PEOPLE OF PAXTON

I've long had a whole townful of folks circulating through my head---they're folks I've known, or would like to, or composites of two or three interesting or memorable characters of the past or present. Perhaps forty of them have been introduced in here, and on my PAXTON PEOPLE blog, and I hope to someday combine the whole town into a story or two. I get going describing folks---their talents, their houses, their attributes and afflictions, and their interactions with other folk, and I can do pretty well up to the point of GIVING THEM SOMETHING TO DO. A Plot. A Story that would be worth reading, interweaving lives and actions into some semblance of a book. 

 Someone will suddenly come to me, with a whole personality and whims and a life of their own, and it seems as if I've actually known them, and there's no trouble putting down whatever comes to mind, but then there they sit. And I have whole gaggles of Paxton folks circulating through my head---church folks and townfolk and folks scattered on their farms and little bits of land. They are from memories, wishes, and imagination, with no insinuation of which is which, since they feel like long-worn quilts from a fragrant old cedar-chest: scraps and pieces of whole cloth, aprons and dresses and shirts and a bolero or two. There might be a small swatch from the minuscule Barbie-skirt on Harliss’ plate, or a small snip from the MOTHER pillow sent from Japan by Carey Luke Bishop, while he was overseas. Perhaps a bit of lace from one of Mrs. Keen's dainty handkerchiefs she always had tucked into the sleeve of her silky blouse. The imaginary black-as-night silk cloak swirled in Miss Mavis’ wake makes an appearance, as well as a whole section of pattern composed of bits from prom dresses, bridesmaid’s dresses, piano recital dresses for generations of Paxton girls, all from the trusty needle of Mrs. Barbee.

 The tales behind the stitches in all those generations of Hope Chests in that small town could populate a library, and and I want so much to tell those stories.     All the pieces are separate, thus far, of different colors and patterns, velvet and gingham and denim and suede---good broadcloth and flimsy voile, taffeta and bridal satin folded with khaki, ancient woolen---blue and gray, sailcloth, stars and stripes, but just as I've never put needle to cloth with any useful or beautiful result, it's an uphill climb to get them all cut and sewn into a quilt pattern and a story and a town. 

I'm workin' on it.

STARRY NIGHT

All the moons and comets and stars have been great items of interest in the past little while, and we’ve stood out in the cold back yard, breaths wafting up into the darkness, as we took in these once-in-a-lifetime moments of astronomical significance.  All that cosmic display, going on for untellable time, just up there for the looking at---we seldom think of what grandeur just goes on without us, heedless of our little plans and designs.  

Leah just sent me a lovely video of an unimaginably-painted scene---Van Gogh’s STARRY NIGHT coming to life atop a bowl of dark water.    In a moment, the artist’s hands scatter-spatter, then splash-drip the paint in childish blobs.   Then he magically swirls and contours the masses of  quivering colour into the familiar beauty of Vincent’s nightscape with just a few dips and strokes of brush and fingers.  I cannot think how he ever thought to DO it, let alone honed such a technique into such a frangible art form, ephemeral and fleeting as smoke.  

A moment to take in the beauty of it, then a magnificent swirl of the heavens, like a cosmic interruption that shook galaxies in the creation of the Universe.   A few more drops of colour bring a magical transformation into another familiar painting---simply stunning in the making.  

This is too beautiful not to share---do make it into full screen, and use the SOUND.   Beethoven's MOONLIGHT only adds to the majesty---though they did not overlap in history, perhaps van Gogh heard these magnificent strains just one time. 

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1eS3ChsQAM

MAW'S STUFFED TOMATOES

This fabulous Tomato Season has me thinking about my first Mother-in-Law. She was really an Angel on this Earth---a kind, strong, loving, smart woman whose loving ways will make her long remembered by all of us who loved her. She was a marvelous Southern Cook, with a “way” with a Sunday pot-roast, and a true hand with a piecrust, turning out acres of Lemon Icebox and Karo Pecan and Chocolate pies for every occasion, and her Caramel Cake recipe is still sought by all of us who remember it.

But she had one recipe that I’d never tried before---when she made it, it was always called "Stuffed Tomatoes." She said it was from the "Murdock side" and had begun when Mayonnaise was a brand-new invention, and had to be made by hand, way before the family had electricity, or indeed, any appliance to ease the effort.

Maw always hollowed out the prettiest, well-matched tomatoes for her presentation; she'd stuff them just so and round the tops carefully, to make them into perfect orbs balanced amongst the parsley on a pretty plate. They were among the several recipes she referred to as "Preacher Food," and certainly the intent was elegant, if not the title.

And I can remember that Janie and Ralph would take several apiece, eat all the contents with a spoon, and leave the forlorn little pink shells for the chickens. And hollowing out all those tomatoes was not really fun work, so I began peeling them, mushing the whole bunch and chopping them with a handy little hand-chopper in a bowl, and going from there---despite my leanings toward gussying up certain dishes, this one just caused too much work and too much waste. Besides, it's really pretty, all pink and creamy in a pretty clear bowl.

STUFFED TOMATOES, just as she and I would have discussed the preparation:

Fry a half a’ pound of bacon pretty done, and save the drippings.

Six or eight REAL RIPE good-sized tomatoes---shape doesn't matter in this case

A sleeve of Premiums, crushed in the paper, with lots of small bits, not powder

A good big spoon-clop of mayonnaise (Blue Plate or Duke's make it authentic, but NEVER Miracle Whip!!)

S&P to taste, but AFTER the bacon is added

Peel tomatoes and chop fine as possible, or smush them with your immaculately-sterile fingers, into an almost-puree, with some small bits left for color. Stir in mayo, then start adding crackers; stir well, and watch for consistency---it should be thick, but not dry. You may not need to add all the crackers, depending on size of tomatoes. Crumble bacon and stir it in, along with however much of the drippings you care to---all is good, if you like a good bacon flavor, but it's to your taste.

Dip a spoontip into it, and do that little TP-TP-TP with your lips to check for flavor, and then salt and pepper to taste. Store in fridge for several hours, then stir well just before serving, or stuffing into a quarter-cut tomato for a salad plate, or put an ice cream scoop onto lettuce or sliced tomatoes.

This recipe has been in the family for more than a hundred years, from Grandmother White’s family out in the Hills, and tastes like a creamy BLT. Tomato season’s ON! Y’all go pick/get/order some really ripe ones, and have a taste of Maw Haley’s Table. She set a fine one, and what would we give to sit down at that table ONE MORE TIME.

TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO---THE MAGIC'S STILL THERE

 

Photos from Internet

On this gentle Cusp of Summer, with the day and night in unison, each chiming in right on cue like a well-rehearsed choir, I’m thinking back to a Solstice twenty-one years in the past, when we “celebrated’ the date at Stonehenge.   I say celebrated, but we were mere spectators, much like bystanders marooned on rocks around which the great tide of participants flowed, like a great colourful sea.  I imagine the great tide of people is there, right now, awaiting the sunrise in their garb and grime, their costumes and coolers, their ceremony or curiosity.  

From my Travel Journal, June of 2003:

This is “FIRST DAY OF SUMMER” and I don’t think it’s celebrated very widely in the South. We don't do much to actively COURT the heat, so to speak, nor do we honor the inferno days. We don't even speak well of it, except to say that the sun is good for the crops. 

  We'd been sadly informed by our tour guide that we would not be able to take the promised trip to Stonehenge, because the roads had been shut down. (He DID mention that if you were a practicing Druid, you would be given admittance, but he could assure neither our safety, our virtue, nor a return of the bus to pick us up on the morrow).

We took a LONG and winding way around the site, and as he and the driver (who lived just there, and took one night off to go home to his family) mapped out a little-known route, and we took it. It led us deeper and deeper (in the literal sense---the roadsides grew higher and higher, as we rode through a narrow by-way which had been carved into a miles-of-trench by countless centuries of carts and wagons, with no forethought to modern vehicles, and looking out the windows put you face-to-face with dirt. One turn was hair-pin and hair-raising, as I looked down from my far-back-seat perch, with the archaelogy-dig strata going past the windows on both sides of my three-directions view, and then the similarly-horrified faces of the fellow passengers in the other vehicle near enough to kiss as they skillfully negotiated the passage.

 

When we came back out of that deep road, the fields stretched for miles, and they were absolutely teeming with people, and I had the thought that an entire alien race could have landed in Salisbury Plain right then, and would have easily blended right in. It was like the crowds converging on the Superbowl---long lines in the lanes and paths, costumes and characters from Yoda to Spock to Frodo and friends, with many a quite persuasive priest and abbot amongst the throngs. Everyone seemed to be carrying a cooler or a bedroll or a musical instrument, and a whole flock of bongo players, drums shouldered and keeping up a steady rhythm, passed us as we crept along like an aquarium-on-wheels amongst the walking crowd.

 The investment in black fabric alone must have swelled the coffers of quite a few merchants, and the makeup and the music---it was like a specially-arranged performance, and we not only had ringside seats, we moved along, and caught forty more rings of that many-ring circus. We passed through a small village, and apparently none of our group was looking out as we crossed one of a duo of bridges. When the guide spoke over the microphone: “A pair of Naiads bathing to your right,” the stampede back down the aisle rocked the bus and landed two gentlemen almost in my lap. And indeed, there had been two ladies, beautiful young ones, both absolutely naked, pouring water from the little stream over each other.

I think the guide and I were the only ones who caught a glimpse---everyone else was either running to get a look or dodging elbows and flying feet.

And then, from far, far away---the golden shapes in the sunlight emerged, swimming into view almost through a haze; we took pictures through the windows, as the lime-vested gentlemen waved us to keep going and the foot-dust like the Flight from Egypt filled the air.
Photo from Internet

I think I’ll remember that most because we didn’t get to stop and get out and look closely; the far remove keeps that mystical, magical place ever as a mirage, a picture in a Baedeker, a cover silhouette on the journal I carried to record the days of my trip. And the mystique has probably grown in the remembering, to even greater size and import than it would have had we stood and looked at it a while, like tourists gazing on a church.

We caught glimpses, we saw outlines, we saw the glow of sun on the spires, and we saw the great procession of those faithful to something older than memory, older than time. That’s an unforgettable impression, and seeing it only through glass left the thought that perhaps it was a mirage or our imaginations, or visible only for a moment, like Brigadoon.

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO TODAY

UNDER THE TITLE "JOY"

https://lawntea.blogspot.com/2010/06/days-one-and-two.html

https://lawntea.blogspot.com/2010/06/friday.html

https://lawntea.blogspot.com/2010/06/and-rain.html

https://lawntea.blogspot.com/2010/06/tiny-bubbles.html

https://lawntea.blogspot.com/2010/06/princesseses.html

One of the loveliest weeks of my entire eighty-something years, and I wouldn't swap it for a trip to Europe. Names were changed in my blog to protect You Know Who You Are.

Our Fairy Girl today, still sharing the magic that is KATIE.

THE WORK

In all art each one sees from experience, from shapes and lines, from squint and head-bend, from wishful thinking. My vision of the WORK is a single-bulb on a light cord from the ceiling, in a small yellow kitchen amongst the pushed-aside plate and ashtray on the table. Shoulders hunched over an old Underwood the size of an anvil, page halfway filled, and a story born and birthing in that light cast on the snow.

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