Wednesday Morning Meanderings and Memories From Home

We're making a few changes around the house.  Much needed updating, and I'm excited about it all, but you know what this means - - - one thing leads to another.  And while that's fun, it also costs more than you originally thought, right?  big sigh.

The upholstery man is supposed to come this weekend and pick up a chair and a loveseat and when he returns them it'll be a whole new look.

This little loveseat

will come home with this fabric replacing the old blue checks

and this tired old chair

which has been around dressed in many different looks for an awful lot of years (it was originally in our apartment in Cambridge when I was still living at home with my folks), will come back dressed in this

I'm excited.

But now I also have to find a new rug to replace the old blue braided rug which, obviously, won't do at all.   Finding one we both like that will also fit in the budget is proving to be tough.

Last night we did something that we didn't think had a thing in the world to do with the remodeling.  And it for sure was not in the budget.  We went to Cheap Joe's Art Stuff to see a local art show.  If any of you are artists, I know you're familiar with Cheap Joe's - they're well known for their first rate on-line catalog for art supplies.  They've also become quite well-known for their classes.  I was lucky enough to take one of those classes a couple years ago.  It was taught by watercolor/mixed media collage artist Cathy Taylor, and it was one of the coolest things ever.  I hope to do it again one of these days.  Going to an art class from 8 to 5, Monday through Friday was a whole different feeling and mindset than working those same hours at a "real" job. 

The art show was top notch and very impressive.  Our friend Jill placed 2nd and that was very cool.  She's an exceptionally talented woman and it's a thrill to see her work recognized.

After visiting the show, we discovered that Cheap Joe, aka Joe Miller - artist extraordinaire,  now has a small gallery just off the retail area of the shop.  oh my. 

We came home with this

The name is "Purple Glens of Grandfather."  And I just love it.  We hung it in THE perfect spot, and looking at it is like finding a single point of serenity.

Grandfather in the title refers to Grandfather Mountain which is a local treasure.  Grandfather Mountain is  almost 6,000 feet high and gets its name from the fact that the ridge resembles an old man's profile.





And all this has reminded me of a funny "growing up in Cambridge story."

You've heard me wax poetic about Cambridge, Maryland where I was born and raised and is still the home of my heart.

You've heard me talk about the apartment we lived in from the time I was 3 months old until I was 16 - The Arcade Apartments.

There are a lot of Arcade Stories and they're still told with hoots, hollers and guffaws in my family.

Here's one relating to redecorating.

Mother and Dad loved to take weekend trips.  Seems the three of us were piling into the car and going on little weekend trips all the time. This particular weekend while we were off doing who knows what, my Uncle Jimmy was going to paint our dining room for us.  Mom & Dad bought the paint and I remember them telling Jimmy to be careful with it 'cause it was really all they could afford, but it should be enough to cover the walls if he was careful.

Our dining room was a big open room with a big bay window.  The sun would shine through that window seems like all the time.  Well, the sun told tales on my Uncle Jim.

When we got home on Sunday evening, everyone seemed really pleased about how freshened up the room looked with its new paint and Mother called Jimmy to thank him.

The next day was a whole different story, let me tell you.  Whew.

Seems my Uncle Jim, who is quite an artist himself, invited a friend to help him paint.  And adult beverages were involved during the painting.  Artistic tendencies arose.  From the muses came pictures of Mickey Mouse and all his friends on our dining room walls.  The painters, at some point, realized this was not what my folks had in mind when they asked to have the walls painted, so they painted over the Disney guys.  But, not well enough.  When the sun started streaming into the windows, those images showed right through the paint.

It's made for hilarious stories since, but things were a little tense around the apartment when it came to Uncle Jimmy for awhile.  He did come back, and he did put another coat on the walls and it did help, but even years later, if you knew where to look, you could find a shadow of Mickey's face.  or Goofy's.  And, honestly?  If was a lovely thing.  What is lovelier, after all, than a home that has some whimsy and can make you smile?  That's what makes it "home."

Happy Father's Day

Daughters and their daddies.

There's a special bond between the two, and if you grew up with a dad like mine it makes for fun and lovely memories. And some terrific stories when you're all grown up. All grown up maybe, but at times miss your dad so badly you feel as small and unprotected as you did when you were 4 and wanted him to chase away the monsters living in your bedroom closet.

Here are a few of my memories of my dad . . .

From the time I was 3 months old until I was 16 we lived in a wonderful old apartment in Cambridge, Md. The Arcade Apartments. I loved that place. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and the dining room had big bay windows with window seats. The kitchen was huge and our stove was an old one that sat up on legs. Remember those old stoves? Anyone else have one of those?

A friend of my mother's, Clara Rook, kept bringing me little chicks one Easter. Those pitiful little chicks that people would dye pink and blue and green at Easter time? AWFUL! and, of course, they usually died fairly quickly, bless their hearts. Well, my sweetie pies didn't. They just kept getting bigger and bigger. In an apartment! Daddy knew I loved those chicks. Every time the subject came up about them being too big to live in an apartment, I would start crying. Finally my dad put some chicken wire around the legs of that old stove and put the chickies in there. You just know how much my mother loved this, right? The chicks just kept growing and one morning I woke up hearing my dad yelling some pretty bad words. The chicks had knocked down the chicken wire and they were all hopping on Mom & Dad's bed. For real.

The chicks went to granny's that day. I was told they were going there so they'd have a big yard to "play" in. uh huh. Sunday Dinner. I'll never get over it. We went to my grandmother's for dinner and the minute I walked into the dining room I spied the fried chicken on platters on the table. Mother tells me I just squalled "My Sweetie Pies! Oh Nooooooo - You've cooked my Sweetie Pies!" and cried and cried and cried. Heartbroken. And nobody ate fried chicken that day.

I have a million memories of that apartment. But let me set the record straight - it wasn't a fancy big city type apartment. This was small town living. And we were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we were out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant mingling with the line of people buying tickets to see a movie before we would get upstairs and into our apartment. Since it was a small town and everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are You's?" and get up the stairs to home. And, since neither of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked, we also never knew who might be there waiting for us when we did get home. But it seemed there was always someone. It might have been one of my many aunts or uncle or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends of mine from school. Amazingly enough now as it might sound, it was never cause for concern back then. It was just an accepted thing. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station." (There are enough of these stories to keep this little blog of mine going for the next several years.)

There was also a jewelry store owned by Mr. & Mrs. Henry DeVoe in the lobby of the Arcade. Sometimes on Saturdays they would babysit me while Mother did the grocery shopping if Dad had to work. It was the beginning of my love affair with jewelry. Mr. DeVoe was my buddy - he opened my first charge account. Remember the silver bands we called "Friendship Rings?" They were $1.00. Sterling silver bands for $1.00. Can you imagine? Well, I loved those, but would lose them often. He would let me charge one and pay him on installments out of my allowance. About the time I'd have one paid off, I'd lose it and he would let me charge another one.

There was also a beauty shop, and an insurance company and I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with it. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation.

I don't think I'd trade my growing up years in Cambridge for a beezillion dollars.

My dad played basketball, and was apparently quite good. While growing up, I would hear stories about his basketball career. Many times in school my teachers and parents of my friends seemed stunned when realizing who I was - that I could be Alan Wilkinson's daughter and not have any more athletic ability than Adam's house cat was just not understood.

I had been gone from Cambridge for many, many years, and my dad had been gone for many years when Donald and I were home for a visit. We had gone out to the High Spot for dinner with our friends Pam and R.T., who I grew up with and graduated from Cambridge High with. Pam said there was someone in the restaurant she wanted me to meet - he had been a friend of my dad's. When she introduced me, he said he had played ball with my dad and besides my dad being quite talented, he had a trait which he admired even more and that was the simple fact that my dad was also a gentleman - off and on the court. "A good, clean playing ballplayer," he said. and I promptly burst into tears.

It's a lovely thing to have someone remember your dad in such a sweet and simple, exceptionally special way.

He was a very good man, my dad.

"My father didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it."
Clarence B. Kelland

1. Lewis, 2. Irvin, 3. Roy, 4. Ethel, 5. Alan (my dad), 6. Pop Pop (Irvin), 7. Belle, 8. Grandmother Laura Mae. Picture taken by older brother Ed

Dad taught me to ride a bike - and I vividly remember when he was trying to teach me how to drive a car he made a comment or two about how the bike learning experience had been a whole lot more fun and less traumatic for both of us.




We were all three HUGE Oriole fans and it was a very big deal and very special occasion for us to go to Baltimore for a game. Not as big a deal as going there for a Colt's game, but still a big deal.





And pretty special to get to Ocean City too. (Think he's wondering "What's with the HAT?!)

Pop Pop's 90th Birthday - July 18, 1965

In front - Aunt Belle, Dad

In back - Uncle Lewis, Pop-Pop, Uncle Irv, Uncle Roy, Aunt Ethel, Uncle Ed

Deep sea fishing - Morehead City, NC

"It's sad when our daddies die. It makes one less person inside."
Pamela Ribon.