A most creative reuniting

Social media can be a wonderful tool when wielded properly and in the right hands. Seriously, think about finding long lost cousins, uncles, aunts and friends. Think about how cool it is to type a name in a search engine and find someone you knew from way back when.

In the early nineteen-eighties, my mother and father owned a small Mom-and-Pop grocery store in my old hometown of Ambridge, Pennsylvania. During their few years there, they met many interesting people and rekindled friendships with people from their past. One such lady stands out head and shoulders above the rest.

Her name was Norma Jean and she and my mom knew one another from childhood. I had heard of her, but hadn't met her until the Eighth Street Dairy (the Mom-and-Pop). Norma and my mother became as soul mates. Two kindred spirits who'd found one another again and spent countless hours gabbing and laughing when there was down time in the old store. Norma was one of the most witty ladies we'd ever known. Her humor was deadpan and clever. She also had a heart of gold. It still warms me to think of her, though she'd passed away many years now.

Norma had several sons, and I later wondered what had become of them. I eventually moved from my town, and lost contact with so many people. Enter Facebook: that wonderful social media tool. I found one of Norma's sons, a chap who is close in age to me. Through cosmic magic, we began chatting and formed an online friendship. His name is Vincent and I can certainly see a lot of his mother in him: Intelligent and witty, with heart. Yes, he is certainly a testimony to good parenting.

I found out that friend Vincent is a Living History Primitive Pre 1840 Rendezvous encampments & Heritage Education for the Public, in period correct dress & using period correct accoutrements, camp gear and cooking re-enactor. Phew, I know. That's a lot of words. But to properly explain the wonderful thing he did for me recently, you need to know what he does.

Vincent has helped edit and critique several of my writing projects, and for that I am grateful. But when I saw another talent of his recently, I couldn't believe it. You see, not only does he dress in the clothing of a bygone era, but this man has a gift to recreate period piece items. And I just happen to be totally enamored of a certain period, owing it all to Ms. Diana Gabaldon for coming up with the most wonderful world of "Outlander" and Jamie and Claire Fraser.

"Outlander" is perfect escapism for me and so many others. It is well-written, well-acted and just darn good. I have a small bracelet from the show, but I spotted my old friend making Sporrans. What, you may ask is a Sporran? Well, I am going to show and tell. Jamie Fraser and his band of Scottish rebels always have their trusty Sporran aka "man pouch" belted 'round their kilts. They carry precious items, or perhaps weapons, but all I wanted was to own one of these beautiful items. To feel more kinship with these imaginary, but totally real-in-my-mind characters.

So I kindly asked Vincent, and he kindly obliged. I'm not sure any arm-twisting or begging went along with it, but as you will see by the pictures below, and hear in his own words, the painstaking process of recreating such a fine article.

Vincent:
Ah the joy of anachronisms, that ever enjoyable search for the charming artifact, accoutrement or trinket from what we intuitively feel is a reminder of the romance from a bygone era!

Well, in reality in those bygone days, life was harder, shorter (on average across all ages of people), more dangerous and survival depended upon being able to make any article quickly and made to last.  In fact old worn items we consider charming heirloom are affectionately known as "antiques."  Way back when, the folks of the olden days ALSO called their great grandma's old beat up articles "antiques," but they used that term derisively, synonymous with "antiquated!"

Enter my reproductions of good old leather bags and pouches from 300 years ago.  I make these to last, I have methods to make these articles quickly but well constructed to last at least two or three generations.  I don't sell them, mainly give them away at reenactor rendezvous gatherings as prize donations or occasionally in trade with friends in exchange for their own skills or transfer of knowledge. 

The sporran (Celtic for "purse" ) was just a simple drawstring pouch worn over a kilt belt in Scotland, to contain a few coins, some food, and other sundry supplies. 300 years ago no one had pockets (except the lady who wore a cloth bag tied on her apron, actually  termed a "pocket!"), let alone a kilt wearing Highlander!  So the sporran was a necessary accoutrement if said Scotsman wanted to travel or even go out in the windswept heather in polite company (sporrans also held the kilt front from lifting up!).

I try to re-create these items using original methods, darkening the leather with iron acetate made from vinegar and chunks of iron as has been done back to ancient Roman times.  I stitch only with hand waxed linen or hemp thread. 

Having said all that, I still maintain, "Get over the charm, People!  It's just a drawstring pouch!  Waxing poetic over it is the same as getting excited over a DSW shoe store paper bag or one of those cloth environmentally friendly shopping bags!"  (Well maybe 300 years from NOW!)

I'm certain that a little eyeball rolling may have gone along with this project, for you see, my friend patiently listened to my Outlander-inspired fanaticism. I must admit. . . I did ask for Jamie Fraser's name to be stenciled or burned into my own Sporran. Check it out.

  But being a good sport, he had this to say:

 While the maker jokingly disparages what he calls the romance of bygone days, yet there is a magic and a continuity to looking back, having a tangible reminder of those who've gone before us, cementing a bond and a bridge from their lives to ours, that keeps us on a level footing and allows us to carry on our lives with an honor and dignity that we believe they'd approve of.

Here's to social media then! For bringing friendships back together. For letting us reconnect with truly amazing people. Raise a glass the Scottish way! Slainte!


 

Mother's Day

She was once a little girl. A daughter, a child. She had hopes and dreams. She knew laughter and fun. She also had hard times, worries, fears and tears. She was born in an old-fashioned era and knew hardship and lack. Yet she pressed on and fought the good fight in her life. She's my mother, Eileen, and I'd like to tell you a little about her.

 Mom had been such a stable even though she had her own adversities. A child of an alcoholic father, Mom grew up with fear as a constant companion. A father who would gamble away the last of the grocery money, a father who was unkind to his wife. And that wife, who took out on her children what she could not on the man she married. Little Eileen wanted so much more. She wanted to play piano, sing, soar. But tough times didn't permit her dreams to come true.

She married young, at nineteen years of age to my father, Richard, a man six years her senior. A good man, a loving man, someone who stood by her through good times and bad. Though nervous issues plagued my mother for many years, she found stability and tenderness. She fought her way through these times, these confusing times when the mind would play tricks on her, threatening to tear her apart. And she would come out on the other side stronger and better for it, with a heart so filled with compassion for others, that many lives would be touched by her.

A pregnancy came in later years after Mom lost two other babies. A doctor warned her to terminate the baby due to health concerns. But this strong woman, my mother, said words that have stuck with me all my life: "I'll have this baby, or die trying." And nine months later, my brother was born, a true blessing in our lives.

Mom ran several antique businesses through the years, enjoying the challenges they brought. But her biggest accomplishment to many of us was owning a small mom and pop store in our little town of Ambridge, Pa. The Eighth Street Dairy was a quick stop for kids after their long school days. A place to play a video game in the early 80's, and purchase bags full of penny candy, Swedish fish, gummy bears, gum balls. Nothing was more important to her, however, than her daily talks with the people and kids that walked through her door.

Some folks came daily for a newspaper and cup of coffee. They'd share stories with Mom of their lives and problems. Like a therapist, my mother would listen and occasionally give advice. And as for the children who came through the door after school hours, Mom would have a listening ear and

show by example, kindness and patience to all, qualities they may not have seen in their own homes.

Years later, many of the young people, now grown, would approach Mom if they'd see her somewhere. They'd tell her just how much she meant to them in those earlier years, the time she spent talking with them. A few have told how their lives have changed from knowing her. One man said, "If it wasn't for you, I don't know where I'd be. Every time I thought about getting into trouble, I'd think of you, and just stop what I was doing."

As for me, I think back to a lady who stood by me in one of the darkest times of my life: my spinal surgery for scoliosis as a teen. I don't know how Mom was able to keep her strength as she watched me go through such a difficult time in Children's Hospital. How she kept my spirits up and told me it would pass.

I've gotten my heart from my mother. My sense of humor. I've gotten a love of movies, books, and imagination from her, a spirit of creativity. I've gotten compassion, a love of animals and underdogs of the world. I've learned about faith and God from Mom.

I think my mother didn't realize just how many lives she impacted. And when her golden years came upon her, I reminded her: The world is a better place because of you, Mom. So many of us wouldn't be who we are without having known you.

Here's to Mother's Day, and the blessing, the great blessing my mother was to me. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you with my whole heart.

Shoes to Fill (An Ancestor Story)

     Whose shoes have you trod in? I thought about this today while reading posts in an ancestry site I belong to. The answer: All of those who have gone before us.
     It was last summer when I began doing research for a story I was writing at the time. Though fiction, I still wanted to use my own great-grandfather as the subject for the beginning of this tale. A haunting photo of him sparked my imagination and I was relentless in my pursuit.
     I joined sites, asked questions and spoke to relatives I hadn't seen in years. What did they know of him, what did they remember from stories they might have heard as children?
     We had some big shoes to fill. Pietro Biancucci was a young man when he arrived in this country. Leaving behind wife and children in Patrica, Italy to find work in America, the task couldn't have been easy. He spoke only Italian. He'd never traveled before.What would it be like when he arrived? Yet he found good work and with his carpentry skills, sent for his family to join him after a time.
     The tales I heard about him all seemed to paint a portrait of a soft-spoken, good-hearted man. With a shy wife, I'd found that Pietro had to explain the facts of life to his daughters, a task which must have not been easy. Also, he had been the one in his family to make homemade pasta. One of the most intriguing stories I'd heard was about a misunderstanding. Some men had accused my great-grandfather of some sort of mafia issues. He'd gone to the foreman in the mill he was working at and explained to the man that the story wasn't true. The foreman knew Pietro to be a man of character, so he'd taken care of the problem, though I'm not sure how.
     He died of pneumonia, something so easily curable now, in his forties. A good life snuffed out way too soon.
     My great aunts and uncle were a tribute to this man, their father. For each of them had lives, stories, love shared and lost. Good times and bad. Happiness and sadness. And my own mother, the product of generations later, a good, compassionate woman, a woman who taught me everyone has a story. A woman who carries within her the blood of these generations past and the tales handed down through the years.
     We all have shoes to fill and paths to trod upon. May your journey, and the tales of your ancestors light the way for you as you seek to discover the stories which molded you and the people who've gone before you. Don't wait another day. Learn all you can, share photos and look up relatives you haven't spoken to in years. Visit that aging grandparent, or great aunt or uncle. Don't let time slip by before you discover the shoes you are meant to wear. The person you're meant to become.
    

Thank You For Teaching Me

     

 Recently I had lunch with a wonderful man I'm honored to know; my former employer. We'd met one day at Maple Restaurant, an old establishment in Ambridge, the small, homey town I grew up in. All the pleasant talk and chatter with him brought me back. Back to a time when I was young, the whole world before me.......

      When I graduated business school at eighteen, I was faced with the daunting task of job hunting. What to do? Go on interviews that the school would provide, all of them in the downtown Pittsburgh area? No way.
     As chance would have it, my mother was looking through the paper one day and spotted an ad: Dental Assistant, will train....it read. When she saw it was the dentist I'd gone to as a little girl, she encouraged me to call.
     Dental Assistant? What on earth?
     Thirty some years later, I've never looked back. The dental field has been extremely rewarding for me, teaching me compassion, patience, caring and understanding.
     The man who would help me learn these lessons and many others is my former boss, Dr. Alvin Zamba. A quiet, good soul, this man would teach me more about life, people, work ethics and goodness than I would ever learn elsewhere. With his gentle approach to our patients in the dental office we worked together for twenty seven years, Dr. Zamba showed me that honesty and hard work are the traits we should all strive for.
     The dental work we put out through the years was impeccable. A periodontist, gum specialist, in our area would call Dr. Zamba, "Beaver County's Most Well-Kept Secret". And he was. Our fees were reasonable, and the work of his hands, incredible. Our satisfied patients would tell me in private, how pleased they were with their appointments.
     In all the years working with Dr. Zamba, I would not miss a day's work. I looked forward to the bond and closeness with the elderly patients we saw on a daily basis. I listened to their problems, hopes and dreams. I laughed with them and cried with them.
     Several times, the doctor and I went to the bedside of a sick, older man in his own home. He didn't have much longer to live, but his family wanted him to have dentures made for whatever time he had left. I think of that now, how my boss took the time out of his busy day, and the comfort of working in our office to do this for the family.
     Yes, there were testy moments, as there were only the two of us working together for many years, and maybe my temper wanted to flare at times, but keeping myself in check was also another lesson. First and foremost, respect of my employer, and learning to hold my tongue when I may not have agreed with something.
     I miss those days, a simpler time in a small town, in an old-fashioned office decorated in antiques with no frills, no computer, no exciting major equipment. Only the tools and skills of a wonderful man, a man I am pleased to have called "boss" for many years.
     Here's to you, Dr. Zamba, in thankfulness for all I learned at your side.