TALK ABOUT A DERBY!!

I've long loved the Kentucky Derby---the sunshine, the roses, the infectious humor/style of the those hats-to-challenge-Ascot, the scent-of-the-mint in those sweaty julep cups, camaraderie  and the great energy and thunder of those muscles and hooves.   I still watch that sweet video from decades ago, of the baby colt and his Mama already discussing the ROSES---I usually have a few sweet tears for that one.   

Today, I ventured into a blog heretofore unknown to me from Linda's Link Party and to me, it has some of what blogging should be about---Home, Family History, Hospitality, and an evocative hand on the pen to set the stage so beautifully.   I'd missed looking in on the Derby on Saturday, and my first glimpse of a new site this morning  was mesmerizing  and captivating and I hope you'll look in on this wonderful telling of a FIRST in racing history, and the lovely hospitality of the writer.   

SALT PRAIRIE

LETTER FROM A GRANDDAUGHTER

 

I've been asked recently about my outlook on Life, and why I'm interested and take Joy in so many small things, and I think that it's the company I keep.    For example, a Granddaughter with the sharpest wit, a tender soul, and intellect way beyond her years.   I just sent a copy of one of her e-mails to NANA DIANA, who had just sent me a profoundly great compliment, to illustrate the small things that BRIGHT me, every day.    From a 21-year-old Jane Austen fan with her own magnificent library, eloquent writer, and magical touch with the knitting needles. 

She works in a jewelry store, with her exquisite manicure modeling rings for bashful swains and their sweethearts, and a letter from her is a wonderful gift:

 From last August, when I NEEDED a lift, as we were in the midst of four weeks of a hot, dusty, messy, EXPENSIVE re-wiring of the whole house:

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Happy August, Ganjin!! I’m practically sizzling with excitement for this approaching fall. One of my many philosophies is that since Christmas is allowed November, December and January, then we should grant my hearts most fondest holiday and season the last two weeks of August, the first belonging to the dog days of summer naturally.  I’m so excited that I’ve already begun window shopping for new decorations. I have little reason these days for costumes, seeing as I’m not much of a party goer nor do I have parties to attend, but that opportunity may present itself at my local renaissance faire’s new fall festival. 

I'm sorry my replies have been so few and far between. I’ve accidentally made myself quite useful at my job and I’ve taken as many hours as they can possibly give me. The shop is turning into something of a winter wonderland (my manager gets a bit ahead of herself when it comes to Christmas festivities). Every year we receive boxes upon boxes of stuffed animals for charity. The proceeds of them are donated to Saint Jude’s children’s hospital and the stuffed animals are either kept or donated to children or elderly in the surrounding area. I’ve enclosed a picture of our two variations this year. We’ve also put up this massive beautiful arch in front of our door that has inflicted a torrent of glitter upon the whole store and my person. 

I had a woman come in the other day that reminded me so much of you. She had these lovely iridescent dragonfly wing earrings and was remarkably kind. She ended up buying on a whim a citizen watch that came with an extra bangle she swore to give to her daughter. Sometimes I think people are put in our path to remind us of loved ones so that we might love them even better and miss them even more. 

Today is a lovely, breezy, overcast day. It’s a welcome break in the streak of 100 or more degree days. It makes me think of a Taylor Swift song I play obsessively once August shows its face. It’s a rather sad song (titled “August” aptly enough) but the opening lines “Salt air, and the rust on your door. I never needed anything more,” is a breath of fresh air every time I hear it. A reminder that every Summer closes with the relief of Autumn. That every sunburn heals and every humid inhale is one closer to the first fogged exhale of winter. That isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy my summer though. It was filled with new opportunities and excitement; long drives giggling over the ill fortune of a broken AC in 120° weather; cheering on friends from afar during brave, once in a lifetime kind of moves; and as always pages turned on a well loved book and stitches knit on a much anticipated project. 

My current read is “The Invisible Man” but H.G. Wells and my current knitting project is a bag as a present for K’s birthday. You may know universal studios in Orlando has opened up a new park, and in it they have a whole land dedicated to the classic universal monsters I love so dearly. Amongst them is a character who hasn’t wandered the parks in many many years, the Invisible Man himself, and I was so utterly thrilled at his return that I just had to order the book in and read his story again. I’ve collected a handful of pictures I thought you’d might like to see of new jewelry, bookshelfs and trinkets, yarn and their subsequent end results, my newest silly bumper sticker, and critters and the like. I love you, I hope the last vestiges of summer ‘25 treat you well."xxxxxxxxxxxxxx\

ISN'T SHE A MARVEL?  I'M SO BLESSED.     THESE sweet young folks are  whence springs my JOY.

    

TRACKS, PART II

 

Image from the Internet---my home clothesline is long a thing of the past, except for heavies being aired out for storage.   I DID notice in the search, that only one out of perhaps every fifty scenes DID have the proper way to pin things on the line---every single item took up TWO pins, with little spaces between.   

We lived four houses down from a railroad track---my most delightful time of day was when the Illinois Central stopped to take on fuel. I would run down the block, climb the enormous, swooping trails of wisteria vine in the last neighbor's yard about six feet up, and peer into the dining cars, all alight and bright with white napery, ladies in their nicest hats, and the coats of the smiling waiters.

But my daytime relationship with the train-tracks was a more personal one, born of years of time-between-trains---we knew the schedules and the whistles and the times of every arrival and departure. During my early childhood, before the engines switched from coal to other fuel, the close-to-the-tracks houses had a whisper of fallout from that coal-smoke. I’d be sent out on washing-day with a damp rag, to reach up high, grasp the heavy wire clothesline in that dampened cloth, and walk one-end-to-the-other, tightly clutching the line as the residue from several-days’ train-passings was gathered into a grimy blackness in the center. And when we took in the fresh-dried clothes, my Mother would “look the corners” for any telltale misses which had been folded beneath the clothespins into her fresh-washed laundry. We ran out in a frenzy many a washday, when the far-down-the-turn whistle reminded us that the train was due. We’d gather armfuls of the whites helter-skelter, holding them in great loose swags as we snatched the pins loose and ran for the back door with hems dragging and socks spilling in our wake.

Those hurried-frantic day-moments of grabbing damp clothes were SO worth the nights---I thought it the most wonderful, the most romantic, the most elegant thing in the world to be able to sit there in that small space, with lovely shining silverware and china, and be one of those happy, beautifully-dressed passengers enjoying their meal. I never saw beneath shoulder-height, but having seen train dining cars in the movies, my child’s mind converted those images into glorious colors and gleams, with flowers in vases and a silvery coffeepot wielded by the white-coated waiter.

I've told several times of the darkened evenings of watching the colorful displays of the people in the train windows, just their shoulders-and-heads view, reduced to small soundless color TV portrayals in those rectangular windows, kindling a travel-longing in my soul. I'd have been content just to sit there, sidelined on that switch-track forever, living that soundless life of gracious warmth and genial company over the china cups.

Moire non of my own fabulous trip-on-a-train, with every one of the wonderful experiences I'd dreamt of.

TRACKS PART I

 

PHOTO BY MISSISSIPPI'S MARTY KITTRELL

Beneath the wild melodies of the wind chimes at night, I can hear the low moan of the trains passin’ through a few blocks from our house, especially in this lovely weather, with the windows open, and the sound wends its way in through those shady windows, down the long hall, and flows down these narrow stairs like oil down a drain. To my ears that oh-so-familiar old woooooooaaan is an echo of past train-sounds of decades, from those hot Delta days whose clock was the train-times; they stopped for water, for coal, to offload and take on passengers, and the mail was unloaded as swiftly as tossing out the bags.

The strong-as-iron mailbags with their leather-belt straps and their old-penny locks had the grinds of cinder-landings and underfoot stompings and dusty-concrete-draggings branded into their indestructible fabric. Not even years of being hung in all weather from the T-frame, feet from the tracks, to be snagged by the hook of the fast-passing express, could pierce the armor of those magical mailbags.

We loved that conjuring trick, and gathered to watch, every time we could---the depot worker would squint his way out into the sunshine, holding or dragging the gray-brown canvas lump, manhandle its weight up the several feet onto its iron gallows, and step back toward the door of that “railroad-colored” building---a sort of blacky-grayish-grunge color which marked every small-town depot I’d ever seen.

Smalltown "Postmistress" hanging out the day's mail with her hair and slip blowing in the wind.

The fast-approaching train would shudder past, the clicks of the pin-width gaps between the rails causing those flying silver wheels to give off their trademark ca-CHUNK ca-CHUNK as the open door neared the swinging mailbag. In a move fast as a blink, the hook swung, the bag disappeared into that big maw, and the train was gone, in a diminishing clamor and whoossshhhh that left us breathless ourselves, and again amazed by the magic.

And of more Train Magic from the past, moire non.

SLICE OF CUT CAKE

 

Daddy's Aint Ruth, who was as "Country as they come,” raised a whole passel of chillun, each with two names in the family fashion, and each growing up in that not-too-large frame house with the two outdoor faucets through the wall over the kitchen sink.  They were big old high brass things, both gushing out cold water into that wide trough sink, deeper than ours, in those days before doubles and all those charming little modern doo-dads on one side, so handy for disposal and rinsing and bar needs.  The two faucets were put in together years before, in trust of a "hot water heater" somewhere in the nebulous future.  And many a dish went through that kitchen, a literal dozen plates per meal at the long wood table down the length of that fragrant, colourful room, and also a literal two-meats and four casseroles,a big skillet of bread, and several  pots of sump’n nother just picked and shelled from the garden.

And the desserts!  I’ve never seen so many or such variety at a plain old family meal---it was common to have cake and pie AND a puddin’ sitting on the sideboard as they sat down to supper after a hard day’s work.   She had but two cake recipes, for the actual layers---a yellow one and a chocolate, rich with a great cloud of Hershey’s cocoa sifted into the Godchaux before creaming in that immense old Sunbeam the shade of aged ivory.  But the additions and the flavorings---she had about five good-sized bottles of Raleigh flavorings in the cabinet, even back then when I was a teen and boasted THREE of my own---vanilla, of course, and lemon extract and the ethereal almond for the most exquisitely flavored pound cakes.    She also had coconut and "imitation rum," of all things, and in addition to putting a few drops of the coconut into the cake layer before baking, she’d set the freshly-grated coconut aside, put a few more drops into the “milk” which was carefully saved from the coconut.

One of the boys usually had coconut duty, and he’d poke the ice pick into the three little monkey-face holes at the end, maneuver the holes over a little bowl, and drain out all the what-chefs-today-call-water before taking the coconut out to the shade and a big concrete block, to crack it gently with a hammer and dig all the lovely soft meaty insides loose, like hulling out a particularly fragrant oyster from its shell.  Those curvy bits of meat had a gentle brownish rind on the outside curve, which had to be removed with a small sharp knife, to keep the whitewhite flesh pristine for the grater.

I can just hear the whushwhush of the grating, as Jean Evelyn or Mary Ruth stood at the table with the big old box grater, filling the big pyramid with great drifts of the snowy shreds, ready for the cooling cake.   And Aint Ruth had a way of taking that leftover bowl of “milk,” adding in a bit of sugar and a teaspoon of that delightful extract, then tossing the liquid around in a bowl with all those mounds of coconut.   This was left to sit whilst one of them heaped the great billows of seven-minute onto and over those three layers, straight from the cooling rack. 

  She was the first I ever saw to take some strips of waxed paper, slide them under several sides of the cake, and collect all the coconut which fell from the expert fingers patting it gently onto every inch of the gleaming frosting.   At the end of the process, they’d slide out the paper, then dump all the bits of escaped coconut onto the top of that gorgeous cake, and it was done.

BUT.   If one of the boys (or girls, for that matter), had come through the kitchen with a little sweet-craving, they’d just matter-of-factly take a whack at whatever cake layers were lying there cooling.   And this was not the “OH, Hon!  Don’t cut the cake ‘fore the company sees it,” where one neat slice from the finished marvel would be noticed, but only in passing.  This was a quick knife through one of the naked layers resting on the racks, picked up like a pizza wedge and lifted for a bite as the culprit headed elsewhere in the house or leaned casually against the counter for a chat with the cooks. And then the cake-assembler had to deal with an oddly-shaped piece to frost and stack, which they did with such a practiced, unfazed air, or simply saying “Guess we got a two-layer cake today!” with a casual swat in the direction of the cake thief, that it must have been a frequent occurrence.

That simple, natural gesture of confidence and welcome-to-it astonished me the first few times,  for I loved to be there for the Saturday baking (or Sunday morning, if they were adding on a little extra for us “company”), and I could not fathom being allowed to just demolish a project like that.   Cakes were sacred things, round and perfect and immaculate of construction and method---the formula had to be right for them to rise, or to taste right, or to be exactly enough for the three layer-pans, and to so casually dismember some of the parts before the actual assembly---it rather sent my baking mind into disarray for a bit, as if she’d snipped a big hank of fabric off a dress, leaving the hem a foot shorter on one side.

I realize now that those cakes and their casual treatment, that easy comfort in the kitchen and in that whole filled-to-the-brim house, with the respectful, kind kids and absolutely devoted parents---those cakes were the absolute symbol of a kind of child-raising I’d not encountered before.   There was a philosophy of trust and an easy camaraderie amongst all of them, a gentle kind of living together with all taking a willing part in the keeping of the home and family. 

 I was raised in a  tight-ship-kitchen, a flinch-over-spilled-milk household, with never in my life a cake cut out of reach of Mother's watchful eyes, even though I had baked every single one made in that house since I was Twelve.   The cake might come out at dessert time, be judiciously sliced onto the right number of small plates, and then went back under the cover, with a a snap and slide back beneath the cabinet until Mother brought it out again.  My only graduation to being alone with a cake was about my junior year, when my parents started delaying their dessert until about nine,  between GEORGE GOBEL and DINAH SHORE,  and I could go to the kitchen and set a tray with two cups and saucers and two little cake plates, boil the copper kettle, and pour the boiling water over the Folger's instant, to go with the two slender slices I delivered to the coffee table before going back to my chair.   And here were all those cousins making free in their own homes, just helping themselves to a needed part of a whole-yet-to-be-made, with scarce as thought as popcorn.

The first time it happened, I looked at her, wide-eyed, then back at the wedge-missing layer on the rack, and as I turned my gaze to her face again, she laughed, reached out a casual finger and patted up some crumbs.   Just before she put them into her mouth, she said, “I ain’t never made a cake that couten’ be CUT!”

My, how we all adored her!!