Using the Antique Garden Basket Properly For the Late Fall Harvests.

Using the Antique Garden Basket Properly For the Late Fall Harvests.

Properly using the (your)

Antique antebellum (pre 1860) handmade

Old New England ash splint wood

Garden basket

For the (your)

Late fall vegetable garden harvests.

This is a pleasant undertaking.

Take the old basket(s) from the 

(Old) (garden) shed(s).

Harvest a prescribed crop or

Engage in gleaning

On a mid November morning when one is

Attending to other putterings about the (your) garden

Plots.

The sun need not be out.

A flake of snow may be in the air.

An example of a seasonal Fall crop harvest is,

Of course,

The Brussel Sprouts; a last ‘row’ at waiting.

The fall frosts have cleaned up the Sprout’s neighborhood

At their garden plot.

“They aren’t any good until AFTER the FROST.”

Is their time honored harvest instruction.

We pick ours and head straight to the cast iron skillet with them

(The tiny ones especially)

They are ‘fried’ with three diced strips of the local bacon.

A ‘very simple’ of the mid fall season.

And only a short outing for the

Antique splint wood old New England garden basket.

By far more fun

For the old basket

Is when I take it gleaning

When I have ‘work along’ in a

Garden plot here and there.

Come with me my senior friend and have some

Bright crisp fall air

Upon your wooden weave.

Today I turn over (by hand with shovel) a tomato plot

In effort to expose the Tomato Caterpillar’s (Hornworm) winter roust

(Buried Cocoon)

So they may freeze to death.

Along the plot’s edge I turn up with my shovel lost onions that we grow

As a border edge.  The onion border was long ago harvested.  These are the hidden few escaping notice during harvest;

A gleaning.

My antique garden basket creeps along the plot’s edge with my shovel.

I toss the find into it’s

Demanding trove keep.

A little dirt.  A little dry

A crinkled skin.

A sprouting top.

Each brushes time aside for it;

(The old New England splint wood garden basket).

The basket lives its life again as it follows the shovel

Along the plot.

Is not that a pleasant

Way to be;

To properly use the (your) old New England splint wood

Garden basket?

Antiquarian Sophistication of the "I" and the "Eye" Upon the "It" - Part Five - "Puss in the Corner"

Antiquarian Sophistication of the "I" and the "Eye" Upon the "It"

Part Five

"Puss in the Corner"

            “Yes, puss in the corner, but not in the way you fancy.  No indeed.  Puss has been sent there to stay until she can be good.”

            Is there ever going to be a fire... that ravishes the ‘it’ all?  Can you be a fire that ravishes ‘it’ all?  “Burned it up.” They’ve said to me.  Quite well managed and sure they’ve said that; “Burned it up.”  That is the commercial market for antiques

            I am speaking of.

            Once the fire is started... pile more upon it?  Celebrate, they do, the anti-knowing of “old things”.  Murmurs of women.  Folkways.  Old stories.  Diaries never kept.  Or WERE they kept only to be burned... too... when found.  Were they too... “Burned it up”.

            “Go stand in the corner... until you are GOOD.”  That is what has happen to the old woman’s things.  “Those there are VALUABLE; that there.  In the corner.  We can’t keep her cat out of there.”

            “Oh.” I said.  “I don’t want her cat.”

            “You can have her.  We don’t want her either.”

            Her old dining table chairs had been pushed against the sideboard.  The top of the sideboard had been covered with her old china that they had removed from the dining room’s two corner cabinets.  Candlestick pairs, glassware, silver plate (?), serving service, ‘covered dishes’ and a mirror behind.  “Broken” one heiress said.

            “The glass?” I said

            “Glass?”

            “The looking glass?”

            “Oh.  The mirror?  No.  The china.  The pieces in that box”.

            There were two boxes; an old shoe box resting on top of an old shirt box.  Set off to one side

            On the sideboard.

            “I don’t want to do anything today but I’ll come back when your done and buy it all.”

            “All?”

            “The whole house contents; we’ll clean it out”

            “Not just the antiques?”

            “No.  Everything.  Of course the antiques.  Just keep putting what you don’t want in the corners (of the different rooms).  You know what your doing.  Just let me know.  When your done.  Ready.  I’ll come back.”

            Puss in the corner.  They put the antiques in the corners.  It was nine months before I heard from them again.  Of course I heard ABOUT them right along.  Other dealers just cannot shut-up.  At least six of those... ‘had been let in’.

            “Oh.” I’d say to them.

            It should be perfectly obvious that if the heirs know enough about the antiques in their mother’s house... to put the antiques they don’t want in the corners of each room... that they know nothing about antiques at all.  Except but what they’ve been told.  And I told them nothing.  About anything.  In the house.

            It was a rather large house.  Estate.  Lots of rooms... with the unwanted antiques in the corners... excepting the rather large number of rooms where the heirs “didn’t find anything” they’d say.

            “Okay.  Fine.”

            You (the reader) say.

            Now your beginning to ... “see” (understand)?  Do you hear the old woman murmuring?  Oh... it is still just muttering to you?  One of the heirs muttered about the coffee table... to herself.  “Would it FIT.” she... what?

            I don’t care

            I don’t want to know.

            When I came back

            It wasn’t there.

            “She has very good taste. Her house is all just like that too.  Perfect”.  Said Carl.  To me.  Carl is her brother.  He was “taking” the “tools” in the “garage”.  “JUST THE TOOLS I’M GONNA USE.”  He said.  He left everything else... strewn about... after he “DUG THROUGH IT”.  “TWO TRIPS”... in his truck.  The sisters didn’t “want any of that”.  The grandfather’s father was a carpenter’s assistant when he was in his teens.  He helped build the church

            Steeple

            Down the street... about one thousand feet... and on the same side of the street.  His tools (“old tools”) were ‘mixed in’ and not in the ‘old tool chest’ that had been left up just inside the garage door ...to hold sand and salt... for when ‘it’s icy’.  “TOO BAD HUH.  WOULD HAVE BEEN A NICE BOX ONCE”.  I sold it for thirty.  Dollars.  I used the sand myself.  I gave the bags of salt to Raphael.  He works at the church on Sundays... salting the walkways when ‘it’s icy’.  He’s from Brazil.  He speaks Spanish and English.  He smokes cigarettes when he stands on the walkways and surveys his salting job.

            “Want to see if you’d LIKE any of the TOOLS?” I said to him.  He came up to the garage after church was done.  That Sunday.  “IF YOU CAN USE IT BETTER TAKE IT”.

            “I can?” he said.

            “ONLY WHILE I’M IN A GOOD MOOD”.  We both laughed.

            He doesn’t have a truck.  “PUT IT IN MINE and WE’LL DRIVE IT OVER”.

            “That bench?  The tool bench... okay... SURE.”

            I could have sold it.  Pretty easy.  Fuck it.  I did pretty well with it.  By giving it to him.  “It’s an antique.” I told him.  He surveyed it.

            “How old?”

            “World War One”.

            He didn’t say anything more.  Neither did I.  We... the two of us... ‘flipped’ it up into the truck.

            It’s been four years and he uses that bench everyday.  I bet.

            “Puss in the corner” I said to the heirs.

            “What did you say?”

            “Nothing”

            I think they thought I said ‘piss in the corner’.  We were all standing at the front of the garage... looking in at “the stuff”.  They called it.

            The easy solution would be to re-title all the “antiques” as “stuff”; old stuff.  That would get rid of ‘antiques’ and the... that they being that are... “OLD” and “VALUABLE”.  Since the ‘market’ for antiques has been re-titled as ‘crashed’, removing the antiques title gets rid of that too; the ‘crashed’ antiques ‘market’.  It is all, then, just ‘stuff’ in the corners of the rooms and ‘in the garage’.  Antiques become easier to manage without the title:  “Throw the stuff out”.  “Sell the stuff in a yard sale”.  It is just ‘stuff’.  “Who cares?”

            That is the way it should be.  One never, then, has to consider ‘it’ by ‘eye’ of... your... ‘I’.  No.  Put the stuff in the garage or throw it out.  Put “what I like” in the dining room.  Obviously... if there are two small boxes of old (18^th century) broken china found in the dining room... throw that out.  That is what happens... more... and more... and more... these days.  This is because “no one” “knows anything”.  That is what the actual ‘market crash’ of ‘antiques’ is:  No one knows anything.  It is all just “stuff”.  And no one “BUYS” “STUFF” unless it is a... “what I like”.  That is the whole round (circle) of the market (vast percentage of the market).  It is furthered by the ‘what I like’ being supported by a buttress (flying buttress?) of “what sells”.  “Stuff” that “sells” is “what sells”.

            An example?  ...:  “Something to PUT my TV on”.  “Stuff” is searched, an “I like” is found.  The whole world of “I”, “eye” and “it”... is accomplished.  It is... a very... sophisticated process.

            Isn’t it.

            And that is what it looks like... too... in the corners of the rooms:  Just stuff.  Or... NOTHING.  The corner is bare... until Puss... is in that corner.

            How does Puss get sent to the corner?  Puss says “I like antiques”... “I want antiques”... “I want to know about antiques”... “I care about antiques”... “I want things that my great-grandmother had.  They were good, she knew that and knew, too, what ‘good’... was...?  NO:  What good... IS.  I remind... the antiques are STILL HERE.  They are ‘all over the place’ and called, these days... “stuff”.

            Most ‘stuff’ is ‘bad’ (bad design; ‘bad taste’).  It is as if one is peeking through a knot hole in an old wooden fence.  In behind the old fence... that hides the ‘old’ “stuff” are... where the ‘antiques’ have gone after ‘the market crashed’.  No one knows this.  No one cares about this.  No one ever peeks through the hole

            To “see” “the antiques”.  I can stand at the hole and peek... using my antiquarian sophisticated “I” to physically deploy my “eye” to seek the antique “it” and

            No one...

            Nothing...

            Ever...

            These days.

            Even if it is Colonial era Old New England tea china that was ‘passed down’. No... all I am shown is “stuff” that is defined as ‘what I like’.  If I suggest ...anything... I am sent to stand in the corner of the room with the ‘antiques’ until I will be

            Good.

            I actually prefer standing in the corner where the antiques were put.  No one bothers me.  I cannot leave the corner with all the antiques until I will be

            Good.

            I accept the terms.

            “Puss in the corner”.

The Silver Twin's ...Place... In New England Decorative Art - Part Three - "Wander and Wonder"

The Silver Twin's ...Place...

In New England Decorative Art

Part Three

"Wander and Wonder"

            Returning... with enhanced senses of wander and wonder... and with these, too, bringing enhanced senses of... expectations and qualifications... to the Silver Twin’s Place ...homestead site... I

            Open my eyes

            And mind

            To the

            Art.

            That is there.

            The creepy apology of “I like going in old attics”... that suffices to lay down... the lay antiquarian ‘enthusiast’ (“buff”)... is not good enough

            Especially these days

            Of jaded

            Of the

            Old New England “Yeah, yeah”.

            They be.

            “They no longer see?”

            You ask if... I say.

            Yes... and of the sorts that I have already spoken; the coffee can of clothespins...

            Was the woman’s art (Part Two).

            It is art still in my eye.  (I keep my eye fresh).  (“Yes I do”).

            But the ‘they’

            Have gone away.

            I poke this.  Merely a step into the homestead’s ‘attached shed’ (running between the back or ‘kitchen’ door.... “OUT” to the barn.  Hanging there

            Without a care

            Is an old

            “Yoke”... once worn by a (young) man... for eleven generations (!).  The Jaded ‘they’ walks... right... by... that... “these days”.  “CANNOT SELL THEM” they say... in their special antiquarian way

            That typically translates ‘all that be’ of ‘homestead’ “ATTIC” into

            “Cash” (“money”) (‘coin of the realm’ value).

            I always thought you would anyway... and when ...I... look back over the forty years YOU have ‘been at this’... I do have affirmation

Of my qualifications

            Of my expectations

            FOR YOU to be exactly

            “THAT”.

            Go away.

            Go out behind the wood pile and pee.

            Then get back in your truck and

            Go away.

            I, for my part (in the shed) have already found a jewel and show now... how to see it; expectations and... qualifications.

            “Be that there handmade here (at this homestead) and hung there?  For how many generations ‘hung there’?  Yes we know that now.  One man one day two hundred years ago made that one day once one only ...with his hatchet.

            Had fun enough doing that he did... that day.  “Task” it was “They needed one”.

            For what?

            “Well woman... well water... carry that”... and it is STILL all up hill from the spring

            On the hillside of the Silver Twin’s Place.

            But they ‘could also’

            In (Maple) sap season ‘carry those’ sap ‘buckets’.  The colloquial name sticks there:  I am highlighting the Colonial New England ‘Sap Yoke’.

            But darling... that is just one short part of one short season of one short work.  Many times in the late summer or late fall... or late spring... “one of the BOYS” “came out” to the “MEN” with the yoke on and carrying their... “noon time meal”

            Have you ever had a ‘noon time meal’.

            I suppose it depends on where... and how... “you grew up”

            In New England.

            So already I’ve found three seasons and/or daily uses meaning the old yoke ‘saw service’ daily with.... “What about the WINTER?”.  No... not much there; “IT” “hung in the shed” for “that” (winter)?  Oh no... they DID, on the good days (storm free), “CUT” down below the pasture and... out came the yoke with the ‘noon time meal’.  Again.  The boy wore snowshoes.  So did the men

            Have you ever ‘cut’ (trees down with a chain saw) wearing snowshoes?  I didn’t think so.  If you do sometime happen to, you’ll have revised qualifications and expectations of your ‘noon time meal’.

            Let your hand reach out and touch the old yoke.  The man who made it... with his hatchet... has been dead for two hundred years.  This is the only yoke he ever made.  He made this one.  It ‘passed’ in the shed... of the Silver Twin’s place for eleven generations.  Now someone is going to buy it from me and ‘hang it in’ their ‘camp’?  “Not unless it’s cheap”.  They assure me.

            “Are not we in a Bastard after all”.  It is easier for one to just put this all down and “GO” to the .... and “BUY” one of those; a pair of camouflaged pattern printed camp “water buckets”

            “But where are your yokes for sale?  Sir?”

            “OH WE JUST USE THE BUCKETS AT CAMP.  WE WANT THE YOKE FOR DECORATION”.

            Well you cannot have it.

            Mary Earle Gould in her “EARLY AMERICAN WOODEN WARE” ‘touches’ “sap yokes’ very slightly in her ‘sap’ sections (pgs. 104-106, 185-187).  She has two photographic illustration of ‘sap yokes’ too.  And then she moves on.  One has to explore for more than ‘a little’ in an effort to find “treatment” (qualification, expectations and... affirmation) of “sap” yokes.  That’s okay... for I already said... “go away”.  If one does go to doing this effort one will find a time travel helps.  Back one should go to the nineteen seventies when

            Discovery was made

            By such and such luminaries as Eric Sloane; who illuminated mysteries from a homestead past... upon New England coffee tables (“I WONDER WHAT HAPPENED TO THOSE BOOKS?”)

            “I KNOW HE HAD A (sap) YOKE IN IT” (his books).

            But when you get back there (1970’s) LOOK AROUND.  One funny one once upon a time...

            ...I find the curious gallery show:  “AMERICAN DESIGN IN THE RUARL NEW ENGLAND HOME”.  And in its critical write up it includes an old yoke hung as sculpture on a gallery wall: “gives a large space to a sap yoke dated 1850 which came from along the Maine New Hampshire border near Crawford Notch.  An important of seasonal and hard use, the yoke has been through a lot and we can see something of its history by looking at its layers.  It was repaired once by ‘sewing’ a split off piece along the length with leather thongs.  The repair would have been preferable to carving out a new yoke.  Later it was painted blue, a beautiful flat medium blue, leather and wood.  Later yet it sat unused, probably in a barn and was chewed a little by mice.  It is still perfectly usable although the left shoulder needs a new rope and hook.  Now it’s on the wall (hung as sculpture)”.

            Opening that essay the writer states, of the rural New England design premise, “The show is a disturbance to the plasticity and controlled desperation of daily life:  ...Where are such manifestations of unabashed originality and individuality in our own rural life?”.

            Care to go inside an old shed and find out?  After discovering the old yoke hanging on the wall for service, take it ‘down’ and look at it.  Wander and wonder it.  For yourself.  Not for dollars.  Not.  That is right:  JUST “not”.

            Why?  Because it (the old yoke) is better than you are.  It is that simple.