Monthly Archives: March 2025

Crafts, Friendship, Memorials

Thanks to a Friend, a Miniature House Tribute to Streak the Cat

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I have a friend whose vocation–one of her true callings–is searching out the best deals in thrift stores.  She’s motivated not by monetary gain, but by the thrill of the hunt.  Occasionally she’ll sell some of her finds on eBay.  But more often, she makes gifts of them to those who will most appreciate them.  She’s one of those people who can, and does, talk to anyone she meets.  And she meets many people.  She was in our dog-walking group for the ten years that her family lived in our area.  As soon as a new family moved to the neighborhood, she could tell us their names, their background, and several interesting anecdotes about them.  Wherever she is, whether on walks with sweet Cali, her big, shaggy golden doodle, or in her favorite thrift stores, she’s immersed in community.  At a local church-run shop, she was one of the Tuesday regulars, those who line up early for first dibs at newly displayed merchandise that arrives over the weekend.  There she met a diverse group of friends, and it became part of her mission to assist in their searches.  Quality wool sweaters in fall colors for Esther’s twin grandsons in Roanoke?  Office attire in Size 5 for Maria’s young adult daughter in the Philippines?   Just-so serving pieces for Sofia’s niece’s at-home wedding reception in Manassas?  Found, found, and found, in each case, with several options.    

My friend was well aware of my dollhouse hobby. She had been on the lookout for a while, at my behest, for a miniature house that could benefit from a thorough renovation. The plainer, the better. When she spotted one on a Tuesday morning at her favorite thrift shop, she quickly texted a photo.

Yes! I’ll be right over! It was the ideal blank dollhouse canvas I’d been wanting.  It’s hard to imagine a more basic structure.  It was sizable, but it fit, just barely, in the front seat of my little car.  

For the re-do, I envisioned a stately Greek revival house in gray and white.  My husband measured and cut (two things I don’t do well) a triangular pediment for me from a thin sheet of plywood.  I  removed the few remaining shutters and painted smaller pediments over each window.  I added a central Palladian window, and Corinthian columns on tall bases.  I painted the steps, chimney, and foundation level to resemble stone.  I added pots of flowers and topiaries, and a couple of flowering trees on each side.  I kept the florals to a subdued palette of green, white and yellow.  Only the front door remains unchanged. 

Ever since deciding on the color scheme, I knew that the exterior would feature cats. Most of my houses are adorned with dogs and/or foxes, along with a few birds, squirrels and chipmunks.  When my dog Kiko died, I added him to the Red Panda house I was finishing.  This house, I’d decided, would be a sort of memorial for my favorite Atlanta feline.  Streak, all fluffy gray and white elegance, was my idea of the absolutely perfect cat.  I began seeing him when, living at home between undergrad and grad school in the mid-80s, I passed his house on daily neighborhood walks.  With very un-catlike behavior, Streak would run out enthusiastically at my approach.  If I didn’t see him immediately, I’d call for him, and he’d appear.   He’d greet me with a loud, decidedly welcoming meow.  I’d spend some time admiring him before resuming my walk.  He’d purr and circle my legs.  I’m allergic to cats, but a few moments outdoors with a cat don’t bother me.  And a few moments with a living, breathing masterpiece like Streak–those to me were priceless. 

Streak the cat, on the wall on Wildwood Rd near his house.

Just look at that lion-like ruff, those symmetrically striped, magnificently furry front legs and paws, those yellow eyes, pink nose, delicate ears, and intense, intelligent gaze.  All these decades later, and I’ve never met a cat that was Streak’s equal in looks or personality. 

I made the little wreaths for Christmas, but I like them so much that they stay on year round.

If not for my friend, the thrift store guru, I might not have had the pleasure of creating a tribute to Streak.  None of my painted cats does justice to the one that inspired them, but I enjoyed the attempt.  Streak will forever feature in my favorite Atlanta memories.  Now, in the child-like part of my brain that still imagines my painted houses as sanctuaries for cherished companions, I can envision him living here.  He’s waiting by the front door to greet me.  Content and cozy with his dear cat family, Streak is nearby in all his feline fabulousness. 

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Memorials

Remembering Grandma (As My Perfect Mother-in-Law)

In memory of my mother-in-law Doretta, who passed away at the beginning of March, I reprint this post from October 2012.  See previous post for more about my husband’s lovely mother. 

I have the perfect mother-in-law. The only down side to this is that I’m unable to participate in the swapping of mother-in-law horror stories. I’ve heard many such accounts, and other than gasps of incredulity, I have nothing to add. I’ve listened in amazement to tales of the mother-in-law who “helps” with the new baby by bellowing orders, complaints, and increasingly outlandish requests from a command center on the family room sofa. I’ve heard about the M.I.L. who, determined to ensure that her son’s house run on her rules or not at all, regards each visit as an opportunity for a hostile takeover. I’ve listened to anecdotes about the M.I.L. whose sensitive temperament is constantly wounded by imagined slights tossed off by a cruel daughter-in-law. And I’ve heard everything in between.

With my mother in law, there is no drama.  She is sweet, good, and uncomplicated.  She is kind,  thoughtful and intelligent.  During visits to our home, she asks how she may help.  She is not overbearing.  She does not insist, but she never offers out of empty politesse.  It has taken me a while, but I’ve learned to accept her assistance.  I come from what may be a predominately Southern tradition of automatically refusing the first few offers of guests’ help, thereby forcing them to insist or be considered rude.  Now, when Grandma* asks if I need help with dinner, I tend to say Yes, please! She is a calm, easy presence, and it’s a pleasure to share the house, and the chores, with her.

Like everyone in H’s family, his mother welcomed me warmly at our first meeting, now over twenty years ago.  She has never implied (as some mothers of sons are known to do), that no living woman could be a worthy companion of the god-like boy-child she birthed.  She has a deservedly high opinion of H, and she has always treated me as his equal.

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H’s mother is a loving grandmother to our daughter and to her other four grandchildren.  Gentle and fun, she laughs easily, and she remembers what it was like to be a child.  I’ve heard about grandparents who cannot be trusted with their own grandchildren.  This was never an issue with either set of my daughter’s grandparents, thankfully.  When D was nearly three, my husband and I, along with my parents, took a trip to France, leaving our daughter in the care of Grandma and Grandpa.  We missed our baby girl, but we had no worries about her welfare, either emotional or physical, during those ten days.  We knew she was in devoted and capable hands.

Grandma’s attitude is generally one of meekness, and some might take her for a pushover.  This, however, is not the case.  When she feels strongly that righteousness is on her side, she is tough, patient and determined to persevere. One year, when H’s windsurfing board went missing in Cape Cod, she summoned Grandpa to accompany her on a walk.  With slow, thorough deliberation, she surveyed the property carefully, until she discovered H’s board leaning up against the wall of another cottage way across the green.  Thanks to her gracious yet firm intervention, H’s board was soon being carried back to its rightful place by those who, no doubt, had removed it.

The photo above shows our daughter with Grandma at Cape Cod.  In D’s younger years, she always urged H and me to go out for date night during our vacation, so she could enjoy a full evening of food and fun with Grandma and Grandpa.

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Grandma is always ready for a game with a grandchild, whether it’s air hockey, Chinese Checkers, Candyland or Chutes & Ladders.

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Grandpa is a lucky man, and he knows it.  He has Grandma by his side, no matter what.  During their long marriage they’ve had their share of hell and high water, in addition to many joys.  They are a formidable team, and together, with their strong faith in God’s love and grace, they know they can weather any storm.  Grandma has a gift for finding and sharing that kernel of sweetness within the tough husk of the bad.

Thank you, Grandma, for enriching the lives of all those you touch.  Happy Birthday, and many more to follow!

*When I speak to my mother-in-law, I call her by her first name, which is an unusual, pretty name.  But here, I will refer to her as Grandma. When I wrote about H’s father, her husband, I referred to him as Grandpa (June 2012), so I’ll be consistent.

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Memorials

Goodbye, to Grandma

At one of her favorite spots, with a book at the picnic table outside her family’s Cape Cod rental cottage

My dear mother-in-law Doretta passed away in the early hours of March 4th.  Since her beloved husband Jim left this world in October of 2022, she’d been lonely.  She didn’t complain.  But when asked, or when his name was mentioned, she’d always say, “I just miss him so much.”  She carried on, despite her sadness and the growing physical challenges of Parkinsons’ and Addison’s Disease. 

I  had the pleasure of seeing her most Wednesday nights for the past several years. During the height of the pandemic, she joined my mother and me and other friends for an online Bible study through our church here in Virginia.  As her mobility decreased, attending her local Rochester church, and getting out at all, became increasingly difficult.  Our mid-week virtual gathering had become one of her few fellowship opportunities, and she appreciated the warm welcome our group extended to her.  With my husband’s and his sister’s help, she learned to use Zoom on her iPad in order to join us.  This was quite the feat, considering Jim had always been the one to deal with any and all tech matters.  During the sessions we’d often hear Barney the cockatiel chirping away happily in the background.  Barney, like Doretta, had been bereft after Jim’s passing.  An odd, cantankerous bird, he was prone to hissing with apparent vehemence at everyone who was not his best pal Jim.  Over the past two years, he warmed up to Doretta, and the two became good company.  It was her nightly ritual to sit with him in the family room,  watching TV or reading.  She found that he got particularly chirpy during the musical performances on old Lawrence Welk re-runs.  

At about age three, in her hometown of Jamestown, NY

Doretta was determined not to relocate from her house, which she and Jim had built as newlyweds in 1965. Thanks to the help of my sister-in-law Julie, who lives locally,  several regular care-givers, many walkers and two stair lifts, one to the basement and another to the second floor, she had been able to remain in the home she loved so much.  When my husband returned there the morning after his mom’s passing, on the table beside her favorite chair, he found her Bible, some recent books from our Zoom studies, and a manual on coping with Parkinsons’.  He saw them as a testament to her quiet, patient perseverance.  Throughout adversity, her faith was strong.  Life tossed many hardships her way, but she pushed through, with a kind, encouraging word for others.  She was a light bearer in our often dark world.  It feels odd not seeing Doretta’s Zoom square on Wednesday nights, not to see her sweet smiling face, not to hear Barney’s tweets. I like to think of her in that heavenly cloud of witnesses, reunited joyfully with her darling Jim.

   

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Food, Nature

Maple Sugaring in Virginia

As my husband made plans for maple sugaring, he learned to keep a close eye on the weather, and to be prepared to act.  We’d always thought of February as the prime maple sugar month.  But H learned last year that it’s the temperature, not the specific time of year, that determines the best sugaring conditions.  The perfect fluctuation of temperatures, in fact, is necessary.  Cold nights, when the thermometer dips below freezing, and warming, sunny days, are what gets the sap really flowing.  During the second week of January, when temperatures ranged from the twenties to the forties, H tapped several sugar maples in my mother’s yard.  Soon, the white pails were filling with sap.  He checked them each night, emptying the liquid into a larger bucket for storage in our basement fridge.

He began the long boiling process on a weekend when he had few other projects.   Every gallon of sap requires about an hour of boiling time.  He’d collected about twelve gallons, and he boiled six gallons at a time.  To avoid turning our kitchen into an ultra-high-humidity zone during six hours of boiling, H began the process outside on the grill.  Once the amount of liquid had been reduced by about 80%, he finished the process inside.  The longer the liquid is boiled, the more viscous it becomes. During this final phase, our house was filled with the heavenly scent of sugar-rich steam. 

The reason that most maple sugar comes from northern locales is that the sugar content of maples is higher there.  Sugar maples in northern states and Canada typically have a sap to syrup ratio of about 40-1,  so that forty gallons of sap yields one gallon of syrup.  Farther south, as here in Virginia, that ratio is about 70 – 1. 

After the boiling process is finished, the syrup is filtered to remove any impurities. 

A bit of early-season syrup, light in color.

My husband found that the sap from the earliest part of the season produced syrup that was light in color.  Longer boiling does not affect the color, (unless reduced to the point of burning, of course).   In taste, this early harvest was subtle.  It was sugary, with only slight hints of maple flavor.  

The late-season sap resulted in syrup that was a dark mahogany color.  The flavor was bright and robust.  It was pure maple essence.  It takes more sap, and more boiling time for maple sugaring here in Virginia than in western New York, but the end result, we know now, is equally tasty.  Mid-Atlantic maples can produce a liquid gold as fine as their Yankee cousins. 

Hours spent around the big pot of bubbling sap, inhaling the sweetness of the steam, are apt to inspire contemplation.  “Amazing, isn’t it, that we can extract this liquid from trees in our own yard and turn it into this great-tasting stuff,” my husband remarked.  “And it’s even more amazing that the sap is there in the first place.  There’s enough to nourish the tree, and plenty left over for us.  If God were to boast about his wonders, this should be included.”

I agreed, and the biblical conversation between God and Job immediately came to mind: 

Who created a channel for the torrents of rain?  Who laid out the path for the lightning? 

Who makes the rain fall on barren land, in a desert where no one lives?

Who sends rain to satisfy the parched ground and make the tender grass spring up?

Does the rain have a father?  Who gives birth to the dew?

Who is the mother of the ice?  Who gives birth to the frost from the heavens? (Job 38: 25- 29, New Living Translation)

God directs Job’s attention to his supreme authority over the skies, the seas, over light and darkness, and to the unique characteristics of his many, fantastically varied creatures, including lions and goats, the wild donkey, the ox, the horse and the eagle.  The miracle of maple syrup could well be included among these marvels, it seems to me.  Perhaps in words like these:  

Who commands and compels the life-blood of the trees of the forest?  Who sets the sweet sap rising and flowing in the maples?  Who sends it forth to nurture and bless the woodpecker and the shepherd?

So  yes, every taste of our homemade maple syrup is yet another reminder of the bounty of God’s  gifts.  It’s best enjoyed, in our opinion, over buckwheat pancakes made from the Cartwright family recipe.  Our syrup may be from Southern trees, but my husband’s sugar-making experience is rooted in the wilds of upstate New York.  The seeds were planted long ago during his first family visit to the remote Maple Tree Inn.  One of life’s sweet pleasures still flourishes, across the miles and years.  Grandpa Stan would be proud.