EVERYONE'S AN ARTIST: Me Too ~ I'm A Cyberdoodler ! ! !

CRAFTS: Yummy Chenille Iced Cakes, Cheesecakes, Cupcakes & Petit Fours

YUMMY

YUM YUM

DELICIOUS

EYE CANDY! ! !

My love of vintage chenille has taken me in all sorts of directions. I made my first chenille cakes almost 2 years ago and they were an instant hit. The creation of each one is an adventure in keeping them unique, but there are those custom cake orders that are highly favored by buyers, invariably strawberry cakes or faux tea party cakes. The latter are usually requested in pink hues: from deep bubble-gum pink to the lightest, softest looking, baby pink. Silk flowers, ribbons, lace, pearls, and white chenille icing make them princess pretty but these lovelies are not exclusively for a little girl's pretend tea party or make-believe wedding. Lots of grown up little girls display them on their cottage tea tables and in their romantic cottage collectible cabinets or give them as gifts!

The non-princess pretties are most often displayed in refinished pie safes or on cake tables similar to the photograph above of the smallish, cracked-ice table in my dining room. I've had several guests do double takes, wide-eyed and laughing upon discovering the table was not laden with edibles, but with chenille decor! "No, it's only eye candy," I tell them. "Feel free to partake!"

WINTER IS WANING: Our Dogwoods In Bloom

“One attraction in coming to the woods to live was that I should have leisure and opportunity to see the spring come in.”

Henry David Thoreau

THE CHEATING ON YOUR DIET HANDBOOK: Put All Of Your Diet Concerns And Questions To Rest

A tongue in cheek look at dieting that will hopefully assuage guilty dieters the world over. Grab your laptop, a root beer float, and put your feet up. At the very least you should enjoy the view!

1. INTRODUCTION

Who invented dieting? God? He created the world, the waters, and the heavens;

the land, the plants and animals. "God created everything," is what I've

taught my children and grandchildren. I suppose it stands to reason He also

invented Crispy Creme donuts, love handles, calories, and Godiva chocolate

covered cheesecake with whipped cream, butter rum sauce, and hand-selected

cashew halves a la mode, floating in a rich, ooey-gooey cake batter that's been

dusted with light as air sugar-shaped snowflakes, and sprinkled with the tiny,

but oh so decadent coconut mango bon-bons Tom Hanks accidently overlooked

when he was marooned on that island in the movie CAST AWAY. (Which means

God is also responsible for buttered popcorn, pizza, Taco Bell and Sonic.)

Kinda makes one wonder just exactly WHAT it was Eve got into in the Garden

of Eden. Something tells me it wasn't salad.

Yes, friends, you read it here first. Weight issues may have begun as a scourge!

scourge; n. to punish severely

And what did WE do to perpetuate God's wrath? I don't know, but we need to

figure it out quick and STOP DOING IT!

2. WHO INVENTED THE SPOON, AND

WHY ISN'T IT BIGGER?

Still being researched; check back for updates.

3. WHY ARE THERE SUPER MODELS,

AND WOULDN'T PEOPLE FEEL A

LOT BETTER ABOUT THEMSELVES

IF THEY WERE OUTLAWED?

For me, it all started with fresh-faced Cheryl Tiegs in her early Cover Girl ads,

the all-American "girl next door" who looked like she wanted to be your

best friend. (Yeah, like THAT was ever gonna happen!) I was fourteen

and standing in front of a full length mirror in my first (and only) two-piece

bathing suit. I weighed 124 lbs. and could see very clearly that I was not a

Cover Girl, I WAS FAT. I tried pinching an inch and pinched an inch and

three-quarters. Oh, the inhumanity of it all! Devastated, I ate a platter of

homemade peanut butter cookies, washing them down with a full quart

of milk (with 4% milkfat).

If the United States government had done it's job and interceded, replacing those

bubbly blonde beauties with models more in the line of Queen Latifah, Barney,

and Professor Klump, well, I wouldn't have had the traumatic experience of

staring back at the image of myself as the Jabba The Hut in a navy blue bikini

singed into my cerebral cortex for all eternity.

And what's up with that "girl next door" business anyway?

Who coined that sexist little phrase? You can be sure it was

some middle-aged man in a trench coat, balding, bloated,

and barely breathing. Are you telling me that NO ONE

has a "girl next door" whose ass is wide enough to be listed

as an off road vehicle? Well? When I was fourteen, OUR

next door neighbors had one! An inch and three-quarters,

folks! Mooooo Cow!

4. What goof-ball came up with the

definition for the word "calorie"?

'cal-or-ie; adj. a unit for measuring heat: one for measuring the value of

foods for producing heat and energy in the human body equivalent to the

amount of heat required to raise the temperature of one kilogram of

water one degree Celcius.

Just goes to show you what the government can get away with and perpetuate.

A unit for measuring heat is called a thermometer, Folks. I mean, how lame

does the following scenario sound?

"Honey? Little Timmy feels warm to me. You'd better get out the CALORIE

so we can check him for fever. I think he might be raising the temperature

of water as much as 7.045 degrees Celcius. Run a tepid bath right away

before he's hot enough to boil eggs."

5. Fat - what exactly is it, why is it in so

many foods, and how can consumers

determine whether or not it's really

in there?

What is fat? Beats me. Some theorize that FAT doesn't even exist, that it is an

attempt by the government to keep all of the really tasty foods like bacon, pork

rinds and honey glazed bar-be-qued spare ribs in plentiful supply for folks like

Vice President Cheney and NBC's political analyst, Tim Russert, who I abso-

lutely adore. GIVE TIM WHATEVER HE WANTS, G Dub-ya!

As far as the best way to determine whether or not fat is a myth is to perform

for yourself the following scientific experiment made up by experimental scientists

from Jet Propulsion Laboratories, LLC, makers of namebrand detergents, insect-

icides, children's toys, recycled scrapbooking materials, and jets that are propulsed:

METHOD: Purchase a half gallon of your favorite ice cream. According

to the label, it will surely be loaded with several thousand fat grams per 1

oz. serving. Scoop out as much as you want into a 2 quart serving bowl.

If you do not run across any pork chops, french fries, or a well-marbled

ribeye during the scooping process, the ice cream has been mislabeled

and is 100% fat free. You're good to go. Enjoy!

6. What has caused the so-called

"fat explosion" in our society?

That's an easy one. Text-messaging. Of course, text-messaging beats the

hell out of sprinting 152 miles to send an eleven word message to the early

philosophers like Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle Onassis.

7. What meal is touted by nutritionists

as the most likely to yield the greatest

weight loss?

I believe that would be tacos, enchiladas, and cheese dip...with a mineral

oil chaser.

8. What exactly is a carb?

Carb is derived from the Italian word carbine. A carbine is a type of rifle. So

if you're counting your carbs, that means you are trying to reduce your intake of

firearms. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing.

9. Do books like Eat This, Not That

actually help dieters?

Absolutely! I mean, how can the average American decide between a green salad with low-fat dressing and an overflowing pasta bowl filled with steaming cheese ravioli smothered in made-from-scratch Alfredo sauce without looking it up first? The human mind cannot keep track of every little detail. Books like Eat This, Not That are indespensible guides for today's thinking men and women.

10. What is the BMI - body mass index?

The BMI or body mass index was invented by a group of CEO's whose skyrocketing profits are the result of society's obsession with aesthetics. Think about it. For years we've measured our weight on bathroom scales. We've run tape measures around (and sometimes in between) our rolls of blubber, studying the resulting statistics like a racing form on derby day. Then one day, out of nowhere, this mystical BMI business comes along. To me, the method looks about as reliable as one of those magic eight balls that you ask questions. For example: "Will I ever look like Reese Witherspoon?" Crazy Eight Ball's answer: "Get real." Take a look at the formula below and see what YOU think about the BODY MASS INDEX:

The BMI or body mass index is a statisical measure of the weight of a person scaled according to height, used to estimate if a person is underweight or overweight. BMI units are defined as kg / m2 ≈ 703 * lb / in2

Pure voodoo, folks. If you don't have a full length mirror, GET ONE. That's the only "index" you will ever need. Stand in front of the mirror in your bathing suit, if you have one. If you don't, your birthday suit will do. If you look like Reese Witherspoon, you're exactly what society wants you to be. If you look like Professor Klump? Blame every bit of it on Eddie Murphy.

11. What about exercise?

I'm against it.

12. What about Jenny Craig?

Evidently Kirstie and Valerie have done well on the Jenny Craig plan. Of course, they were (and probably still are) being paid millions to lend their fame to the product. Cash, especially LOTS of cash, can do wonders for one's will-power. I CHEERFULLY VOLUNTEER TO BE A GUINEA PIG TO PROVE THIS POINT. Which brings me back to the U.S. Government: why not pay overweight individuals to diet and supply them with a famous chef like the angry dude on Hell's Kitchen, and a personal trainer who was once say. . . a model for GQ?

13. Is it possible that genetic factors

predispose some individuals to obesity?

Glad you asked! Several years ago I researched this very subject after my genealogy research yielded antique photos of several of my ancestors. The women all had one thing in common: they looked very similar to those plus size, flying faeries from the Disney animated film Sleeping Beauty. Which got me to thinking. My thoughts went kind of like this: "Nooooooo!!!"

Research confirmed my worst suspicions. There is a genetic flaw in some individuals, a tweek in our DNA aptly named the "TOL mutation". It is more commonly known as the TUB O' LARD gene. (Humorists often refer to it as The Fatty Fear Factor.)



14. Are there any statistics available on how soon the average dieter turns into a cheater?

Not that I am aware of, but my own personal best took place about five years ago. I was planning to start my diet on a Monday morning. I cheated at about 10:00 a.m. when a nice pharmaceutical rep surprized us with a surfboard sized platter of GIANT CHOCOLATE-DIPPED STRAWBERRIES.

15. What recommendations do you have

for someone reading this today who is

currently in the throes of being tempted

to cheat on their diet?

Three simple words: JOIN THE CLUB!!!

COPYRIGHT 2008 ~ WordWielder

MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR.

FAMILY MYSTERY: Was It Murder?

You know, it's kind of nice to be able to get things off of your chest this way. . . blogging, I mean. I stumbled upon something today that has deepened my suspicions about the death of a member of my husband's family. Being unable to reconcile it, I decided to lay the entire story out in this forum, hoping for some objective feedback.

All families have mysteries and ours is no exception. While the death of my husband's half-aunt, I'll call her Mary, isn't on my mind daily, it has caused me quite a bit of pause at times.

Then, this morning, when perusing my Family Tree Maker files, I found I was lacking a death date for Mary. Because she worked all of her adult life until retiring at age sixty-two, I knew a simple search of the SSDI (Social Security Death Index) would yield the date I was looking for. And for the first time ever, I was unable to find someone who I was certain should be listed there. I tried every which way to find her in the SSDI, even after finding her death date through an obituary search which allowed me to do an advanced search of the SSDI. Her real name is simple and should have yielded the information without difficulty. Why isn't her name there? I wondered, causing my mind to once again reflect upon the entire matter of Mary's death.

First, a bit about Mary.

Mary was born in the late 1930's. As a child she contracted polio and was left with a withered foot that caused her trouble all her life. She was thereafter waited on hand and foot; nevertheless, according to family members, she was not spoiled. She married at age 27, and lived the rest of her life in a nearby state, in the largest suburb of one of the nation's largest cities. She had 2 children. I will call her husband John; her son, Joe; and her daughter, Jane.

Mary worked hard all her married life and continued to work hard, hobbling on her bad foot to wait on or bus tables in a huge cafeteria complex, until age 62 when she retired. To my knowledge, this is the only job she ever had, and she had it for years and years.

Her husband, John, was not very popular in my husband's family. I was around him several times in the 70's and 80's, back when there was a concerted effort for everyone to get together for Easter at the old homeplace. John did not strike me as someone I particularly wanted to get to know, but I can't say I was much drawn to Mary either. She did not have the kind of personality that encouraged one to engage in social intercourse. I tried, but she simply was not easy to get to know. Conversely, Mary's younger sister, (I'll call her Belle, my husband's other half-aunt) and I have always been extremely close. Living in close proximity is only part of the reason. Belle and I just clicked.

John died in the late 1990's. I recall thinking at the time, "Now Mary can have some peace." The reason I thought this was because of the comments that made their way to my ears through my good friend, Belle, and my mother-in-law. (My father-in-law was a half-brother to Mary.)

A bit about Joe and Jane, Mary's son and daughter.

Joe is the one of the creepiest people I have ever known. Even as a child (he was 5 or so when I first met him) I found him off-putting, which is saying a lot considering I absolutely adore children and make it a point to engage them even when meeting them for the first time. Not so with Joe, however. I could not put my finger on it, but as the years passed, the vibes I had only grew stronger.

Then, around 1998, 1999 or so, I learned from Belle that Joe had a pen-pal relationship going on with Belle's granddaughter. Joe was pushing 30 at the time, and Belle's granddaughter was 11 or 12.

As strange as I'd always found Joe, you can imagine my reaction. Yes, they're first cousins. Exchanging an occasional card or letter is one thing, but these two were writing and emailing each other or talking on the phone daily. I found it very odd, but am happy to report that eventually the penpal relationship ended of it's own accord.

Joe was married briefly, and had a little girl. He ended up back home with Mary around the time his father died. Mary babysat her granddaughter even though it caused her a great deal of pain. She badly needed a hip replacement due to hobbling around on her bad foot the way she had for decades.

Jane, Mary's daughter, was just a wisp of a girl when I first met her. She was very cute, was very shy and somewhat withdrawn, but played well with my eldest daughter who was three years younger. She turned out to be a beauty and married well and had two darling little boys.

It was in 2002 that I got the frantic call from Belle. Mary, she said, had been admitted to the hospital, to intensive care, due to complications associated with her recent, much-needed hip replacement. "She's had a heart-attack," Belle told me.

A heart attack? Strange. It had been just six weeks since her surgery. As Belle went on, I was thinking perhaps Mary had thrown a clot . . . but the story that was pouring into my ear kept getting stranger. It went like this:

Joe, now 32, and still living with his mother, had taken Mary to her 6 week post-operative appointment. When her name was called, and as she was making her way back for her examination, Mary collapsed, and indeed suffered a heart attack.

Hospitalized and in intensive care, the doctors said she was unlikely to recover. The next day, however, she did show some improvement and the doctors modified their prediction. We were shocked when sadly, twelve or so hours later, Mary died.

Then, with Belle and my mother-in-law innocently providing puzzle pieces, I began to put together a picture of what had happened to poor Mary. . .

One must assume that Mary would never have been discharged from the hospital following her hip replacement had she been experiencing any kind of obvious difficulty such as extreme pain, weakness, or an inability to get up and down, or to walk with the assistance of a walker. One must also assume her lab values were all within normal range or very close to normal range upon her discharge. In other words, she was healthy.

On the day of her post-operative appointment, heart attack, and ultimate hospitalization, Mary was found to be malnourished.

Malnourished!

Six weeks earlier Mary had been in good enough shape to undergo a major surgical procedure. Having worked in the medical field for so many years, I know well how anesthesia WILL NOT go ahead with a surgery, particularly an elective one, if pre-operative lab values do not fall within their stringent guidelines. This means that within the course of just six weeks, Mary went from being well enough to undergo surgery, to profoundly malnourished.

That was bad enough, but that wasn't all. Mary was septic.

sep'sis; n. A SERIOUS MEDICAL
CONDITION CHARACTERIZED BY A WHOLE-
BODY INFLAMMATORY STATE CAUSED BY
INFECTION. SEPSIS IS BROADLY DEFINED AS
THE PRESENCE OF VARIOUS PUS-FORMING
AND OTHER PATHOGENIC ORGANISMS OR
THEIR TOXINS IN THE BLOOD OR TISSUES.

Then I learned Mary had decubiti.

de-cu'-bi-ti; n. MULTIPLE ULCERATIONS OF TISSUE DEPRIVED OF ADEQUATE BLOOD SUPPLY BY PROLONGED PRESSURE. ALSO
CALLED DECUBITUS, DECUBITUS ULCERS, PRESSURE SORES, BED SORES.

Mary had her surgery and went home. I can only assume she was in good shape being that she had been well enough to have surgery, and well enough to be discharged in the opinion of multiple medical professionals who would have been involved in her care.

So, what happened in the interim? I think it's pretty clear. Joe let his mother starve. Let her become so weak she could do nothing for herself but lie in bed. He ignored the awful stench that would have permeated their tiny, approx. 900 square foot home from the open, pus-draining bedsores.

Joe lived in the house with Mary! Jane lived nearby! Joe was 32, and Mary was 30 at the time of their mother's death. Mary's children were not children, they were adults! How could they not have known something was terribly wrong?

Belle told me about a phone call she'd placed to Mary a week or so before her death. Mary related that Jane had come by that day and she'd asked her daughter if she would mind picking her up a hamburger. Jane obliged. Mary told Belle that it had tasted sooooo good, causing Belle to wonder aloud if "the kids are making sure she gets enough to eat. . ."

While I'm no expert in the field of malnutrition, I have read stories of stranded persons who were deprived of adequate nutrition, even persons who had nothing to eat whatsoever for extended periods of time. . . and survived to tell about it.

Thus, one has to wonder just how much Mary had eaten in the last six weeks of her life. . .

Mary wasn't killed with a knife or a gun. She didn't die as a result of an injury or assault. She didn't die of cancer or any other chronic illness. She died of multiple factors, every one of them secondary to what appears to have been profound and total neglect which ultimately proved just as lethal as all of the above.

Does Joe bear responsibility? I think he does. Was it intentional? I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that he benefitted greatly from Mary's death and that he had been struggling financially for some time. Did he fail to report her death to social security so that her SS checks would stop being deposited into her bank account? That would explain why it is the Social Security Death Index did not turn Mary up in my extensive search (though there are, of course, numerous other reasons).

Was it murder? Would it qualify as manslaughter? Mary had no friends to turn to and made no mention of her situation to her siblings (all of whom lived out of state, and all but one faced with their own serious health issues). Joe, Jane or both of them must have been present at the time of Mary's discharge from the hospital. Discharge instructions would have been given orally AND in writing, but Mary's most important need, the need for sustenance, would have been obvious even to a young child.

When Joe and Jane attended the funeral of Belle's husband two years ago, I wanted to yank both of them by the arms and ask them if they were two stupidest individuals on the planet. Of course, we don't do those things; we just imagine doing them. I like to imagine what might have been if Joe would have only given his mother thirty minutes of his time each day. . . if Jane had given her thirty minutes just two or three times a week.

Now, you do the math, and let me know what you think . . . . .

TUPPERWARE: Retro, Colorful, Indispensible, Collectible

Tough
Useful

Pitchers

Perfect

Easy care

Refrigerate

Wide selection

Avacado

Retro

Everyone loves Tupperware

I’ve been a Tupperware fan since Mom hosted
a Tupperware party in our home in 1959 or

so when I would have been five.

The whole thing was positively festive. First,
folding chairs showed up at our house along
with a couple of card tables and a longer, ban-
quet type table. Mom was making something
called “onion dip” which as far as I can recall,
is the very first time I had ever heard of or
tasted any. (And it was love at first bite.)

Then, THE TUPPERWARE LADY arrived bearing tons
of the stuff. She draped cloths over the tables
and started arranging her displays, chatting
away as she showed my mom new items and produced
gift wrapped door prizes. The thing I noticed
most during the first several minutes of the
Tupperware Lady’s presence was that as far as
she was concerned, I was invisible. To her,
Mom’s Tupperware party was serious business.
It wasn’t like the laid back home parties we
have today. This was the era of hats and gloves
and heels; aprons, dainty handkerchiefs, and

starched cotton dresses.

My dad and little brother had taken off for parts
unknown and would not return until the party was
over. As the first guests arrived, the smiling
hyena of a Tupperware Lady suggested Mom send me
to my bedroom. Mom colored like she’d committed
a terrible faux pas by having me there at all.
She walked me to my bedroom, apologizing and
closing the door.

I was fit to be tied. I wanted some onion dip
and punch. I wanted a door prize. I wanted to
be part of the fun. And that prim and proper
party pooper had ruined it all.

In defense of children everywhere, I did make
a couple of unexpected appearances. Each time
Mom escorted me patiently back to my room. The
thing was, though she never said a word about
it afterwards, I knew Mom was pissed, pissed
at the Tupperware lady and pissed at herself
for allowing the woman to intimidate her.

Nevertheless, our home was now well stocked

with Tupperware and the pastel tumblers and

bowls were positively fairy-tale inspired.

When I married, I had a few nice sets of

Tupperware. Unfortunately, I had a husband

who also fancied them. One by one, they

began to disappear.

The first one he used to feed the dog in.

The dog ate the food and then the bowl. The

second was, according to him, "Perfect for

the rabbits." There were also great pieces

for him to carry leftovers for lunch, but

there was never anything leftover for him

to carry home including the Tupperware

container itself! His excuse was he'd

"forgotten it". Countless pieces were

lost this way.

My sister, Pam, on the other hand, has every

piece of Tupperware she's ever owned starting

from the day she married in 1985. INCLUDING
THE LIDS!

Tupperware pitchers, which are my preferred

"vessels" (as my Grandma used to call anything

that held anything else) for Sweet Tea, a beverage

native to the south that ranks right up there with

water. Not only do I use my Tupperware pitchers

for beverages, they're perfect to carry things

like tossed salad, fruit salad, homemade cookies,

even "loose" pre-cooked casseroles like spaghetti,

stews, soups, you name it, if you're in a pinch

and all your other Tupperware is spoken for.

When we go on vacation, I always take a few of

my own spices and these I pack into my two trusty

Tupperware pitchers along with a couple of my

favorite knives, ziplock bags, Kool Ade packets

etc. The jumbo-sized squares served as indoor

playground equipment for our twin grandsons when

they were toddlers. The giant bowls have held

everything from trick or treat candy to melting

ice and snow after an ice storm did damage to our

roof and we had half a dozen leaks. Tupperware

has floated in both our bathtub and pool, has been

a part of dozens of holiday celebrations and birth-

day parties and has carried food to the sick and

to the bereaved.

Tupperware IS versatile, that's for sure. And

when cared for, it should last for decades,

unless you have a husband like mine, that is!

Wordwielding: Fiction: MY TRAVELS UP TILL NOW, Part II

In 2003, the year our youngest daughter married, my husband made both
of our girls cedar chests for Christmas. He started with rough cut lumber,
planed it himself, painstakingly cut each piece, then glued the boards together
before actually constructing the chest. He finished the surfaces, fitted the
hardware, and attached commemorative plaques to the inside lids. My
donation to the project was an antique china head doll for each of them,
purchased on eBay. To better personalize my contribution, I wrote a story
to go with each doll. The following tale, MY JOURNEY UP TILL NOW, which
I'm posting in two parts, was written to go with the doll given to our youngest
daughter, Kimberly, who in 2007, became a mother herself! I hope you enjoy
the story and welcome your comments! (If you missed Part I, see February's
posts.)

My Travels Up Till Now PART TWO

by Hildegard (the well-traveled doll)

Life with the Hills was much different from life with the Emersons.
Zeke and his sister lived together in an impossibly tiny, three-room
house that would have fit (with room to spare) in the middle of Wren’s
well-appointed nursery. Despite this, there was a feeling of great
warmth within the small abode.

Louella’s charming 7-year-old twins’, Phillip and Peter, doted on
Meredith, keeping her from underfoot while the adults went about
their work each day. The pair taught her to throw a rag ball and to
shoot marbles, chiding her when she refused to put me down so she
might take more care with her aim.

“Mama wants to watch me,” she’d explain.

“Set her there by the fence,” Phillip suggested. “She can see better
that-away.”

“A snake might bite her foot,” Meredith countered.

“It’s November. Ain’t no snakes out,” Peter explained. “They don’t
come out when the weather’s cool.”

“Mama wants me right close by. She’ll get nervous if I set her
down.”

The boys’ guarded Meredith, who was prone to wander off, as closely
as Zeke did. Meredith ached to travel to nearby Jackson, which was five
miles from their home, half a day’s journey by wagon.

“Can’t we go to Jackson?” the 3-year-old would whine. “I want to
buy some candy.” There was always a penny or two or three in her
pocket for several elderly neighbors with whom the family attended
church loved nothing better than to spoil her!

Neither Zeke nor Louella saw fit to take a new spouse though
Louella, who was but twenty-three, had a steady stream of suitors.
Zeke only had eyes for his daughter, in spite of the fact he was fancied
by several young women; one even sent him a long, impassioned letter
of proposal! All of these he kindly rebuffed.

Zeke and Louella relied heavily upon each other. Louella
mothered Meredith, much better than I could, I might add, and Zeke
was a splendid father to Phillip and Peter. Zeke was a farmer and
a carpenter while Louella washed and mended clothes for the carpet-
baggers that had been streaming into nearby Pearl, Mississippi since
the end of the war. Together they made a good living, hiding their
money in a tin can they hid inside an old churn. The pair had a plan,
one they whispered about when the children were sleeping. They
wanted to leave Mississippi. Out west, was where they talked about
going, but I had no notion of what that meant.

I was Meredith’s constant companion and confidante until she
started to school in the fall of 1868. In the evenings, she would sit poised
over her slate, learning to write her name which she complained was
entirely too long. “I wish my name was Ann. That’s an easy name.
Meredith is the hardest name in the whole school.”

~~~

By the spring of 1869, Zeke and Louella had amassed enough money
to make the move out west. They first talked of traveling by train,
but the cost, while within their budget, seemed frivolous.

“We’re young and strong,” Louella rational-ized. “We can save half
or more by making the journey in a prairie schooner.”

They traveled to St. Joseph, Missouri by train where they bought
their “outfit”, a team of eight healthy oxen, four saddle horses, a canvas
tent, bedding, and a well-outfitted covered wagon.

The Oregon Trail was said to be tame by 1869, with Indian skirmishes
but a memory. Their party was large, 91 persons including a physician
and two experienced guides. Still, there were dangers and it wasn’t long
before Zeke and Louella were lamenting their decision to make the trip
by overland trail. Three weeks into the trip, five of their eight oxen died
within two days time. These were replaced at Fort Kearney and all
seemed to be well for a time. Then, as they neared the Snake River,
the bottom fell out, so to speak. Phillip and Peter, now aged 11 years,
became lost one evening as they trailed a rabbit. Following footprints
that were not their own, the twins were lost for three nights before
Zeke, exhausted from searching, heard their piteous cries for help.

By then, Zeke and Louella were on their own. On the second night,
they’d been forced to make a life or death decision: leave the boys’
behind or be left behind themselves.

Their joy over the safe return of Phillip and Peter was short-lived.
The pair’s savings had disappeared, undoubtedly stolen by one of the
volunteers who stayed with Meredith while a search party assisted
Zeke and Louella late into the first night.

On their own, the family started west anew when disaster struck
again. One of the wagon axles broke in two and only a smithy could
repair it. Now they were truly stranded.

Meredith carried me as she and Louella passed the time chasing
dragonflies and picking colorful wildflowers they laced in each others
hair. Louella assured her niece their journey, however difficult, would
soon be but a memory.

“Are we going to starve like the Donner party?” Meredith worried.

“Someone will be along in a day or two. We have food enough to last
many weeks and fresh water from the stream. A few days rest will do
us all good.”

It was eight days before another company came along, affording their
rescue. The leader expressed a willingness to transport them, but he
would only agree to parcel them out amongst the other wagons rather
than wasting a half a day or more while the company’s blacksmith made
repairs.

“We’re three weeks and a little more behind schedule,” he told Zeke.
“I want to help you folks out, but not at the expense of more lost time.
If we keep movin’, we’ll make it before the first snow…if we’re lucky.”

Taking only what they could carry, Zeke and Louella left behind
nearly the entirety of their belongings including the trunk where Louella
carefully stored me.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, fighting back tears. “I pray whoever finds
you treats you well.”

~~~

A lone horseman visited before the sun had set. He opened the trunk
and rifled through it carelessly. Finding nothing that fancied him, he left
the trunk in the middle of the trail with the lid open.

It was a forlorn feeling, unlike any other, laying there exposed to the
elements from which I’d always been protected. The wind was ceaseless
in the bright expanse where nothing, not even the imagination, could slow
it’s progress. Rain, when it came, would severely damage me. If I laid
exposed long enough, the snow would be my doom.

Alas, I was to suffer the effects of neither. I was rescued in the nick of
time by Miss Olive Watkins, an unmarried woman, aged 19 years, who
pronounced me “as pretty as a picture”. She rescued the entire trunk
which contained the quilt Analise Hoffmeister had wrapped me in for
my journey to America almost nine years before, and dear Wren’s
beautiful white night-gown and calico dress. A quilt made for me by
Louella was tucked in the bottom of the trunk. Wrapped inside were
sewing notions she used to do mending.

I was hopeful the young woman’s party might overtake the one in
which the Hills were traveling, but it was not to be for Miss Watkins and
her father, Mr. Royal Watkins, and his new wife, Agnes, were journeying
in the opposite direction. They’d left their comfortable home in San
Francisco, California for northern Nebraska where Olive would be
teaching in a one-room prairie schoolhouse. Mr. Watkins was a silver-
smith by trade, but he stayed busier pulling teeth!

My life with Miss Watkins, as I still think of her, was sublime. She took
me to school and I was much admired there, so much so that primer
pupils were given the luxury of holding me for a few moments when
their schoolwork was deemed outstanding. One pupil, Nettie Willis,
aged 7 years, was particularly fond of me, but though she struggled
to read, understanding mostly escaped her.

So she abducted me.

I was accustomed to the practice by then, and felt a great deal of pity
and tenderness for her when she was found out. Miss Watkins spent hours
tutoring the girl until one morning, the sprite jumped up and threw her
arms around her teacher’s neck.

“I can read!” she exclaimed. And read she did, voraciously over the years,
publishing several short novels Miss Watkins proudly displayed on a shelf
in the schoolhouse until her reluctant retirement in 1912.

~~~

Forty-three years Miss Watkins taught in the little prairie schoolhouse
with me at her side. We withstood blizzards, bullies, a raging prairie
fire, drought, diphtheria, a plague of locusts, a rabid skunk, and an angry
mob who once demanded Miss Watkins turn away a behemoth of a 20-
year-old, the son of Norwegian immigrants, who desperately wanted to
learn how to read and write English. She refused to knuckle under to
them, even when her job was threatened, shaming the mob so thoroughly,
they hung their heads to a man and turned away.

Hundreds of youngsters learned and matured under our watchful eyes.
When Miss Watkins was honored for her years of dedication, I was an
esteemed guest and was given a standing ovation!

~~~

I lived with Miss Watkins until her death in 1934, and was afterwards
installed in a beautiful glass display case in the local museum. I languished
there until 1944 when the museum closed due to lack of funding.

I was returned to the Watkins family where I was again stored in the
very trunk in which Miss Watkins had found me seventy-five years
before! Wren’s nightgown and frock looked as fresh as they had in 1862!

I thought of Wren, wondering where she was and what kind of life she’d
led. The cheerful little girl with the white blonde ringlets, if she was alive,
was likely a great-grandmother, aged 88 years!

Sometime in the early 1960’s, the trunk in which I was stored was
purchased in its entirety during an estate sale. The gentleman who
bought me, Mr. Lloyd Brooks, declared me to be the spitting image of
someone named “Melanie Wilkes”. Much to my displeasure, I was
often referred to as Melanie Wilkes. How I wish I could have shouted,
“My name is Hildegard!”, but it is a doll’s lot to suffer the insensitivities
of her master or mistress.

Mr. Brooks declared the contents of the trunk constituted “a valuable
collection of civil war era artifacts”. To be referred to with such detach-
ment only added insult to injury.

I was again stored away, but to my delight, Mr. Brook’s teenaged grand-
daughter loved nothing better than to sneak me out of the trunk. A care-
free spirit named Chloe, she wore tie-dyed t-shirts, bell-bottomed jeans,
and a pair of hemp sandals. Chloe declared herself a “flower child”, and
that “love was all one needed” according to an ear-shattering ballad she
played over and over.

My visits with Chloe were frustrating for her behavior was somewhat
unusual. She burned hoards of candles and sticks of mulberry incense,
and tied strips of leather and beads around her wrists and ankles, letting
the ends dangle as if she were an Indian. She loved to lace her pretty red
hair with daisies and baby’s breath, but the effect was ruined when she
donned rose-colored granny glasses and a peasant blouse that left little
to the imagination. She listened to the music of someone named Bob
Dylan, whose voice was so foul to the ear, I daresay could I have managed
a frown, I would have been the perfect picture of misery!

When Chloe’s grandfather caught her with me, I was stored once
again in the old trunk and stayed there until Chloe’s mother, Maggie,
cleaned it out following Mr. Brook’s death in 1976. She kept the “antique
little girl things” and myself, stuffing all into a paper bag, vowing she would
someday display me in her home. The trunk I’d been traveling in since
1869 went to her brother who lived “back east”.

I languished in the paper sack on a closet shelf for almost a quarter
of a century more until Maggie passed away necessitating another
estate sale. I was purchased by a seasoned antiquities dealer from
Concord, Ohio, whose only intention was to sell me to someone else.

“The dress is not original to the doll,” I recall him telling his assistant,
“but it is from the same era, 1860’s or so”.

“Almost 145-years-old,” the young woman calculated. “Remarkable!”

I found it remarkable myself that so much time had passed. I hoped to
find a new home where I wouldn’t spend years tucked away in a dark
closet. It seemed that I was beyond my prime as a child’s toy, and though
I longed to return to service as such, I knew the best I could hope for was
someone who would proudly display me.

My wish was granted when in 2002, a woman named Julie Rhodes
purchased the lot containing myself and the other items that had made
the long journey with me. Julie proudly displayed me in an antique baby
carriage and told friends I reminded her of a character from her favorite
novel, Little Women.

My happy tenure with Julie was, however, short-lived. A year after
purchasing me, she advertised me on Ebay along with the vintage clothing
and quilts that had long been my traveling companions. In need of funds for
her daughter’s upcoming wedding, Julie auctioned me off, hoping to fetch
a good price!

In a far away, southern state, a woman who was looking for a beautiful
antique doll like myself to give to her youngest daughter for Christmas,
bookmarked my auction, mulling the situation over a few days before
bidding and winning me. I was shipped post-haste, and once again
found myself residing south of the Mason Dixon line!

The kind woman who purchased me was quite pleased with me though,
to my great displeasure, she described me as a “Melanie Wilkes look-
alike”. “Who is this Melanie Wilkes,” I wanted to shout.

“My husband is making a beautiful cedar chest for our daughter for
Christmas and you will be tucked inside.” Though I was but a visitor
in the woman’s home, I very much enjoyed being admired and spoken
to again.

~~~

I pray my new mistress, whom I’ve yet to meet, will display me with
pride and appreciate how I have survived my many years of travel to
end up in her possession. Her mother chose me out of so many others,
certain we would be a good match. I look forward to residing in my new
home and I hope to someday delight another generation of children and
grandchildren, bringing enrichment to their lives as they will surely
bring to mine.

The End

Copyright 2003 Carma Walsh
May not be reproduced without permission of the author.