Any guesses as to who was known in the late 1800s and early 1900s as “The Charles Dickens of the Nursery”? Probably not, unless like Yvonne of the Priorhouse blog, you’re a fan of old and dusty books.
Little Prudy’s Captain Horace, circa 1863. Before you get the wrong idea, Captain Horace is boy who dreams of being a captain. Not some sort of middle age pervert stalking Little Prudy.
It was Sophie May, the pen name of Rebecca Sophia Clarke who spent her entire life in Norridgewick Maine (or perhaps Norridgewock. River Gal, perhaps you know?) Like Dickens, her stories started out being published in magazines such as The Congregationalist and Little Pilgrim where they were considered more realistic than the moralistic children’s tales of the day. Her most popular series was The Little Prudy Series.
M.A. Donohue & Company published high quality children’s books until the 1960s! Now they are more famous for their building on Printer’s Row in Chicago.
I have, in my collection of damaged and dusty, water and coffee stained, and undoubtedly worthless books … two Miss Prudy books. They belonged to Helen Nelson, my maternal grandmother.
Aside from Miss Prudy, described by her creator below:
Miss May also wrote about Dotty Dimple (who seemed to be quite the adventuress), Flaxie Frizzle and the Quinnebasset Sisters.
However, I was a little shocked to find this notation in the back of the book.
Did my grandmother fail to return a library book? Heavens, what would Flaxie Frizzle have thought?
Also belonging to my grandmother were a couple of books by Edgar A. Guest (1881-1959). Anyone care to guess what he was known as?
Aside from:
“The last man in the world is Edgar Guest”
Internal monologue of Robert Neville in I Am Legend, by Richard Matheson.
It’s hard to believe but, ready or not, here comes June. The Merry Month of June known to many foggy coastal communities as “June Gloom.”
The Japanese Midori Calendar
There may be no state-sanctioned days off in Japan during June but there are regional festivals all over the country. Of course, it’s the same here in the United States. When I was a single mom I always dreaded June. School ended and yet summer camps wouldn’t begin for at least a week. And then there were all those weddings and graduations and money just flew out the door. This country has never been child friendly and it looks like it will be getting worse.
Sunlight hitting the lilies on the hill.
But at least the weather is neither too cold or hot and the days are long. Best, I think, to enjoy the break before summer really takes hold and lasts (at least here) until the beginning of October.
A poem by someone I’m proud to call a friend: Layton Alberto Francesco Damiano
My brother Oz got married when he was sixteen to a gal who claimed she was bearing his child. Two years later, after said child failed to materialize, Oz dropped out of school and joined the Navy. Next thing I heard, he was sailing the seven seas in a nuclear sub although technically I don’t think you sail a sub. He was still legally married but that all changed after he and a fellow seaman got drunk and destroyed a Jeep while on duty. Oz lucked out with only a medical discharge from the Navy but that brought Perma Pregnant Paulette back into the picture. She claimed to need far more medical assistance than the heap of broken bones she was still legally married to.
Oz, after being released from the Naval hospital
Flash forward a few scant years (maybe it was only one) and Brother Oz was again called to the altar to “do the right thing.” Only this time, not at city hall. Oh no. Bride Number Two was the gregarious daughter of the biggest Harley Davidson dealer in Southern California. This wedding would done right with Daddy renting an entire Ramada Inn for the reception. Due to LA traffic, I missed most of the actual wedding ceremony, arriving just after the “I dos” had been said and the bride and groom were exiting the church on a pair of matching white Harleys. I kid you not. As they burst into the blazing sun, their guests rushed past us to leap on their own bikes (most but not all Harleys) to follow the bride and groom to the Ramada Inn. What a sight that was. The bride in her fluffy white gown and veil, and the groom in a white tux, roaring down the freeway followed by various representatives of the many biker clubs in SoCal all proudly wearing their insignia.
“Pigs in a blanket!” My step mother said derisively as she examined the table of refreshments. The bride’s parents had not asked for her expert advice on the proper finger food to serve at a reception. “Did you make sure to lock your doors?”
For you non-foodies, Pigs in a Blanket
“I doubt anyone is going to steal our old, gutless Toyota in a parking lot full of Harley Davidsons.” I replied. Did I mention that Oz is technically my step brother?
K in her pearls listening to Born to Be Wild at Oz’ s wedding. The only picture I have of the event.
With nary a concern for protocol or ceremony, the blossoming bride and her daddy soon kicked off their shoes and took to the dance floor for a sentiment rendering of Born to be Wild. Well, as sentimental a rendering as could be performed by weekend musicians kicking around empty Budweiser cans on the stage.
I had three young children with me and so, after a few rounds of Born to be Wild (the only song the band knew how to play), we congratulated the bride and groom and left to find a quiet place offering a bit more than pigs in a blanket and ice-cold Budweiser. I felt a bit guilty leaving my poor father behind. He’d begun chatting about the constellations with some bearded fellow wearing dungarees and a sleeveless tee that exposed all his tattoos while my step mother sipped her tepid water in sweetly smiling disgust.
Anyway the point of this story is: the bride really was pregnant this time and delivered a boy they named Hawk. I’m sure he was riding Harleys before he could walk but his life took a different path. He’s now a social worker married to a sweet looking chap who works in a similar field. Yes, they are gay. A fact which cemented in my step mother’s mind the ugly truth that her sweet, gullible youngest had once again been taken advantage of by a female.
Not long after Hawk arrived, they welcomed a daughter. A beautiful child who so resembled my step mother that there was no doubting who her father was this time.
And so you ask … is there a point to this story? Here is my niece:
I think she has the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. I’ve tried many times to capture what it is about her that makes her so beautiful but I think it is beyond the skills of any artist.
Perhaps it’s because she lives in her own world. In our world, she will only say “I love you.”
From her HS graduation card. Oz and his wife are making sure she has as many normal experiences as possible.
I have only met her a few times and generally at sad events but… I always get a familiar hug.
My mother, who heard everyone’s confessions in the end, told me Oz often complained that all he wanted a son he could fish with and a daughter he could walk down the aisle. But he has caring children and that’s about all any of us could hope for. Don’t you think?
Yesterday my friend and I drove over to Woodside to visit Filoli.
It was one of the estates belonging to William Bowers Bourn II who made his fortune from the Empire Mine and the formation of Pacific Gas and Electric (PG&E). Now it belongs to the the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Its famous English Renaissance Gardens are huge: 16 acres. And there is a 68 acre Gentleman’s Orchard.
I loved the details in the many archways.
And the many places for quiet reflection. It was a very bright day – not good for iPhone pictures!
The main house, a 54,000 square foot Georgian mansion, is definitely worth a peek. It’s a little on the dark side with heavy embroidered draperies and wood paneling but the kitchen is amazing. A labyrinth of bright rooms, each with a specific purpose: a vault for storage of the silver, a baking room, a cold storage room, at least two ovens, a dumbwaiter, a Butler’s pantry, at least two ovens and even a very ancient dishwasher. (The house was lived in until the 1970s).
And it had a view of the clock tower and what was probably once an herb garden and conservatory (now it’s a gift shop). I’m guessing because we opted against the tour.
This was the most interesting thing in the kitchen:
It’s a census from 1930 of all the people living on the estate. Filoli is not the easiest place to reach – it’s about twenty-five miles south of San Francisco in the coastal range. But imagine what a lively place it must have been!
The name Filoli comes this motto attributed to William Bowers Bourn II:
Fight for a good cause, Love your fellow man, Live a good life
I tend to read several books at once, but the moment I started reading Happy Hour and Other Sorrows, I put everything else aside.
It’s always satisfying to find a book that efficiently conveys its concepts without wasting words. I loved how full the whole world of this book felt, how effortlessly the story flows. Charming and witty, it is delightfully twisty, the mystery completely unique. The characters and dialogues felt so real…JT Twissel has a knack for telling interesting stories, and that’s a fact! I’d read anything she writes. Hope there’s more to come.
It was particularly wonderful for me because Bojana is one of my favorite authors. She has a true gift and is unafraid to dig deep. I highly recommend her book for those of you who love short stories and flash fiction!
Of course, it’s awfully hard to enjoy Mother’s Day knowing that mothers are being ripped from their children’s arms and sent to ICE detention Centers by men in masks and carrying guns; without search warrants or any proof, often wrong, always careless and clumsy and creating a wart upon this country that will never heal. Shame on the USA. Mothers of America, rise up!
In honor of my mother’s birthday, a post from a few years back.
Mother and Sally exchanged Christmas Cards for over seventy-five years. For most of those seventy-five years, they lived four hours from each other and could have easily visited, but I didn’t meet Sally until Mother’s ninetieth birthday.
They grew up in the same small town in New England. They were the same age, went to the same schools and the same church. And … both moved far from that small town after high school graduation. But those are the only things they had in common. Teenage Mother liked to party but did well enough in school to earn a scholarship while Teenage Sally apparently never rocked the boat. While my mother was at college, Sally met a soldier returning from the war with only one hand, married him and left for the West Coast.
Sally’s husband worked for the Post Office until his death. They bought a house just south of San Francisco where they raised three children. After his death, the oldest daughter moved in down the street to take care of Sally. According to the daughter, Sally’s children all did well and produced equally successful children.
In December 2019, after baking Christmas cookies for her neighbors, Sally sat down at the kitchen table and died. I can’t imagine a more pleasant way to go.
Mother somehow graduated from college although to hear her reminisce about those days it’s hard to understand how. She started her career in Hartford Connecticut, about thirty miles from where she’d grown up, and soon got married. My father spent about seven years trying to survive in the corporate world … jumping from company to company all over the states. And Mother went along with him having children and attempting to be a housewife. After they settled in Reno Nevada, Mother gave up the charade. She divorced my father and went out and got the career she’d always wanted.
For some reason through all of the turmoil — and it was turmoil — Mother always looked forward to Sally’s Christmas Cards. I imagine they contained a synopsis of Sally’s year. Or perhaps they just contained holiday greetings. None survived the final move she took.
I finally met Sally during the year that Mother lived with us. Her daughter contacted me and we got the two ladies together, coincidentally on Mother’s 90th birthday. They sat together mostly in silence, affectionately touching and gazing into each other’s eyes and when the restaurant closed to prepare for the dinner rush, there were tears. On all our faces.
Christmas 2019 Mother called to tell me she had not received a card from Sally. She said something must have happened because Sally would never forget to send a Christmas card. Since both ladies were now approaching 94, I thought perhaps Sally’s mental state was slipping and so I contacted her daughter and heard about the Christmas cookies.
Telling Mother that Sally had died was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
Mother died in August 2020. I wish she’d exhausted herself making cookies and sat down to die, but it was during the pandemic. Residents of her assisted living facility were basically prisoners in the their rooms with only remote entertainment which I’m sure aided in the decline of many of them. I played her music from the 30s and 40s on my iPhone and read aloud from a book until finally in the morning her spirit escaped. She just didn’t want to go through another Christmas without getting a card from Sally. From what I know, the two ladies probably wouldn’t have enjoyed going on a cruise together but they anchored each other to this world. Some old friends are like that.
The period from April 29th to May 6th, according to Wikipedia, constitutes The Golden Week in Japan. I won’t go into the history of each holiday but basically there’s Constitution Day, Children’s Day and Greenery Day and probably numerous regional events. So it’s party time in Japan!
In the mountains, early spring is generally known as Mud Season. The ski resorts shut down and prepare for summer activities and so it’s a good time take advantage of sales – both at the stores and in the restaurants.
Aspens in …. of all places … Aspen Colorado
Photo by Carol Teltschick
That same year, snow at the Ruby Belles. Boy was it cold. I can’t believe how time has sucked in so many years. The above pictures were taken in 2015.
Either Aspen or Beaver Creek. Carving into an Aspen tree should be a crime.
Good Friday always reminds of the Seagrass family under whose wings I spent my high school years. They celebrated every holiday to the max, unlike my family. Easter we might get dressed up and go to church. Or we might not. One year we went to the Lutheran Church because my paternal grandparents were visiting and grandmother insisted that we not only go to church but that we look respectable.
My brother still hates wearing a suit! But my little sister has become quite the fashion plate. Don’t show her this picture. She’ll really pitch a fit!
The cheerful couple in the above picture, Myrtle and RB Senior, met in Fargo North Dakota and spent twenty-five years working on Indian reservations. I never really understood why until I recently discovered that RB Senior was a descendant of White Elk, aka Colonel Alexander McKee and Nonhelema, aka Grenadier Squaw. So living amongst the Native Americans was in his DNA. Unfortunately it was a life that hardened my grandmother to the point that she made RB Senior’s later years miserable. I only remember the quiet, taciturn man who died when I was twenty. But recently, via the miracle of the internet, I discovered he wasn’t always that way.
Oh Bruce, we never knew! Why didn’t you marry Katherine Ladd, whose “winning countenance never fails to influence the judges in forensic contests”? Or her twin sister, Rizpah, the laughing twin, who “plays gentleman friend to all the spinsters on the faculty.” A good laugh is indeed sunshine in a house. Or both sisters! You could have done it Bruce! Although, what was this Ford’s establishment on North Broadway you famously frequented?
Once again I have the ancestors in an uproar! But it is the holiday for forgiveness, right?
Saying nothing in particular 