home’s earliest residents. Digging foundation supports or gardens yielded thick old glass bottles, clay tobacco pipes, flatware and discarded pottery. Part of our backyard was an 18th century dumping ground. As a child, summer hours were whittled away under the oaks, trolling away layers of dirt on archeological digs. Using giant old antique encyclopedias, my parents and I would research china patterns and coins to identify my finds. It was like growing up in a museum. Every day was an opportunity to learn from an artist, an expert in hands-on history.

My father hand-planed fireplace panels, plastered walls, wood shingled the roof, re-wired, re-plumbed, and restored original floorboards. Wooden planks too far gone were re-purposed into period furniture and trinket boxes which remain in the home today. Only when the chimney needed to be replaced were outside professionals brought in. Otherwise the entire home was meticulously restored by my family.

My mother weaved her own baskets, participated in a quilting circle, dipped her own candles and strung miles of greens into wreathes and garlands for holiday celebrations. I remember years of watching her hands work small tools around a white painted banister until the original finish was revealed- a deep maple syrup brown flecked with age, smooth from centuries of hands securing their steps down the narrow stairs. These same steps would carry me through seventeen years until I was ready to leave for college.

My life would take me far from my beloved home, but I am lucky that my parents still live there. I can go home and see thiercyears of hard work still standing strong. Somehow I also still here that distant whirr of a table saw. The lessons I learned in the restoration years have become my own guiding principles. The beauty is in the details. Never do shoddy work thinking no one will notice. Every small stitch is vital, every hand forged latch necessary. Never turn away from your heart’s desire, no matter how daunting the road to attainment. Never quit what you have started. Know it is okay to ask for help. Most importantly, never underestimate the power of teamwork. With the right people by your side, even the mightiest of whales can be captured.

— JACQUIE WHEELER

A Restoration Life

// 15 //

GROWING UP IN ICONIC NEW ENGLAND STYLE

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A Conversation with Amy ThayerMomma HenIn the Coop with

What is a Momma Hen to do when you’re on a limited budget and have three little ones and a husband to feed? That’s the question that Amy Thayer asks of herself each day. Amy is a modern-day homemaker

who is as thrifty as she is creative and her blog Momma Hen’s Coop is a collection of moments in her daily

adventure to teach other moms that life can be both elegant and affordable.

Amy grew up in Nicholasville, KY, a suburb of Lexington with a large imagination and a hunger for adventure. She says that she always knew she wanted to be known for her cooking ability and often pretended to cook in the great outdoors using found ingredients like wild onions to make dirt stew. “My parents had a little old TV with only a few channels and giant knobs for navigating them in their bedroom. When my parents were occupied I would sneak in there and frantically twist the knobs until I could find a cooking show,” she laughs, “I specifically remember Ready...Set...Cook!”

She experimented with cooking after school much like the contestants of that show. After letting herself into her house, she remembers climbing the counters of her family’s kitchen and pulling out ingredients arbitrarily until she found things that sounded like they might combine well. “I would come home and start to cook something before my parents came home,” Amy remembers, “adding each ingredient to my recipe I would announce it to my pretend audience while making small talk between each ingredient.” Amy grew up cooking with her mother and grandmother who were the inspiration for her cooking and eventually Amy started to cook for her family. “My first family dinner could’ve gone better, I was about 10 years old and I accidentally served them raw chicken!”

Amy started toying with the idea of blogging about frugality and her adventures being a creative mom of three on a budget about 7 years ago. Then she had one child, her oldest son whom she had right out of high school, and she had to get creative about the way she set up her home and her cooking. “I never intended on being frugal, it just sort of happened,” she says. “Having my first child fresh out of high school we weren’t exactly rolling in money. In the very small town I lived in opportunities were small and the amount of money available was even smaller.” Even with all of that Amy had her very first home to call her own and endless opportunities to make it her own. “It was small

and bare with no fancy details or features. Regardless, I could not wait to start decorating!”

One day while searching google images of homes and decorating ideas Amy stumbled upon two blogs that inspired her called Karla’s Cottage and Urban FarmGirl and started her adventure in creating a home that was as frugal as it was beautiful. After experimenting with her sister-in-law’s old point-and-shoot camera then buying a newer top of the line point and shoot to stay on her budget she went to work. Amy started her journey to create a beautiful home with a disconcerting array of hand-me-down furniture and a handful of magazine and blog pictures. “I had to get creative, through the kindness of friends and family I was given many pieces of furniture for my new home but the collection was a frightening and eclectic mix of colors, periods, and patterns.” She says that even now when she can afford to spend a little money on home decor items she elects to do something herself instead, saying, “Buying something beautiful and prefabricated from a store is an option for us now, but there is just a joy and accomplishment you get by doing it yourself and knowing you made the something beautiful yourself.” The same goes for Amy’s recipes, though she could easily find recipes galore online she instead finds images of foods that look delicious and creates a recipe herself. “I love to find images of recipes in magazines and guess at it until I get a recipe that me and my family love. I experiment with cooking and food photography now in just the same way I did as a child.”

Today Amy is teaching the blogging community how to be a frugal mother of three while still achieving a simple beauty in your home. She raises her kids to experiment in the same way she did as a child, even spending some warm afternoons under the swaying shady trees behind her house teaching her kids her recipe for wild onion and dirt stew. “I want my kids to be as passionate and creative as I’ve learned to be from my family and through blogging,” she says. “I may even teach them my childhood recipe for Amy’s Famous Cheese Bread—white bread with Kraft American singles heated until bubbling in the microwave—one day,” she jokes. For now, though Amy spends her days learning more about cooking and creating a beautiful home with her three baby chicks and teaching us that what’s elegant doesn’t always have to be expensive.

— STORY: HEATH STILTNER | PHOTO: AMY THAYER

// 17 //

FIND AMY’S FABULOUS RECIPES AT MOMMAHENSCOOP.COM

// 18 //

MOMMA HEN’S KITCHENAMY THAYER

FIND MORE AT MOMMAHENSCOOP.COM

There’s nothing more American than a good ol’ apple pie. Although similar, everyone has their own version. I, myself, have a few different versions to switch things up a bit, from time to time. Recently, I heard the age old saying, “An apple pie with out cheese is like a kiss

without the squeeze.” I thought to myself, “cheese and apple pie?” Vanilla icecream and apple pie are already a euphoric combination. They are a match made in heaven, how could there possibly be a better union? Maybe I am a gluton for punishment, but I enjoy a little taste test challenge. After one bite of aged cheddar cheese slightly softened by the touch of warm, flaky crust of the tart apple pieone

word: perfection.

AS AMERICAN AS APPLE PIE

PASTRY DOUGH FOR DOUBLE CRUST PIE:

3 cups all-purpose flour3/4 teaspoon salt1 tablespoon sugar2 sticks frozen butterup to 6 Tablespoons ice cold water

Pull a sheet of plastic wrap out (large enough for your prepared dough) and place on surface. Using a food processor pulse flour, sugar, salt, and frozen butter together until little crumbles form and have the appearance of parmesan cheese. Pour flour mixture into a large bowl; using a wooden spoon quickly stir in a few tablespoons of ice cold water until a dough starts to come together and pulls away from the side of the bowl. This will happen quickly. The amount of water needed will vary from time to time. Pour sticky dough out onto

plastic wrap; wrap plastic around dough while slightly forming into a round disk. Place in refrigerator until chilled.

APPLE PIE FILLING:

3 pounds thinly sliced, peeled, and cored granny smith apples (about 8 cups)3/4 cup granulated sugar1/2 teaspoon cinnamon1/8 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg1/8 teaspoon allspiceAdditonal Ingredients Needed:1 tablespoon sugar in the raw1 egg + 1 tablespoon water to create an egg wash

Preheat oven to 350F. On a floured surface divide prepared,refridgerated dough in half. Roll out one half of chilled dough large enough to cover a 9 inch pie plate and

overlap the edges. Lay and fit dough into a 9-inch pie plate. Roll out the second half of pie dough and set aside.

In a large bowl gently toss apples with sugar, cinnamon, nutmet, and allspice until coated. Transfer coated apples to the pastry-lined pie dish. Top with second pastry dough. Trim excess dough, press edges together with fingers or a fork. Cut small slits in the top pastry too allow for steam to escape.

Brush egg wash lightly on the top of the prepared pie, sprinkle with large sugar granuals; bake 40 minutes or until golden brown.

Serve warm with a big slice of aged American cheese and vanilla ice-cream.

// 89 //

COMMUNITY FAVORITES FROM THE HEART OF RURAL KENTUCKYI have always loved all sorts of fruit. I look forward to purchasing in season fruit, and particularly love strawberries, blackberries and cherries. Since summer soon passes and so do fresh strawberries and cherries, I can at least enjoy the flavours year round with these easy jam and butter recipes. I also love hot out of the oven Angel Bis-cuits…and it just so happens that they pair very nicely with the strawberry jam or the cherry butter. Enjoy some of my favourites, but most importantly, enjoy each day and realize that it is truly a precious gift.

STRAWBERRY FREEZER JAM

4 cups strawberries, capped and cut in half4 cups sugar¾ cup water1 package (1 ¾ oz) powdered fruit pectin

Mash strawberries with potato masher until slightly chunky to make 2 cups of crushed strawberries. Mix in sugar, let stand 10 minutes at room temperature, stirring occasionally.

Mix water and pectin in a 1 qt saucepan, heat to boiling, stirring constantly. Boil and stir 1 minute. Pour hot pectin mixture over strawberry mixture, stir constantly for 3 minutes.

Immediately spoon into freezer containers, leaving a ½ headspace; wipe rims of containers, seal. Let stand at room temperature 24 hours; store in freezer up to 6 months. Thaw frozen jam before serving

Enjoy with sweet cream butter and hot biscuits for a treat any time of the day.

CHERRY BUTTER

16 cups (about) cherries, stemmed and pitted4 cups sugar1 teaspoon cinnamon½ teaspoon cloves

Begin with about 16 cups of pitted cherries in crock pot, fill with water. Put crock pot setting on high for about an hour and a half, then turn to low. *Place skewers or butter knives along the rim of the crock pot between the crock pot and the lid to allow the steam to vent. Once you turn the crock pot to low, let it cook overnight. (I began around midnight) the next morning, blend cherries with an immersion blender. Leave crock pot on low to cook down. Once mixture has cooked down about 1 to 1 ½ inch, add sugar, cinnamon and cloves and a splash of vanilla. (Adjust vanilla, sugar

and spices to your taste). Continue to cook until thick. Spoon into jars, being sure to wipe rims, process in hot water bath for 15 minutes; cool and enjoy.

ANGEL BISCUITS

5 cups flour, sifted1/4 cup sugar1 tablespoon baking soda1 teaspoon soda1 1/4 teaspoon salt1 cup shortening1 package yeast2 tablespoons warm water2 cups buttermilk

Preheat over to 400 degrees. Sift dry ingredients together. Dissolve yeast in warm water. Add yeast and water mixture to buttermilk. Cut shortening into the dry ingredients. Stir buttermilk yeast mixture into flour mixture, mix well. Turn out onto lightly floured board. Add flour if needed for soft dough. Roll out to 1/4” thick. Cut with biscuit cutter, dip in melted butter and fold in half and bake.

VIRGINIA’S ALLEYSANDY ROBINSON

{ }

The BerryBestWhen thinking about American heritage nothing is more humbling than a slice of sweet strawberry pie. Early summer is berry season and each year it offers us a unique opportunity to experiment with the budding fruits of the strawberry fields, or blueberry or blackberry bushes. Whether it’s a tart cherry or wild blackberry picked straight from the vine, or a round sweet blueberry each fruit has it’s own flavor and depth. As refreshing and sweet as the warm summer sun berries are the staple for summertime desserts. They help us celebrate our independence by decorating our birthday cakes and garnishing our fresh squeezed strawberry lemonade. This summer we offer an entire section to the berry best fruit of the season, berries, and

use some of our favorite products available at your local grocery store to create and recreate some of the best desserts and snacks of the summer.

FRESH FRUIT PARFAITS

3.4-ounce package of Kraft Jell-O instant pudding mix2 cups milk2 cups assorted fruit (berries, cherries, grapes, pears, apricots, bananas, or kiwi) cut up1 to 3 teaspoons sugar or honeyGarnish: Kraft Cool Whip

Combine Kraft Jell-O instant pudding mix

and milk; prepare pudding as directed on package. While pudding is setting up, combine fruit in a bowl. Lightly toss with sugar or honey to taste. Layer fruit in a bowl. Lightly toss with sugar or honey to taste. Layer fruit and pudding alternately in 4 glasses. Garnish with Kraft Cool Whip and serve immediately, or cover and refrigerate up to 24 hours and garnish at serving time.

BLUEBERRY ORCHARD SUNDAES

¾ cup water2 tablespoons all-purpose flour½ cup sugar2 cups blueberries½ gallon vanilla ice cream

Place all ingredients except ice cream in a saucepan over medium heat. Cook until mixture comes to a boil and thickens, stirring often; cool. Serve over ice cream.

TIPS: A warm fruit compote is delightful served as a simple dessert or side. Simmer cut-up peaches, blueberries, and raspberries together with a little honey, lemon juice, and cinnamon, just until syrupy and tender. Divine made with fresh summer fruit.

Make an ooey-gooey s’more even more taste tempting! Top the chocolate square with a few slices of ripe strawberry or nectarine before pressing on the toasted marshmallow.

Garnish desserts with a strawberry fan…so pretty! Starting at the tip, cut a strawberry into thin slices almost to the stem. Carefully spread slices to form a fan.

These tips and recipes came from our friends at Gooseberry Patch. Head to our website (folklifestyle.com) for your

chance to win Fresh from the Farmstand.

Best

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left photo: Sweet Pickins | center photo: Crown Point Cabinetry | right photo: Shangri~La Lane

SHORT STORYGINA YOUNG

Somewhere Worth Going {Part II}The sunlight streamed in from between the crooked blinds, illuminating the dust that floated through the air like…. It was a beautiful and tranquil morning, all aglow with the spring morning light. The storms had dissipated, leaving in their place a beautiful day for travelling. Sandra stirred as the light hit her face. She groaned and glanced at the clock, which read “11:45am.” Checkout time was at noon, and the girls had decided to wake up at 10, so they would have plenty of time to get ready, find the diner, and eat some breakfast before continuing on with their trip. The sharp panic of oversleep hit her as she bolted out of bed, yelling, “Tiffany! Wake up; it’s 11:45 and we overslept!” “Noooooo!” Tiffany quickly jumped out of bed and began rummaging through her suitcase, feverishly throwing clothes about the room while searching for something to wear. “Just throw on something; we’ve got to get everything packed and be checked out at noon, or we are paying for another night! And I am not about to stay here one second longer than we have to.”“Fine, fine, fine. I’m hurrying! But can I at least brush my teeth? We still have twelve minutes, and the checkout desk is not that far.”They managed to burst into the lobby just as the clock turned 12. “Well, y’all are finally up!”“We overslept…didn’t even hear our alarm. I’m not even sure how that’s possible!”“I forgot to tell you that alarm clock in there’s broken. I thought all you kids these days used your phones or somethin’. At least that’s what all the kids around here do. Sorry ‘bout that. I wouldn’t have charged ya even if ya was late checkin’ out, if that makes ya feel any better.” Tiffany shot Sandra a withering look. She was decidedly not a morning person, and the knowledge that she could have gotten a few more minutes’ sleep was little comfort to her. Instead, she turned her attention to her next immediate need: food. “Could we get directions to the diner you were telling us about?”Their question was met with a loud guffaw. “You girls ain’t from a small town, are ya? The whole town is just straight down that there road. The whole town’s blink and ya missed it. Though the diner is on the left, if that helps any,” he said with a grin. “Thanks, we appreciate your help,” Sandra said as she ushered Tiffany out the door. Once on the road again the girls realized that the twists and turns of the previous night’s driving were behind them, and the

drive into town was much less dramatic than the gut-wrenching, fear-inducing 90 degree curves around the mountains. Here, the mountains began to give way to a gentler and hillier terrain. One such graceful turn took them to the small town of Sadieville, population 500. Its appearance was similar to a small town movie set: picturesque and quaint, with townspeople walking their dogs and waving hello to one another. Freshly painted buildings with striped awnings surrounded the town square that was located to the left of the main road. And on the corner, directly next to the road, stood the Sadieville Cafe. The building was a classic two-story brown brick building with a faded green awning. A hand-lettered sign featured the words “Sadieville Cafe” in script, surrounded by mediocre paintings of flowers, added in an attempt to embellish the poor attempt at script. Their real-life counterparts were planted in a long window box beneath the large picture window. A HELP WANTED sign hung crookedly in the corner beneath a poster for It looked like every other small town in the country…but there was something in its quaint and picturesque beauty that beckoned the girls. It was simple, yet charming. The diner held inside a warm glow that emanated from its patrons. They all talked and joked as though they were old friends, which they were. The scent of grease mingled with the smell of heaven-sent pancakes, French toast, and bacon. Waitresses with sugary sweet accents called the patrons all manner of food-related nicknames—honey, sweetie, and sugar—before bringing them even sweet breakfasts…a doughnut from the tray on the counter, a stack of pancakes dripping with real maple syrup, and cinnamon rolls slathered in icing. It seemed as though the entire town turned up at the diner every [Saturday] morning. The entire place was filled with young families, whose children climbed over chairs and underneath the tables as they waited impatiently for their food; a few young couples sitting in the only date spot in the town, giggling and gazing at each other, oblivious to the people around them; and a large group of elderly men, drinking coffee and chewing the fat (figuratively and literally), talking about everything from their grandchildren to the new school superintendent. The later were by far the most entertaining group at the diner. They had pushed several tables together to fit their group

of ten in the middle of the diner. In their unironically worn trucker hats and flannel shirts they sat, discussing whether or not they liked the town council’s new plans to change downtown.“If y’all are ready, we’ve found ya a table. Follow me right this way,” said a waitress, with a puff of blonde bangs on her forehead reminiscent of a nineteen-eighties hair band. They followed her through the maze of diners, attempting not to trip over chairs or small children as they navigated the small space. Once seated, they were handed laminated menus, and the waitress advised them that the stuffed French toast was the best thing since sliced bread, which it essentially was. After she had taken their orders, Sandra and Tiffany had time to soak in their surroundings. The murmur of conversations washed over them as they sat sleepily in the diner, contemplating the delicious breakfast they were about to enjoy. Maybe it was the knowledge that a good meal was imminent, maybe it was the joyful laughter from two tables over… but suddenly, something changed. There, in the warmth of the old diner, they felt it. This place was much more than an old diner on some backroad in the middle of nowhere. It was a gathering place. It was a refuge from the outside world. It was a home. If a kitchen is the heart of a home, this diner was the heart of the little town. Finally, they felt it. They knew they had found what they were looking for—the warmth and happiness of a place worth going to.

// 24 //

Through the winding, cobbled streets of Boston, MA a crimson line of brick or paint weaves its way past the many cloisters of history throughout this city. Like a bloodline to the past this path makes its way through the city offering patrons devoted enough to walk its 2.5 mile trek a glimpse at the faded signs, timeworn bricks, and sapient monuments. These obelisks stand stoically, left behind to share the stories of the brave pioneers who helped create this nation. This line curves its way through the city like the signature of John Hancock, unmoved and undisturbed it writes for us a tale of determination, revolution, and freedom.

There’s something unexplainable about the feeling one gets being in the historical seat of the United States as we know them today. From as early as the 1600s, and further back still, the New England states became the economic, commercial, religious, and educational center for a New World on the cusp of bursting into life. It’s as if those early puritanical citizens have left that energy in those rivers, mountains, streams, forests, and cities to urge on the generations of patriots to come to pioneer the ideas and ideals of a people determined to make a nation that offers freedom to all.

It’s easy for me to admit that Boston is by far my favorite city in America. It’s true. From the warm knowing lawns of Boston Commons to the well-traveled North End the city is alive with neighbors and neighborhoods that make every street feel like home. Each street in Boston is a new adventure, and every day an opportunity to explore them. With warm cobbled streets beaten down by centuries of use or twentieth century concrete walkways each person traveling these streets is carried throughout a never-ending story of American roots. Walking past the Commons on one side you can travel into the past and on the other to present day.

The city is so alive with history and is still making history everyday. It is home to some of the oldest surviving buildings and

homes in the country, dating back to a time when the idea of a free nation were only murmurs by a few good men who refused to pay loyalist taxes. The Green Dragon may not be the same building that housed the secret meetings of the Sons of Liberty and started the American Revolution, but after its demolition in 1854 it was rebuilt in Boston to inspire future patriots, a monument to the American spirit.

One of America’s greatest revolutionaries, silversmiths, and early industrialists lived in Boston, making his mark on the silver, architecture, and military and American history. His home still stands in Boston, the oldest surviving home, an unassuming dark landmark from 1680 that once housed the great Paul Revere. In his industrialist career he left behind numerous copper and iron works including many bells he produced during the Second Great Awakening, the original copper dome of the State House on Beacon Hill, and in his political career he left behind the American nation we now call home.

There are many things that tie that rich past to the current city and the biggest example I have been able to find has been the food. Whether you’re in Boston for business or pleasure there’s no doubt you will probably visit Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall. The Quincy Market is a menagerie of iconic New England flavors and styles under one roof. From the hearty and rich clam chowder to the flaky and buttery spinach and goat cheese pastries, the Market offers its patrons unlimited opportunities to taste the history of this area. Fresh seafood and fresh produce combine in this place to create some of the finest New England dishes like fish and chips, Boston baked beans, apple pie, or crab boil. It’s also home to the replica of the place “Where Everybody Knows Your Name.” No worries, the original Cheers is still in historic Beacon Hill at 84 Beacon Street, but I wouldn’t expect to see Rhea Perlman, Kelsey Grammer, Ted Danson, or Kirstie Alley if you drop in.

For visitors that want to enjoy the local flavor of today’s Boston I always suggest visiting Newbury Street and the area around it. Located near Boston Commons and connecting Beacon Hill and Boston’s North and South Ends the street offers some of my favorite local businesses and illustrates some of the most beautiful architecture in the city. Some of my favorite restaurants and shops in the country lie on this one street, from The Met Bar and Grill on Dartmouth and Newbury—the home of my favorite mac-and-cheese, hands-down—to the Blues Jean Bar—a massive collection of American-made denim.

My favorite menswear business sits just across from The Met Bar and Grill, Ball & Buck. You may remember my story about its owner Mark Bollman in one of our first issue, since then the brand has grown and moved from its first location to its new presence on Newbury Street, bringing quality American-made menswear and a refined, country hunting aesthetic to Boston. On historic Tremont lies SAULT New England, another new-age haberdasher offering quality American-made items from luggage and clothing to housewares and pet accessories. SAULT combines artists and designers from around the country to create a collection of products that is representative of the traditional and contemporary New England identity.

Boston is one of those unique cities that you don’t find very often. Whether its the rich American history that fills its many bricks and buildings or its the unifying American spirit that connects its citizens the city of Boston is the birthplace of patriots and pioneers and feels rightly so. With neighbors that care for their historic neighborhoods and streets that tell a tale of a nation born from revolution, Boston is not just a city in America, it is truly the city of America.

BostonBY: HEATH STILTNER

Hi, I’m Scarlett Scales-Tingas with Scarlett Scales Antiques. I’ve been in business for a little over ten years now. My old store was in one of Franklin’s only existing shotgun houses and now we’ve expanded to a much larger space right around the corner, which is in an old Sears Roebuck house that they ordered from the Sears Roebuck catalog. My family was among the fi rst to settle Williamson County a long time ago. In fact I grew up in my family’s ancestral plantation home and I’ve always been surrounded by antiques. It’s always been a part of my life. My parents liked to go antiquing as a hobby when I was young. At fi rst I kind of got dragged along with them and didn’t really want to have to go. Then I became more interested in it and developed a passion for antiques and a love of old pieces and fi nding them new homes. I decided to open an antique business and make my passion my living right here in Franklin.

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It’s no secret that most everyone’s favorite part of summer is when the strong sunshine of summer beckons us that we may go outside and enjoy five minutes of its warmth. With the warm mornings, turning into hot days, and mild evenings we are offered an opportunity to go outside and enjoy a bit of free time with our families and friends. This summer we wanted to offer some of our favorite summer pastime games that would’ve also been played by the citizens of the New England colonies and later states.

New England pioneers may not have had the most time to play outside with their children, but it's apparent that these are the types of games that their children would've played. From Boston to Philadelphia New Englanders would've know about the sport of Bocce as passed down through the centuries by Egyptians and Romans, would've played a simple game of ring toss at local fairs and celebrations, and would cleared their lawns for a quick game of croquet in the later 1800s. So, take an opportunity this summer to play some of the sports of our ancestors and enjoy your free time in the same way they would've enjoyed theirs.

BOCCE BALL

The object of this game is pretty simple, there are four balls per team and one tiny white ball called a jack. Each team gets a chance to throw the jack to the center of a lawn and the closest to the middle gets to go first. Each team then takes turns trying to pitch a bocce bail, underhanded, toward the jack in an effort to get their ball closest to it. After each pitch, the team with the ball closest to the jack forfeits their turn to the other team so that they may try. Each team should try to get their ball closest to the jack and can knock the opposing teams ball out of the way to do so. After all of the balls have been thrown, the team with the ball closest to the jack wins.

RING TOSS

Arrange 9 bottle of varying sizes and colors in a 3x3 square. Taking turns with three rings each, have participants stand ten paces away and try to ring as many bottles as possible. Best in 5 rounds wins.

CROQUET

The word “Croquet” referring to the game we no play today first appearend in the registration of a document containing its

rule in England in 1856. The game however traveled across the ocean with European citizens and became a beloved pastime in the New England states. The rules of this game are somewhat difficult to explain so after you pick up your croquest set, we suggest you visit www.oxfordcroquet.com.

LAWN DARTS

We used a vintage set, often available at vintage fairs. The rules are simple and very similar to Ring Toss. Two competitors throw two darts each, at three round targets on the ground placed 15 paces from throwers. The rings are arranged much like a Mickey Mouse shape, with one large ring closest to the throwers—worth one point, should the thrower land one inside—and two smaller rings that should lie diagonally behind and to the left and right of the larger hoop—these rings are worth 3 points each. The best of 5 rounds wins!

LAWN BOWLING

Ten bottles are arranged in a triangle just like in regular bowling, the rules and scoring system is the same. We like to use a spare bocce ball to bowl.

— HEATH STILTNER

New England is the home of all that is good and noble with all her sternness and uncompromising opinions. “

“- ELLEN HENRIETTA SWALLOW RICHARDS