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Friday, March 11th, 2011

In 1988, I purchased a pattern by Nancy Brenan Daniel called “Whimsie Balls.” At the time, I made one and sent it to my niece’s new daughter. With a good memory of how much the child enjoyed this old-fashioned style toy, she recently asked if I would make two of these toys for the twin children of her friends.

whimsie ball

I chose various 1930s reproduction prints for these “love tokens” as the pattern designer calls them.

Whimsie Balls have been around since the Victorian Age. Nancy’s pattern offers four different sizes, one small enough to be used as a Christmas ornament; the others in “small,” “medium,” and “large.” Each ball has 36 pieces in two different shapes. I chose to hand cut and hand mark sewing lines on the fabrics and hand piece each segment. Assembly was by hand, of course. Making the toys took 20 hours for each one. Nancy tells me that she machine pieces the segments. I prefer to hand piece curves. It was a time-consuming but very fun project.

While working on the balls, I could just imagine tiny fingers grasping the segments and enjoying the tiny motifs in the fabric. After all these years, Nancy Brenan Daniel still sells this pattern…from her home. For more information, please write to me and I’ll round up her contact information for you.

Have a great weekend!

Patricia Cummings (a satisfied customer)

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Thursday, March 10th, 2011

Much of the folklore of childhood as well as its perception by adults, in retrospect, can sometimes center on the poetry associated with those long ago days. That idea could be the subject of a lengthy discussion! Suffice it to say that this morning I woke up thinking about a poem that I was required to memorize in its entirety during the first years of my formative Catholic education. Only the first two lines have remained easy for me to recall from memory:

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(1850-1894)

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During the time that my mother was growing up, there was much emphasis put on memorization of poetry and recitation. In fact, she was tutored in “elocution,” a fact of which she was always proud. Her penmanship was exquisite and in the early schools I attended, students were graded on how well they could implement the Palmer method of penmanship. These early forays into expressing the written and spoken word seemed vital to a good education. I suppose that in today’s classroom, this emphasis has probably gone the way of the dinosaur.

Patricia Cummings

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Friday, March 4th, 2011

Yesterday, I received a lovely letter from my friend in Germany whose first language is Ukrainian and second language is German. She does well trying to communicate with me in English but sometimes a word gets lost in the translation. Such was the case when she referred to loons as “wild ducks.” She sent a photo of a quilt she just finished in December and a piece of border fabric from a fabric panel designed by Joan Messmore for Cranston Printworks. Tamara received the fabric twenty years ago from another American friend. The bird motifs are not ducks but “loons.”

Loon quilt

This central medallion style quilt by Tamara Shpolyanska is one she calls “The Blue Waters” and it measures 81 x 81 inches (207 cm. square). On the back of the photo she says that she remembers the rivers “Wolga, Enisey, and the Baykal See” that she saw in “Sibir,” when she was young. They are deep and have dark blue water. She states that in this quilt she combines an impressionistic style and traditional elements.

border fabric

This is a piece of the border print that was sold along with the main panel that Tamara used in the center block of the quilt.

I have loved the Common Loon (generic viagra prices) for a very long time! They are seen in New Hampshire during the summer where they nest on lakes. Of late, they are a threatened and endangered species due to the encroachment of humans on their territory, oil spills, and pollution, as well as predators. Their eggs are eaten by raccoons. They can dive to amazing depths in a matter of seconds and can hold their breath for interminably long lengths of time. The adult male and female look alike and both weigh about ten pounds each. They are top heavy and struggle to walk on land, looking very awkward. There is no greater delight than camping near a wilderness lake and hearing the loons call to each other at dusk. The sound is eerie and enchanting. We heard many loons during one summer’s camping trip to Lake Umbagog in northern New Hampshire.

generic viagra prices (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1988) was written by Charlene W. Billings who holds a Master of Science degree from Rivier College and taught math and science at the high school level. It is an enjoyable and easily understood book

The following image is the front of an invitation I received to a 1991 reception for volunteers at the New Hampshire Audubon Society. I had donated many hours of word processing to the organization. Stored in what I thought was a “safe” plastic sleeve, moisture built up and has made the inks smudge and run, a cautionary tale for others who like to save ephemera! I love the loon’s “shadow” in the water!

invitation

Loons are fascinating creatures! On the east, they overwinter in coastal areas from Newfoundland to Mexico and in Trinidad, the Bahamas and the northern part of South America, according to Billings, while on the west coast, they inhabit coastal areas from California to Alaska. One of my favorite stuffed animals is a loon that has a built-in “voice” that can be activated by squeezing. The much celebrated “voice of the wilderness” can be heard in the movie “On Golden Pond.” Better yet, come to New Hampshire to experience loons for yourself!

Click here for information about the

Patricia Cummings

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Thursday, February 17th, 2011

Rosemary Stieg of Pennsylvania has visited Egypt on two occasions and has the following comments:

Having been to Egypt twice – once in 1985 and again in 2009, I too have a fascination with the appliqué of the tents and panels. On our most recent trip, I was determined to find ‘tent street’ on our last day in Cairo , for we had a free afternoon. My husband, another quilter in our group and another lady intent on having this adventure with us, all piled into the world’s tiniest cab and set off from our hotel out near the airport for the 45 minute ride into the heart of Cairo. I had an Arabic translation of where we wanted to go but alas, our cabbie let us off perhaps 1+ miles from where we wanted to be. We trekked on by foot through town asking as we went along until a very nice woman, in traditional garb, who was a professor at the university, took us in hand and went out of her way to get us within blocks of where we wanted to be.

Tent Street Egyptian textiles

A view of some stunning Egyptian textiles. Photo courtesy of Rosemary Stieg

Tent Street is part of the Khan Khali – the huge souk that meanders for miles in a labyrinth that must take years to learn. We were far from the touristy section but persevered through the underwear section, the ladies dress section, the linens and bedspread section (covering block after block after block) until finally, at the gate of Bab Zuwayla, we made it to the most fabulous block of all: tent street. This area is shop after shop of every inch of every wall covered in the fabulous appliqué work the Egyptians are known for. Bed sized quilts, wall hangings of every size and all sorts of motifs – birds, flowers, geometric and sometimes religious designs were everywhere. It was almost too much to take in.

What I actually gathered was, while they were happy to sell to us – and we were the only foreigners in the area, they are like distributors selling their wares to shops throughout the country. It seems that mostly they have succumbed to the times – most of the pieces are not tents but small salable pieces. The traditional workmanship, whatever the size, is amazing. I took quite a few photos; some of my favorites were of MEN sitting cross-legged in their booths actually doing the appliqué work. The designs and colors are breadth-taking. They would take many blue ribbons at any quilt show in our country. One style I particularly loved was of elaborate Arabic script (Arabic calligraphy) and the script became the design – (boats, birds, etc). It was my best afternoon truly :+)

Thanks for this first-hand account, Rosemary!

Pat Cummings

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Saturday, February 5th, 2011

Certain people make themselves unforgettable because of the gifts they give, both their friendship and material gifts. I had the distinct privilege of knowing Joan Kiplinger. We shared the same passion for all things textile. One Christmas she sent a handmade card with the following two objects that she knew I’d love. I do. In fact, I smile whenever I see them.

hanky from Joan

This is a soft, vintage hanky with Mr. & Mrs. Snowman

lace circa WWI

This piece of WWI handmade lace is attached to the front of the greeting card. It is a unit unto itself and is quite lovely.

I thoroughly enjoyed our e-mails and chats on the phone. Joan lived in Ohio and I never met her in person. She was already a great-grandmother when I met her but full of fun and always forwarding scurrilous, if not somewhat risque, images to make her friends laugh. I remember her most as a student of textiles and their production and as the writer of the book Vintage Fabrics to which my husband, Jim, contributed some photos.

Here is the one and only photo of Joan I have. She is wearing a bog coat that she made in the 1970s.

Joan Kiplinger, 1970s photo

Obituaries never tell the whole story, do they? How can they begin to impart how much a dear soul has meant to so many others? When Joan passed, she was working intently on yet another book and very eager to see it in print. I’m so sorry that she never saw her dream come true. For me, personally, Joan lives on in my memory. She was a resource to the textile community and a good friend to many. We miss you, Joan.

Patricia Cummings

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Friday, January 28th, 2011

What do you want to be when you grow up? Another variation of the question would be “Who do you want to become when you grow up?” I wonder how many people change their answers to both questions as they progress through life.

We always ask young people what they want to “be.” That seems life an unfair query of an 18 year old who has not experienced any real-life work situations. Depending on their conditioning, expectations of their parents and potential availability of higher education, the answers to that question are probably pre-programmed. When I was in high school, the choices laid out to me by a guidance counselor were pretty clear.

Pat with guitar in 1967

I took a couple of lessons on guitar in 1967 about the same time I was told that I was not “pretty enough” to be an airline stewardess!

She said that I could be a teacher, a nurse, or possibly an airline stewardess but she added, on second thought, to forget the third choice as I just was not pretty enough. My father, whose sisters were teachers, believed that teaching is an ideal profession for women as she can leave while raising her own children and be welcomed back at any time. I took his advice, and because I really loved Spanish and excelled in it, I dedicated myself to becoming a Spanish teacher.

After working as a swimming teacher, camp counselor, cook, word processor, university librarian’s assistant, substitute teacher, teacher of college Spanish, Community Action intake (social) worker, and a legal secretary… little by little, I have finally worked myself into a position where I can stay home and make quilts, study quilt history and write.

Did my writing skills come out of a vacuum? Of course not! I was a reporter for my high school paper and later, a Copy Editor. At one of the summer camps where I worked, I led a group of youngsters in producing a camp newspaper. I always enjoyed writing research papers for university classes. So, when I submitted my first article for publication in 1999, my career was “good to go.”

What I realize today is that I like my life. As Life itself is unpredictable, I know that situations are never static. Inevitably, something will change. I’ve already weathered the loss of my parents and two brothers, beloved aunts and uncles and cousins. I have no control over the future. For now, I can only say a prayer of thanks for all that I have been given and for all that I have been able to share. I appreciate YOU, oh, unseen reader! There are folks who come back here every day to read my words and I am humbled by your loyalty. I can only hope to be worthy of that much attention.

When I was eighteen, I had far different goals. Funny, though. I do use my knowledge of Spanish with some frequency, in practical use, to communicate with my friends who speak no English. At my age, I feel that components of my life have jelled. I have grown up. I am not self-conscious. I do not worry any more about the petty-minded naysayers of the world. I am a quilter and I impart my thoughts. Life is good.

Patricia Cummings

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Wednesday, January 12th, 2011

Many derogatory terms are showing up on television as commentators try to sum up the persona of Jared Lee Loughner. In the opinion of Rush Limbaugh, Jared is a “nut job.” He repeated this term, again and again, while taking no responsibility for saying that the Democrats wanted the Arizona incident to happen (which sounds pretty “out there” to me). However, this is not a discussion about extremists on either end of the political spectrum. Today, I want to share some anecdotes that give the reader a glimpse of our mental health care system.

I have known a certain person for close to sixty years. She has always had adjustment problems and in her adult life, became an alcoholic, when her children were still young. In the late 1970s, she was living in Arizona. She called me in New Hampshire. It was the day before Easter. By then divorced, she said that her boyfriend was dead, having been thrown into a crematorium. She was hysterical and stated that she couldn’t go on. The line went dead.

What was I to do? I called the sheriff in Arizona and after he figured out that I was a responsible caller who actually knew the party in question, he told me that it is not possible to be “thrown into a crematorium.” A casket is always needed and it is delivered to the incendiary area by means of something that looks like a grocer’s belt. He asked me to describe her car. I did. He asked for my permission for authorities to check in on her. I gave it. When they broke in, they found her quite indisposed and hauled her off to the detox. unit of the local hospital to dry out.

Fast forward. She remarried and moved to Colorado. She divorced that husband, too. After she underwent a heart stoppage (a near death experience), I discovered a write-up about her in her local newspaper. I found it only by accident while looking for something else on the Internet. A letter she wrote to the paper had been transposed into a most unbelievable account, including, most of all, untrue statements about her educational background and achievements. Among other things, she claimed to speak seven languages fluently. Simply not true.

She is a gun owner. One day, she called me from Colorado and told me that she had a gun to her head and was going to pull the trigger. After trying to dissuade her from this action, she hung up. Again, I contacted the authorities, namely the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill (NAMI). I was told that their hands were tied. Legally, they could not take her into custody as she’d committed no crime. They would have to hear her say that she was going to kill herself and see the gun to her head before they could actively intervene.

Time has passed. Now, she lives (alone) in Arizona again. She had her gun taken away in Colorado when she (“accidentally”) shot through the wall of her apartment complex, nearly hitting the occupant there. She is paranoid, reporting that peepers are constantly trying to look into her windows. She is fearful. Probably, she is armed. She is well known to the police as she is constantly contacting them.

She has slipped through the cracks of the mental health system, claiming for years to be immune to mental illness because she IS a psychologist (a delusional statement). To her, everyone else is crazy. There is absolutely nothing I can do to help her. Her immediate family passes her off as quirky or avoids recognizing that this women is a potential danger to herself or others. We can only hope that she passes from this life before doing physical harm to anyone.

Mental health, or rather the lack of it, is the root of many crimes. It is frustrating for those who care for an individual to see that they are in need of help but not know how to get it for them. The stigma about mental illness and phrases like “nut job” are counter-productive. I hope what I’ve told you is food for thought.

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Saturday, January 1st, 2011

Inasmuch as the sun was shining this morning, and inasmuch as Jim and I have not been “up that way” since last summer, I proposed a trip to Keepsake Quilting. Always game for an outing in which he can take along his camera to catch local scenes, Jim agreed. When we left, the sun was so bright we needed sunglasses. There is little snow on the ground and the bright rays were helping what remains to continue melting. Many new businesses have sprung up along the roads we traveled to reach Centre Harbor, home of one of the country’s finest quilt shops, now part of the New Track Media Group, a big corporate conglomerate that bought up most every quilt magazine, as well as other quilt businesses in 2006.

Upon entering the shop, there were bolts of Christmas fabric in the entry way, most of them with large scale poinsettia designs. The shop has lots of “gifty” items like condiment plates, little stuffed animals, gift cards, mouse pads, and other items. The first thing I noticed were the long lines of quilters wanting to have fabric cut, but how eerily quiet the store was, considering the number of people present. A clerk’s voice could be heard, announcing that everything in the store was discounted, except for the consignment quilts.

I wandered around. They have some interesting “medleys” but in none of them did all the fabrics have appeal to me. They had jelly rolls galore. I have not quite figured out the advantage of buying fabric in that manner so walked right past them. In the “bolts” department, the only consistent price I was seeing was $10.26 per yard. Even with the so-called discount, this seems to be a higher price than I paid just a few months ago at the store. However, I was not so much concerned about price but in finding a fabric that could be inspirational, a take-off point for a new project. Unfortunately, I came away empty-handed.

I felt overwhelmed by the number of bolts of fabric. In some instances, less is more, particularly when one can’t see the forest for the trees, or the potential of cloth because one’s senses are so bombarded with designs of all kinds, all of which could stand on their own, none of which you’d want to be “matchy-matchy,” but also none of which seem to form an integral theme with any other. When I got in the car and Jim remarked that he thought I’d come out with a big bag of fabric, I said, “I must not be a real quilter, after all. I didn’t see anything I had to own.”

Like many quilters who have been quilting for a long time, I don’t need the glam, I don’t need the hype, and I certainly DO need to use the fabrics I already have in my stash. My goal is to make more quilts in 2011. Make it a great year for quilting!

Pat

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Thursday, December 30th, 2010

Peace never reigns for very long in Salem, the fictitious setting of “Days of Our Lives,” a soap opera that has reigned supreme for forty-five years now. I am not what you could call a “soap opera fan,” except for this particular saga that has caught my attention for years now, whenever I was not “working out” for a living. Several times per week, I like to watch at least a partial episode to catch up on what’s new. Lately, the show, a truly American genre, has been exciting.

You see, the beautiful, talented Chloe and her doctor husband were basking in the fact that they have a new son, Parker. Half of Salem knows the kid does not belong to Daniel but they were all keeping quiet. That is until a loudmouth family member was fighting with her mother, the woman who switched the paternity results at the hospital. The two of them happened to be in the church entrance way, discussing the matter, when lo and behold, the doors swung open, and the entire family congregation learned the truth, then and there, just after Parker’s baptism.

Now, some people would dismiss soap operas as works of the devil or evil shows to be avoided at all costs. I don’t see them that way. Eventually, the evildoers get their comeupance due to the fact that one can fool some of the people, some of the time, but not all of the people, all of the time. I like the concept.

I am waiting for the evil prison warden to be caught who has been killing off young, healthy women prisoners who go to the Infirmary with a hangnail (okay, an exaggeration) and never recover. She is trafficking in body parts with a doctor at the local hospital who mysteriously is coming up with just the right body part needed at critical times. Of course, the warden was also attempting to “shut-up” Hope Brady, the police commissioner’s wife who went to prison for attempting to murder him. He busted her out of prison and now the two of them are on the lam. The person who blabbed the truth in church (Bo Brady’s mother) had a stroke and is in the hospital. Will he come out of hiding to try to see his mother one last time?

One good thing about watching this soap opera is it makes my blood boil which is a good thing in this freezing climate. When I am enraged at the injustices I see, Jim gently reminds me, “Pat, calm down! These are not real people. You know that, right?” Well, of course, but just as he enjoys science fiction, I rather like escaping into the world of Salem, periodically, a town where differences will never be resolved, perpetual problems exist due to human frailty, and a town where, just like in real families, people hold grudges forever and seek revenge. It’s all highly amusing and well done, if I must say so.

Pat

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Monday, December 20th, 2010

This time of year, I love the colored lights that adorn trees and homes. I love thinking about earlier, happy times during my formative years when the family was alive and well and actually interacting with each other in get-togethers, the nieces and nephews playing on the floor, mom in the kitchen working hard to provide a quality meal for everyone. I love the memory of the many kinds of Christmas cookies that would be baked, the special coconut cake Mother would make that had fruit preserves in the middle, and of course, her “Stollen” which she would carefully guard, doling it out in dribbles until it was almost too stale to want to eat.

Most of all, I love the music: the perennial experience of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir whose music sounds like a group of angels in their flawless performances. In more recent years, I have come to like the album “Winter Solstice” by John McCutcheon, in particular his song, “Christmas in the Trenches.” Celtic Woman CDs are still at the top of the list, as well as the music of Lucie Therrien, a bilingual French / English singer. I like seeing old movies and I look forward to viewing the first snowflakes gently cascading toward the earth (which has not happened yet here in central New Hampshire).

I think of all of the wildlife out in the freezing temperatures and watch with high anticipation for a deer to again wander into our yard to eat the dried rose hips from the roses, full of essential vitamins and nutrients to keep the deer healthy. There is always peace to be had in enjoying nature. In driving along today, I saw a red shouldered hawk magically soaring above a swamp area by the side of the road in search of prey. I don’t mind birds of prey. They represent a divine plan of survival.

Those are the parts of the Christmas holiday season I enjoy: family, food, music, and nature and the celebration of religious traditions and thoughts, learned in my youth.

The downside of Christmas seems to vary a bit each year but little by little, I have worked on cutting down on the malarkey, as I call it, and have succeeded pretty much. That is true, unless one counts some unauthorized charges to my credit card showing up in the statement (now under fraud investigation); an overcharge by my physician’s office due to a clerical error (I should not have received a bill at all); and the debit card not working which was to pay me for two rings I sold to a “we buy gold” outfit. Add to that mix, someone who told me she intends to use an article I wrote, along with the stories I included, to write her own “research” paper without giving me credit. The total result of these stressors is making me feel like Scrooge.

I know, I know. Wait! I’ll go put on my red flannel, lace-trimmed, “Granny” sleep hat that Jim thinks is hilarious. When he laughs, all is right in my world.

Pat

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Sunday, December 19th, 2010

Yesterday, I received an e-mail from someone who was both “elated” and “saddened,” at the same time, to find that I had quite thoroughly researched and published information about the history of the Swastika design, something that was on her list to do for years. She was happy to see the information and wondered if my “feelings” would be hurt if she generic viagra prices used my work in either a paper for the American Quilt Study Group or in her own CD (to sell).

Now, I am not some silly little twit whose “feelings” are hurt over much of anything, but as a serious student of history and a dedicated researcher, I do not want my work incorporated into someone’s endeavors when it is really generic viagra prices that is represented. That is the main reason for the Copyright Law: to protect intellectual information. No, I did not invent history or anything that happened in the past. However, the specific way in which I write about a topic, the way that I present it, the visuals I include, and the totality of what I present is my intellectual property. I own it and it is not up for grabs. Copyright considerations should be the first lesson that a would-be writer learns.

More than 10,000 people have visited my online article about Swastikas. It was not written for profit but to share a meaningful and far-reaching topic that is related to quilts and other textiles. The Swastika symbol now stands as a hateful reminder of the thousands of Jews who suffered and were killed by the fanatical German war regime headed by a madman. Today, you will find instances of the symbol being used by new hate groups who espouse prejudice. As much as we would like to turn back time, we cannot do so. The symbol has taken on an ugly meaning. We cannot regain the time period when it meant only good things.

When I wrote about the Swastika symbol, it raised awareness. Suddenly, those pre-World War II swastika quilts began coming out of the closet to be auctioned on e-Bay, sold as examples of “what used to be.”

I am sorry if I “sadden” anyone by being so comprehensive in my approach to history. Just as I am unwilling to go lay down on a railroad track and wait for the next train to run me over, I am equally unwilling to givegeneric viagra prices permission to anyone who has an idea that they would like to lift (steal) my information and present it as their own, for money or not. That is the view from here.

The file is:

Update: Right along with the theory that “No good deed shall go unpunished,” I am now told that the person in question is going to use all of my material, but now, as per my request, just won’t give me credit. She signs off, “Happy Holidays!” Yeah, right…..

Patricia Cummings

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Friday, December 17th, 2010

I can’t even begin to tell you about all of the people and places I have written about in the past that are no longer the same. People have moved, died, gained an additional college degree, become more well-known, etc., and places, too, have undergone some type of transformation, either being torn down, altered or discontinued. Often, when I share information given to me by colleagues and friends, I am forced to say “the late” so and so, or else supply a time span of their life. The month of December is always especially poignant as it is the month my brother, closest in age, died. He was only fifty and his death was unexpected. That, however, is just one small example of the many changes I have seen in this journey called life. I have come to the conclusion that, just as a song says, “Life is like a river.” It can change course at a moment’s notice, overrun its banks causing major devastation that takes quite a bit of recovery time, or it can cut new paths that did not exist before.

How many houses have you visited that are simply no longer there, torn down to make room for some other structure? I’ve been in several and it is a weird feeling to think of the conversations and activities that occurred within the walls of an edifice that does not exist now. In the case of one woman who is now deceased, her ancestral farm home is gone, the home she lived in while married was “deconstructed,” and even the camp on a pond that she owned with her husband has been replaced. The only permanent real estate is the grave site which they both occupy.

Likewise, names of businesses change constantly or the business is moved to another location. Here in Concord, “Veano’s Italian Kitchen” was torn down and a new “Walgreen’s Pharmacy” was put in its place. More recently, “Veano’s” (luckily) built a new restaurant but is now closer to Pembroke than Concord proper. When we go downtown, which is infrequently, there are always quite a few new businesses. The restaurant where my husband proposed to me, years ago, is long gone, as are the Woolworth and Newberry five and dime stores, and the Kresge store that were located there at that time.

Am I the queen of the obvious in sharing these thoughts? I think not. Sometimes life moves so slowly, we hardly notice it changing. Conversely, it can move so fast, we hardly notice it changing. Like death and taxes, which are always “given” events of life, change is also inevitable. Even the Internet and what is shared and how it is shared is always in a state of flux.

Today, as we celebrate our wedding anniversary, there is something that has not changed and I don’t anticipate that it will and that is my utter fondness of a particular special guy. We have grown old together, know each other’s quirks and love each other either in spite of them or because of them. Hurrah for things that do not change. Life is good.

Patricia Cummings

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Wednesday, December 15th, 2010

On garbage pickup days, I used to see pickup trucks cruising the city streets, viewing the castaways set out for collection. Often pieces of furniture were among the “offerings” and antique dealers would snatch them up. It is a wonder what a little bit of glue, sanding, new paint or new stain can do, thereby making an object useful again. Sometimes, people do not know the potential value of what is being discarded. I know of someone who picked up an original Alexander Caldor abstract painting in an alleyway behind Brown University. He checked with several museums who authenticated the work and told him that it was worth quite a bit of money. My point is, you never know what is lurking that has simply been discarded because someone is sick of it.

I grew up in a small town and on Saturdays, my Dad and I would do a “dump run” in his pickup truck with household refuse. Occasionally, I would not go, for one reason or another. The man who was designated to oversee the landfill operation would climb down into the “pit” and find things that he felt should not have been thrown away. He always thought of me when he retrieved dolls with matted hair, soiled faces, and filthy clothes and would bestow items like this on my unsuspecting Dad who would dutifully bring them home. The challenge then was how to get rid of them without attempting to throw them over the banking again, inevitably to be retrieved again by the kindly old man, just as a hunting dog ferrets out the location of a downed duck.

I can bet that, in America, a person could live on the food that is thrown away in the dumpsters of fast food establishments. Of course, there is a chance of getting sick, but most people who are terribly hungry might take that chance. The two items I would never recycle are used mattresses or overstuffed furniture as they are sure to be full of dust mites, allergens, potential disease-causing agents, and / or bedbugs.

I’ve known women who do not know even the basics of sewing (not even how to sew on a button). If something happens to the garment, it’s time for “heave-ho” – let’s buy another. To me, a solid Yankee who is frugal, I can’t stand waste at all but especially when it is based on ignorance.

This blog is dedicated to the road pickers and dumpster divers of the world. More power to you.

Remember, conservation begins with YOU!

Patricia Cummings

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Thursday, December 9th, 2010

Last night, a very good friend sent me a copy of an article from a 1906-1907 journal which I duly printed out in its entirety: nineteen pages. I’m so glad I did. Huddled under a crocheted afghan in my living room in my antique, windy house, my husband beside me in his easy chair, both of us reading, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the portrait that was painted, in words, of Mark Baker, Mary Baker Eddy’s father.

The story that made me laugh is an account of a Monday morning in which he dressed for church and proceeded to go there, chiding his neighbors in their fields for “working on the Sabbath,” in a very outraged fashion. One neighbor called him a “lost soul.” Another woman, hanging out her wash as he passed, replied to his question, “Don’t you know that this is the Sabbath?” She said, “Why, Uncle Mark, this is Monday!” Humorlessly, he retorted “I’ll have no joking with the Sabbath Day.” Arriving at the church, he found it was locked. He sought out the minister and together they “fell on their knees in prayer.” He must not have been totally convinced, however, because when he was nearly home he bonked a tame crow over the head and killed it, saying “I’ll learn ye to hop and caw on the Sabbath day!”

I recount the story here because 1) I find it shockingly funny and 2) it seems to be indicative of many who have found “religion” and go off half-cocked, tilting at windmills and basing their deeds on the words of mortals, not God. Trouble is, these “lost souls” truly believe in their own mental flights of fancy or those of designated spiritual leaders.

Recently, I saw a program on television that depicted a number of people who sincerely believe that they are the “second coming of Christ.” One of them, an Englishman, stood in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and wept openly, choking out the words, “So this is where I am buried.” He deems himself to be Jesus Christ, and customarily lives in a tent in England, thinking that he is doing the Father’s will.

Violence is often the by-product of religion. We do not have to look far today to come to that understanding. Historically, there is a greater story to tell as anyone who even entertains a brief look at History can readily ascertain. The greater question for all who live is whether or not there is “life after death,” and whether there is some prescribed set of actions that will achieve that goal, whether it is praying in the direction of Mecca, eating only unleavened bread, or going to church every Sunday. Are those actions enough? What would be enough to please the gods or the one God… to ensure safe passage across the proverbial river that intersects life as we know it and eternal life. These are not questions that one ordinary mortal or one specific brand of religion can answer. Humankind has been seeking The Answer to mortality/immortality for centuries.

To me, Mark Baker, represents a type of person who is didactic and always right, even when he is wrong. He is portrayed as anti-Lincoln (and one who rejoiced at Lincoln’s death), pro-slavery, “ignorant, dominating, passionate, fearless” as well as “hard-fisted.” He was a strong church leader who made his six children sit with their hands folded all day, on the Sabbath. The author of the article states that his qualities were passed along to his children and all of them had a local reputation for “crankiness.” The Bakers lived in New Hampshire, thus my interest in this part of history of which I previously knew very little.

Patrica Cummings

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Thursday, December 2nd, 2010

Every night at 6:30 p.m., the Nightly News is turned on in our living room. We feel the need to keep up with the news, if only in a marginal way. However, listening to the “latest” advice, that usually contradicts last week’s advice, or that of the week before, is really driving me nuts. Take Vitamin D. After one of us was advised to take more Vitamin D, we figured that we probably both should do so. At the time, I investigated the topic online and yes, it seems like the thing to do. Now it is reported that there can be problems for people who take TOO MUCH Vitamin D. How much is enough and how much is too much? Well, that involves a blood test. (Of course!)

For every “remedy,” there is some drawback. Old friends once wanted to have a healthy family. They bought a juicer and proceeded to make and drink carrot juice. When the family all turned orange (it was a sight!), they checked with the doctor who told them to knock off that behavior before they all got beta-carotene poisoning.

I appreciate doctors. Most likely, unless you are lucky, the health practitioner you see might not be an M.D. They are in shorter and shorter supply. Between the malpractice suits, high cost of insurance, and all of the hassles, less people are opting to spend years and years of study so they can be mistreated.

My advice is to just stay well. That is, stay well, if you’d like to remain sane. I could tell you horror stories but will refrain except for one little anecdote that is just too amusing. In a recent visit, when the source of irritation and pain could not be initially established, the nurse practitioner asked me if I’d “like an MRI.” I said, I just had a CAT scan, an MRI and a follow-up MRI.” She said, “Oh! Then how about a blood test?” Two days later, I received a call. I needed to go on antibiotics immediately for the disease condition I went to see the doctor about in the first place. I am fine now but the shopping list approach to treatment was kind of funny. If you’d like to remain sane, stay healthy!