And what powered it?
Author Archive
18
Jun 2010
Meet my dad. This one on the left is one of my favorite photos of him as a child. Of course, he doesn’t look very happy (but given that diaper, are you surprised?) The first time I saw this photo, I couldn’t understand how my grandma could let her kid play on a lawnmower. But look closely. It’s clearly built for children, but I’ve no idea what to call it. Suggestions?
My grandpa’s family hails from Freelandville, Indiana where I have a number of distant relatives still farming. Visiting the family farm where my grandfather grew up and my father spent his childhood summers was always a treat. As kids, we wore the blue and white striped overalls long before Osh Kosh B’Gosh became trendy kid wear. 
We played in corn harvesters, jumped from hay bail to hay bail, rode in huge farm equipment, teased goats, visited the baby pigs (And were corrected every time. Hogs, not pigs). But my favorite place of all was the chicken yard.
With a look of great tolerance, my distant great aunt would send my sister and me out to collect the fresh eggs (no doubt we ruined the egg collection for days). Then, when the task was done, we were finally allowed to put the chickens to sleep just like my father had taught us.
No. Not that kind of sleep.
As elementary school age kids, my sister and I ran beneath low-lying branches, scrambled behind bushes, caught the chickens one at a time. (Chickens are fast, they can turn on a dime, but we kept at it for as long as it took.)
We’d catch each chicken, gently tuck its head beneath a wing, gently clamp the wing down on its head, and swing the chicken slowly – back and forth like a pendulum. And the chicken would fall asleep. And stay asleep.
We lined them up, one at a time until only the swiftest of the swift chickens ran free. Then – as only grade school children can – we’d scream at the top of our lungs. All at once the chickens would jump up, squawking and clucking and running for cover.
So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for the chicken lessons.
16
Jun 2010
The wildlife just keeps trying to come in.
Last week a chipmunk, a few weeks before that a little brown mouse. (The cat was toying with it and when I rescued said mouse. Both he and I were convinced he was dead. Since there was no obvious injury, I carried him outside and as the shock wore off, mouse hopped to his feet, panted for a few moments, then ran off into the underbrush.)
This morning my eldest noticed a chittering sound and the cat pawing at a window. A baby wren (his tail was far too short to be an adult) was clinging to the inside of the screen. Somehow he’d managed to squeeze through a 1/2 inch opening, trapping himself between the screen and our closed window. Mom (or dad) was in the bush just outside the window hopping from branch to branch chittering his alarm/worry/displeasure at our presence.
My husband retrieved a scrap of material, I pushed open the window and caught the flapping baby in my hands. We zoomed through the house and out the front door. I held up the baby to his door and he hopped right back in the nest.
Not the best first day in flight school.
Here are the babies (you can see only one of three) as they were last week:
I sincerely hope our wildlife visitors don’t grow any larger.
11
Jun 2010
I love the chipmunks that live around my house. Love watching them zoom around the patio outside my screened porch. So does my cat.
Today, Darwin had an extra treat when one ventured inside the screened porch. This is what I found:
I opened the door wide and gave the chipmunk a little nudge. He didn’t need much convincing.
Bet he won’t be back.
07
Jun 2010
I grew up in small town America. The oldest buildings here date to the Victorian era when Sayre, PA was a major railroad town. This bandstand, built in 1886, was painted white during my childhood and was a major destination during walks. At one point the bandstand had fallen into such disrepair that the platform was blocked by a chain. Happily, sometime in the 1990s there was a resurgence of pride in the Victorian heritage of my town and the bandstand (along with a number of other buildings) was refurbished and repainted. I have no childhood memories of a band ever playing here, but now there is a summer concert series that sets up and plays from this 124 year old structure.
And in the next town over, Waverly, NY, another smaller bandstand.
30
Apr 2009
Historic Deerfield in Massachusetts has some famous doors. In 1760, a famous wood joiner named Samuel Partridge built a door for the house of Reverend John Williams. Many neighbors then sought to replicate its style. This original door is on display in the Flynt Center of Early New England Life, a museum maintained by Historic Deerfield.
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Below is a montage of the doors I passed on a visit to Historic Deerfield. I’d love to show you the amazing interiors, but photographs are not allowed.
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22
Aug 2008
This morning I cooked my sons fried egg sandwiches and found this:
Apparently they’re very rare and the chicks will not hatch (they can’t acess the air pocket when there are two in the egg). For way more info than you probably want, you can read Twin Yolks and Twin Chooks?
The kids thought it was pretty cool and the oldest had a lot of questions about twins… but no remorse about eating the fried egg.
23
May 2008
What did a nineteenth century family do when they needed more space? Wanted to attach the house to the barn? Or wanted to keep the kitchen separate from the more formal dining room and parlor?
They built an ell. It means exactly what it sounds like – the addition was built at a right angle to the original house forming an ‘L’. They didn’t always stop with just one addition – if the family grew, then so did the house.
During my trip to Historic Deerfield, MA earlier this spring, I took these photos of two houses with ells. I think it gives a rather rambling look to the house and makes me wonder why each addition always seems smaller….
As a writer, I like to think about the history behind why the additions were built and the conflicts it might have caused. Were the children separated from visiting adults? Were people sneaking around in secret passageways placed between the two structures? Did a new bride find herself under the thumb of her mother-in-law? Was a crazy old relative housed in the new attic?
What does the building of an ell make you think of?
13
May 2008
In Wait for Their Return, my historical character needs appropriate dishes. Some of these dishes are made from redware, a kind of pottery that went into production in America in 1625. Redware was given its name because that was the color the clay turned after firing. The production of redware continued at high levels until the mid-19th century when the industrial revolution began to offer alternatives and many potters moved west or began to work in mills.
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In the photos below (taken at Old Sturbridge Village, MA), you can see a potter with wet hands turning what appears to be the beginning of a mug. The next step is to let the clay dry for several days before dipping it in a reddish brown glaze. When enough pottery is accumulated, it will be stacked inside the large kiln. The opening is bricked up and the pottery is fired by building a fire at the base of the kiln until a temperature of 1850 degrees F is reached. In the last photos, you see some of the finished products.
For more information about redware visit Old Sturbridge Village.
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Category: Historical, Writing
Tags: kiln, Old Sturbridge Village, OSV, potter, pottery, Redware Leave a Comment
29
Apr 2008
Wait for Their Return incorporates a lot of historical facts from the 1830s. To get the details as accurate as possible, I spent a huge amount of time reading and researching. The library has seen a lot of me this past year.
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I also made several trips to Sturbridge Village in order to get a feel for the time period (their reconstruction aims to set them in the year 1840).
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In my novel, a lot of attention is focused on an old kitchen and open hearth cooking. To get a better feel for this experience (library research can only take you so far), I spent an evening in Sturbridge Village participating in their open hearth cooking class.
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I peeled vegetables with an old fashioned knife (appreciation for my peeler grew) and measured ingredients in an entirely new manner (I felt like I was just guessing).
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I helped spit the meat, and watched as the interpreter placed it in a ‘tin kitchen’. You can see this tin kitchen in the photo below – it’s the silver half-cylinder facing the fire. This cooking utensil was a huge leap forward in its time as it allowed the cook to use the reflected heat of the fire to evenly roast a chicken or a cut of meat. We had to remember to turn the spit every ten minutes (no timer) and set the wire into the next notch. Before its invention, many a roast was burned on one side and nearly raw on the other (yuck).
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Frying with hot embers on the fireplace hearth is a whole different experience from using the stovetop – not to mention the level at which you work (the floor). Stay close to the fire too long and you overheat, stand too far away and it can grow rather chilly. You have to remember not to grab the cast iron handles bare-handed and grab them you must. Many rest on small tripod legs and are a bit tipsy. One wrong move and your dinner is on the floor in the ashes.
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As the daylight faded, we had to finish preparing the meal by candlelight. I was glad most of the cutting and chopping was done. We were informed that, by 1840 standards, we were working with an excessive number of candles.
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My favorite part was learning how to use the bake oven. The interpreters had arrived hours before us to prepare the oven. It takes between four and five hours of a lively fire to heat the bricks enough to bake bread. You can see the fire burning in the upper right corner. Many people think that the fire is built in the bottom opening with the bread placed in the upper opening. The lower opening is for collecting all the ashes you generate (those are carefully saved for soap making). When the oven was hot enough, we let the fire die out before carefully shoveling out the coals and sweeping out the interior with a wet broom. Our rolls were then inserted and a cast iron door was set in place.
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After a good three hours of work, we set the table, learned some 1840s manners (eat with your knife, not your fork) and enjoyed the results. It was wonderful! The roast was perfect, the fried vegetables were crispy, the rolls and pie perfect. The meal was easily one of the best I’d ever had.
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So, as I eye our fireplace at home and look online to see if you can still buy a ‘tin kitchen’ (you can), my husband grows nervous. Cast iron pans have entered my home and I would love nothing more than to install a crane (the iron arm that pots hang from) inside the firebox.
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Category: Historical, Writing
Tags: 1840, bake oven, Old Sturbridge, Old Sturbridge Village, open hearth cooking, OSV Leave a Comment
