For Derek's Birthday I Didn't Buy a Useless Antique

Yesterday was Derek's birthday.  The Vikings were gracious enough to grant him a birthday win, I made him a giant birthday cookie, and my mom and Mark, since they were in town, offered to watch the kids while the birthday boy and I went on a date.

We enjoyed a nice dinner out and Derek tortured himself at a golf store, but in between those two we went to the Brass Armadillo, antique mall extraordinaire.  (If you click on that link back there, brace yourselves:  There are painful spelling and grammatical errors galore on their website.  Hear me now, friends:  "Isles" DOES NOT equal "Aisles."  When they write "Stroll through isles of..." I, naturally, picture hopping from island to island of antiques and quirky vintage treasures, not, as I can only assume they mean, walking through aisles of the same.)

The thing is, I love the Brass Armadillo.  It's where I adopted Hermione.  I almost always find super creepy dolls and marionettes to snap pictures of and send to my traumatized sisters.  I found a beautifully illustrated old hardcover copy of one of my favorite books there for two dollars.  (Just like this one, actually.)  When I visit that place, I like to take my time, examining any items that catch my eye (read:  half the things there, taking upwards of two hours.  I recognize that this is crazy.).

But when Derek and I went yesterday, he had a stern talk with me before entering, reminding me that we were on a mission, that we were looking for a specific item, that I needed to focus.  I did spectacularly well the first three steps in the door, until I saw a Christmas tree full of truly tacky old ornaments.  I faltered for a few seconds before muttering "Get behind me, Satan!"  (I couldn't tell if the lady manning the welcome station by the front door heard me or not; interpreting her facial expression was rather difficult due to the bold decision to paint her eyebrows on her forehead.)

Thereafter I was a model shopper, whipping up and down aisles in search of a coat tree, pausing only once in a moment of weakness caused by an antique bed warmer.  This is precisely the kind of thing that calls out to me at antique stores, begging to be taken to its forever home.  I knew Derek would ask ridiculous questions like, "What exactly are you going to do with it?  Where are you going to put it?"  Because "Smile at it," pretty much never satisfies him, I tried to frame some kind of persuasive response.  I mentally appealed to his logical side:  "Use it for its original purpose!"  Unfortunately we don't have a ready supply of coal and I had a sneaking suspicion that Derek would veto potentially burning our children alive, anyway.

Still in search of a loving home.

So it was with great sadness that I moved past the bed warmer, sending out psychological messages of "It's not you but it's also not me, it's my husband," which is probably a common refrain in there; rational spouses ruin all the fun but also save lives.

Thankfully I had this fun little trinket to console me when I got home:

My mom ferried this up to me from my grandma.  If you don't have a grandma who buys you random old stuff at auctions, I feel sorry for you.

It's a small tin grease pot that's a little dusty on the outside but immaculate inside.  It makes me wonder if it was ever used, given its purpose.

Actually, what is its purpose?

There's a removable strainer that sits just under the lid, then another at the inner entrance to the spout.  I'm assuming you pour the grease from your bacon or beef or whatever into the top, through the first sieve, then it gets strained a second time when you go to pour that same grease... where?  All over your food?  (retch)  I don't really understand the need to strain and then pour grease onto anything.  I pour our excess grease straight from the pan into an empty can and keep it in the freezer until it's full and ready to toss.  

Still, I like the look of it, and every time I walk by it I find myself singing "Grease is the word, have you heard, it's the word..."  Plus I just found the exact same thing on an ebay auction; it sold for $26 + $10 shipping, and I can promise you my grandma didn't pay that much.

I've also been throwing lots of smiles in its direction, although I've yet to find a good place for it.  I've had it in the kitchen windowsill, but that's a dangerous location as it's right in Derek's line of sight.  It'll probably end up where everything else does: on one of the piles of books scattered throughout the house.  Hey, it's smaller than a bed warmer, right?

How to Name Your Chicken

It's been a busy week around here.  I've generally either been outside, gardening, or I've been running around doing things that are difficult to do with three small children in tow: getting my hair cut, going to the architectural salvage place, trying to give blood (I say "trying" because I was rejected again.  It was particularly pathetic this time; when I walked in, the lady up front recognized me and brightly asked, "Trying again?"  After checking me in, she said, "I'm pulling for you!"  The two ladies who were in the waiting area had overheard our conversation and politely inquired, so I explained that my iron levels tend to be too low and they won't let me donate- but I keep trying!  It turned out my levels were too low this time around, too- the nurse tried to let me down easy, but it was still sad to return to the waiting area and have all three women let out a disappointed collective "Awww!" when they saw me.  The young volunteer tried to cheer me up- "You can still have some cookies if you want!"  But really all I want is to give some blood.  SOMEDAY.  Someday it will happen!  Or I guess someday I'll finally go to the doc and get some bloodwork done to get this iron thing checked out, which my mom has not-so-subtly been encouraging me to do for the past couple years.  Okay, end of ridiculously long parenthetical story.), and going to one of my very favorite places:

The antique mall.

I love that place.  It's humongous, the prices are fair, and it's chock-full of just about every rusty, cute, weird, awesome old thing you could think of.  Creepy marionettes?  Check.  Antique goat bell?  Check.  Butter churn?  Check.  Old postcards that I could spend hours flipping through and reading?  Check.

I don't get to go through there very often-  it's not too far away, but some places really just aren't meant for little kids- but when I do, I could wander for hours.  And yesterday, that's just what I did.

I pored through a stack of disturbingly fascinating Victorian-era funeral photographs.  I'm not sure why they insisted on having professional photos of their loved ones in caskets taken, but they did.  Thrillingly creepy.


I contemplated purchasing the aforementioned goat bell.  I think it would be a quirky addition to one of those photo galleries you see so often on Pinterest.  A collection of framed photographs of family members hanging on a wall, all grouped charmingly together, plus a goat bell hanging somewhere in there to add interest and dimension.  People would ask, "Oh, what's this bell?  Is it a family heirloom or something?"  And I'd say, "Nope.  It's just a goat bell.  Because goat bell."

But really, I knew I'd found exactly what I needed about ten minutes after walking in.  I walked by it, and I just knew.

I walked away, trying to mentally talk myself out of the purchase.  I walked all around the building, trying to ignore it.  After I'd gone down every aisle and poked through nearly every vendor's stall, I went back to it and walked back and forth, circled it, then finally hunkered down and looked it straight in the eye.

That, my friends, is a cast iron chicken that weighs as much as one of our children.  As you can see, she's already found a home on our front porch.

I had a heck of a time naming her.  After wrestling her up to the counter to pay for her (where all the older people who work there admired her, as was her due- that's another thing I love about that place: the people who both work and those who apparently just kind of hang out at the antique mall are just about the nicest people on earth), then staggering out to the van with her in tow, I drove home happily, contemplating just what kind of name fits a chicken of her obviously distinguished pedigree.  

I had pretty much settled on Winston when I remembered she's not a rooster.  Sometimes I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed.

After that I decided that she was most definitely a Wilhelmina, named after one of my Grandpa's sisters.  But of course she'd only be Wilhelmina when she was in trouble.  The rest of the time she'd just be Billie.

Wilhelmina- Billie- just wasn't really working for me, though.  And that's when it hit me.

Hermione.  The perfect name for my cast iron chicken.  She's clever.  She's magical.  And sure, Derek pronounced her "Hideous" when he came home and saw what I'd done, but she's smart enough not to listen to that kind of criticism.  

Hermione the Hen.  Perfect.

 Between Hermione and those pillows- another project I managed to complete whilst the children were away- I feel like our porch is nearly complete.  All that's missing is a Boston fern.  And whatever other cast iron monstrosity just begging for a home I come across in the future.

I Should Probably Start Wearing Thicker Gardening Gloves

One of the fun things about living on an older property are the things you find while digging in the soil.

Did I say fun?  I meant dangerous.


Perhaps, when you think of treasures found in the dirt around an old home, you imagine cool old glass bottles and other interesting artifacts of a time gone by.  Maybe you think about that one time you were digging in the dirt at the teeny tiny house you lived in when you were really young and you found an old, small toy truck.

And by "you," I mean "me."  I wonder whatever happened to that truck?


When the weather's nice, I do quite a bit of digging around here.  I love planting flowers, and although the previous owners had done some landscaping, it's been a joy to add it.

At this point, I really can't remember what all I planted over the course of the recent summer and spring seasons, but I know I planted a couple drumstick primroses, an english primrose, several purple coneflowers, some asters, alaska shasta daisies, and a few pink astilbe.

And I think I tripped and fell and planted seven mums.

And I just planted 74 tulips bulbs a couple weeks ago.  I'm pretty anxious to see how they'll come up in the spring:  ten pink impression, 14 white and red and pink ones whose name I can't remember, and 50 of the new orange impressions I spied in the Breck's Wholesale catalog.  That thing will be the death of me.

Curiously, the only thing I could think about while digging all those holes for the bulbs was how comforting it will be for Derek and the kids to have these beautiful flowers with which to console themselves in the spring if I die this winter.

I'm not sick or anything.  You just never know.

New mums!

Digging holes, contemplating tulips and death, I found the newest stash of broken glass and rusty nails in one of our flower beds. 

That's right.  Nearly every time I get to digging around the perimeter of the house, I come across broken glass, rusty nails, or broken glass mixed in with rusty nails if I'm particularly lucky that day.

On the rare occasion I'm not playing it fast and loose with tetanus, I'm hacking away at tree roots that sprawl just under the surface of the yard, stretching out from the GIGANTIC conifer in our front yard that I just know is going to crush our house someday.

Which I'll write about tomorrow.  (Depending on how Adelaide's parent/teacher conferences go tonight.  If anything fun happens there, I'll be sure to let you know.  I wouldn't count on it, however; she's a good student, which creates zero fodder for the blog.  So ungrateful.)

\

The Newest Addition to Our Family

Derek and I are both blessed to have very generous families.

A prime example of this generosity is our house: much of the furnishings in our home are gifts from either Derek's family or my own.

An example within that example (there's a glitch in the Matrix!) is Caedmon's bedroom, which is entirely populated by furniture that was either mine when I was a kid and thus handed down by my mom, or was gifted to us by Derek's parents and my grandparents.

One of the hand-me-down's is a small dresser that was used by first me, then my sisters, then our older two kids when we were all babies.

But the thing about babies is they grow up.  When they grow up they get bigger.  When they get bigger they start wearing larger clothes.  And when they start wearing larger clothes, they need somewhere to put that clothing.

When I saw that we were going to need a larger dresser for Caedmon, I put the word out to my family.  My grandparents are big auction-goers, and you never know what forgotten furniture is lurking in some family member's basement.

Within a couple months, the fam (I'm still not clear on who got this, Mom- was it Grandma?  Did you say something about Sherry being involved?  I'm confused, as usual) came through:  my mom and Mark brought this beauty to us on their visit.

*Cue angelic music.*

It's old, and it has character, and I love it.

Obviously, it's not perfect.

Does it need to be refinished?  Yes.

Could the mirror afford to be re-silvered?  Yes.

Did I find a bar of soap in one of the drawers that had the unmistakable tooth marks of a rodent all around the edge?  Yes.

Did I vacuum no less than ten spider egg sacks out from the underside of it?  Yes.

But it fit nicely into our budget (FREE), the drawers all work (thanks, Grandpa!), and it's size provides some much-needed storage space.

Did I mention how pretty it is?

Oh!  And it also had this on the back:

I really have no idea as to the age of the dresser, but after Googling some of the info on the back, I know that the address it was shipped from, 925 Homan Avenue, Chicago, was home to the Sears Roebuck Company in the early and mid parts of the 20th century.  I learned that the railroad it was shipped on saw its heyday in the 1920's.  I was also able to find one Eliza M Rose that lived in Canton, Missouri and was born in 1870.  Is that the same woman whose name is on this packing slip?  I have no idea.  But it's a possibility. 

Any research/ antique buffs reading this can feel free to give me some pointers.  I am very much an amateur, here.  Obviously.

Yay for cool old junky stuff!

Mind Your Manners

You know, I've always thought of myself as a polite person.  I say "please" and "thank you" (and am constantly telling my kids that it isn't "yeah," it's Yes, please; and it isn't "no," it's No, thank you; oh, and the biggie: it is NOT "I want milk!" it's May I have some milk, please?  I swear to you I chant that phrase in my sleep).  I hold the door open for other people in public places (and tried not to snarkily mutter "You're welcome" under my breath when the masses back East couldn't be bothered to say "Thank you"). 

I do my level best not to commit any major social gaffes, and I think that good manners make society as a whole easier to tolerate. 

To reiterate:  I am a polite person.

Or I thought I was. 

Over the weekend, I went to the Brass Armadillo, a local antique mall (which I love and really deserves a post all it's own where I can gush unbecomingly about the maze of awesome stuff that makes up that store), and purchased a book.  It was from a series of books first published in the 1920's called the What Every Child Should Know Library.  This one is a reprint from 1939, entitled Etiquette:  What Every Child Should Know. 

This is the front cover:

This photo is displayed again on one of the first pages of the book, and it's caption reads

Gracious Hospitality Is An Art Youth Should Grow Up With

When Betty brings out mother's best china and invites Bob in for a cup of tea, she is not only setting tea to swing time in the modern American manner, she is also taking the first step towards her future poise and popularity as a hostess.

First of all, what does "swing time" mean?  Is "swing" a verb, as in Betty is swinging time, or is "swing time" an actual time of day, or what? 

The first text of the book, and I'm already out of my depth. 

I was taken by surprise again and again as I opened the book at random to peruse it's contents. 

Never blow on spoonfuls of food. (Apparently you are supposed to test the food or drink ONCE and ONCE ONLY to see if it's too hot- after that you just have to be patient or scald your tongue.)

Cut spaghetti with your fork and eat it as if it were a vegetable.

A boy is taken over to a girl, to be introduced; the girl is never brought to the boy.

Even in very small towns, the "drug store gang" is not in good repute.  (This makes me think of the ladies I worked with at my hometown drug store, and I laugh.  Hard.)

Don't talk "baby-talk," even to babies.  Murder is almost justified in the case of the "baby-talker."  (I did not make that up.  It seriously says that.)

No girl with good manners combs her bobbed hair at table over the plates or arranges her hair in any way.  As hats are always worn by girls at restaurants, one wonders why this statement is made.  Ask the waiter.  He sees strange sights. 

And on and on and on.

Evidently these were things that children were all supposed to be aware of in 1930's America.  I'd like to see most American adults try to follow a quarter of the guidelines proposed in this book. 

I did feel slightly vindicated upon finding, on page 182, the following.passage:

"Please" and "Thank you" are small civilities indeed, but they are the hall mark of the well bred and the naturally courteous.

Ha!  You see, our little family is, um, "well bred" (oh, that one really makes me snigger, picturing certain relatives glimpsed at childhood family reunions whom I swear were more in- than well-bred), and "naturally courteous" (those "pleases" and "thank you's" uttered by my children are genetic manifestations, it's not due to hours and weeks and years of harping by their mother).  I feel better.

I do enjoy reading this book; it gives me fodder for conversations with my children about etiquette and manners.  I don't, however, think I will be instructing them not to use first names in public and on the street, nor will I shriek at Adelaide, "Blots are inexcusable!  This book says so!" when reviewing her work from school. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go ponder the statement, Don't leave rubbers outside the door, a la the Mohammedan, or umbrellas.  What's a Mohammedan, and what precisely do they mean by rubbers...?

Old-Fashioned

I love old things.  Old books, old photos, old houses.

Our house was built in 1900.  I fell in love with it the first time I saw it.  I love the woodwork, the built-in benches, the pocket doors. 

When we first moved in, I was an old-house novitiate.  I grew up in a newer-construction house, and had never before lived in a structure as old as this one.  I quickly learned that there are qualities unique to old homes, and certain things you need to beware of.  I learned one such lesson one late summer night, just a few months after we had moved in. 

Derek and I were sitting on the couch in the living room.  Atticus and Adelaide were tucked away in their beds.  The tv was on, but Derek had fallen asleep, all tuckered out after a long day.  I was sitting beside him, absorbed in a book.  Suddenly, I saw something out of the corner of my eye.  "Hmmm," I thought.  "That was an awfully big moth."

Still reading, but also aware that there was some kind of flying insect in the house, my head snapped up when the moth again flew by.  By now, however, I knew it wasn't a moth.  I jabbed Derek in the side with my elbow and said, "Derek!  There's a bird in the house!"  My husband roused himself enough to open his eyes and look sleepily around for a couple minutes.  When the bird didn't reappear, he mumbled something like, "I don't see anything," and went back to sleep.  I continued to try and read, but by now it was hopeless.  I was too jumpy.

I poked Derek and told him I was going up to bed.  He woke up just long enough to haul himself up the stairs and fall into bed.  I settled in next to him, still awake, still sure I had seen something.  After a few minutes, I heard something downstairs.  I again poked Derek and hissed, "There's something downstairs!"  He heaved a deep sigh and layed there, listening, for a full minute. 

Silence.  "I don't hear anything," he said, undisguised annoyance coloring his voice.  I got the distinct feeling he was tired of his paranoid wife waking him up when he was exhausted, so I laid there, determined to ignore any more sounds from downstairs and go to sleep. 

A few minutes later, I heard more sounds from the first floor of our house.  But these were different.  They were extremely high-pitched chattering sounds.  And I finally knew what was in our house.

It was a bat.

I knew very little about bats.  So I figured I'd just let it hang out downstairs for the night, because I sure wasn't waking my husband up again.  And going downstairs to take care of it myself was out of the question.  I closed my eyes, smug that for once, there really was something in the house.  I wasn't just being paranoid. 

I was nearly asleep when I felt an odd whooshing sensation over me.  My eyes flew open, and with horror I realized  the bat was in our bedroom, flying over our bed.  I threw the covers over my head and kicked Derek awake, shrieking, "It's-a-bat-it's-a-bat-it's-a-bat!"  He jumped out of bed, and the games began.

Before that night, I had no idea how fast bats are.  They fly with amazing speed and maneuverability.  That bat swooped throughout our house, back and forth, and every time I thought it was going to hit something, it would make a hairpin turn and flash back out of the room.  It would have been impressive had I not been so terrified.  Derek spent the next hour trying to get that thing out of our house.  He opened the front door to try and coax it outside, he tried chasing it through the house.  Bats are very nimble prey. 

I was a big help.  I followed Derek downstairs, because I was too much of a pansy to stay upstairs in our bedroom alone with a bat on the loose.  Instead, I cowered on the couch, squealing and pulling a quilt over my head every time it flew back into the living room.  Eventually Derek made it clear that I was going to have to help, and I was stationed in the doorway between the front entryway and the kitchen, holding up the quilt to close off that doorway.  His plan was to seal off all possible areas of the house, trap and then catch the bat.  After awhile, we realized the bat was no longer flying around.  We couldn't find it upstairs.  We couldn't find it downstairs.  Earlier, I had gone upstairs to make sure the kids' bedroom doors were closed to keep the bat from bothering them.  As we found out that night, however, bats can squeeze through very small spaces, and managed to get into Adelaide's room.  I darted in and carried our sleeping daughter out of the room, while Derek continued to stalk his prey.  He found the bat in the corner of the room, behind some bins holding stuffed animals. 

Derek and the bat battled.  Derek won.  He disposed of the bat, and we went back to bed.

Not ten minutes later, we heard something downstairs.  There was another bat. 

We drug ourselves back downstairs.  Fortunately, Derek is a fast learner, and was by now an efficient bat-stalker.  He captured and rid us of another bat. 

We went to sleep.  There were no more bats that night. 

Apparently, it's quite common for bats to find their way into old houses.  After that night, I felt I had successfully (if cowardly) made my way through a bat-experience.

Until the next morning, when our sweet three-year-old daughter came to me and told me about the dream she'd had the night before.  She had dreamt there was a bird flying around her room, and it came down and bit her on the cheek. 

And I freaked out.



Because this has already become a novella, I'll have to continue it tomorrow.  The chitlins are hollerin' fer some grub.