Sleep In A Tent

Sleep In A Tent

            “You still sleep in a tent?”

            “Oh yeah.  Sleeping in it right now.”

            “Really”.

            “Yep.”

            Pause

            “We remember you doing that.  We talked about it on the way up here.  It’s not the same tent right?”

            “Basically it’s the same.  This is our fourth tent. We’ve used it for four years so far.  It’s the same as the other ones.  Eventually they rot out.  Actually.  Not the tent.  The fly gets brittle and tears from exposure”.

            “You still really sleep there every night?”

            “All the time.  From mid April to mid November.  Since 1984.  At this site.  It’s the highest point on the property.

            “We remember you doing that.”

            “We still do it.  We’re doing it right now.”

            Pause.

            “Look:  You’ve come up here and rented that camp (in Raymond on a lake)  Sort of.  (Sort of rented the camp and sort of it being on a so titled “lake”).  Your there for a week.  You love it.  Then you go away (home). We’re in the tent the whole time.  That’s what we do here.  When I get up in the morning I crawl on all fours out of the tent.  It’s dark.  It’s raining.  Whatever.  I have calluses on my knees from doing it.  All you got is some camp photographs you took with your phone and, like, look at or show them to people.  You know like... get away from me.  Your not doing that (sleeping in a tent).”

            When I get up in the morning it is dark and I walk by one of the outbuilding.  On its second floor we have some beans and all our onions (we grew) drying right now.  On old sheets.  On the floor.  I toss the bean vines with a pitchfork every few days.  The room; the second floor of this building, is perfect for drying.  A dry heat.  It was built during the Civil War to do that; be a drying loft.  It’s, like, once a year and it’s perfect.  No one cares.  You don’t even know what I’m talking about.  Okay?  So there’s, like, no electricity there.  NEVER HAS BEEN.  Never need to.  Never want it.  GET IT?  WE SLEEP IN A TENT IN THE WOODS.  For over forty years.  GOT IT?

            We harvested all the cabbages.  They are in the (hand dug, field stone lined and dirt floor) cellar.  The potatoes are drying in the dark at the back of the barn on the floor under a cotton duck sheet... intentional... as are it’s four companions... for doing this.  Now.  Once a year.

            Okay?

            We’re still sleeping in the tent.  Got it?  The Maple leaves are turning red and yellow and falling off the trees.  The oaks will go another month.  Maybe we’ll still be in the tent then.  Too.  This is what we do.  We don’t have a home security system with twenty spy cameras.  We don’t need one.  Like... whose gonna take the tent... down.

            ME.

            And you won’t be there when I do.  No one ever is there.  THAT’S WHY WE SLEEP IN THE TENT:  YOUR NEVER THERE.

            My wife painted my office.  First time in thirty-five years.  All the old books had to be routed out.  You wouldn’t believe the great stuff I found in there.  I’m shingling the back side of the house; twenty-six feet wide.  Four windows.  Two on the ground floor.  Two in the chamber.  Here the upper corner (of the homestead) sits on ledge. 

I purloined a Delft charger the other day.  The farm I found it in has been sold and they’re making summer rental camps along the edge of the lake.  The house is empty.

            They told me.

            The charger was dirty but it was still in there.

            I mean really dirty:  black.

            No one cared about it.  I didn’t let on.  Just put it in the pile.  Bought the pile.  Loaded the pile into the truck.  I put the charger up in the cab.  “NICE” is the best description.  You don’t even know what I’m talking about.  Yeah, yeah:  1740-1760 English or Dutch. Perfect.  Must have been in there two hundred years.

            NO ONE SLEEPS IN A TENT.

            Right?

            TENT – ONIONS – CHARGER.  This is what we do.  We

            Sleep in a tent.

Old New England Glassware in the Home - Part Twenty-Two - "Don't Let Them"

Old New England Glassware in the Home

Part Twenty-Two

"Don't Let Them"

            Is it ‘sullen’?

            Or is it ‘difficult’?

            The silence that follows a commercial ...suggestion... from a ‘they’ ‘don’t know’

            REGARDING an

            “I DO KNOW”; here a ‘my lips touch’... antiquarian GROUP (set of eight diamond point pattern EAPG)

            objects... “Ah...

            Set the cordial down and shut-up

            Sir.”

            I haven’t touched this (sullen / difficult) before... you say?

            Well maybe we ...WE... should.

            The differentiation here is the ...very difficult to find in a written down format... notice of the difference of how an “antiques dealer” “SEES” this commercial query from this minister and how an

            Antiquarian picker... PICKER... “SEES”... ah.... IT.

            This directive brings our current glassware discussion to the broader, bigger, wider... tossed net of ‘what is all this writing about anyway’ (this blog)... AND the brutal differentiations... of that difference.  Yes...  really.

            Understand that I at this word play am first... from my antiquarian ‘begin’ ‘a picker’ and then ‘followed’ to be an antiquarian dealer.  The picker captures the territory of the appellation of ‘dealer’ by ‘having good stuff (things; objects) and ‘charging’ (requesting) ‘more money’ for those ‘good stuff’.  This is not hard to do... if the picker is a ‘does know’.  BUT:

            A good picker is always a good picker... simply (for no other reason) than that the ‘does know’ is used to “FIND” the ‘good stuff’.  The word is “FIND”.  Pickers prefer the ‘discovery mode’ of the antiquarian trade.  It is a hard ...this perpetual propelling ‘treasure hunt’ mode... ‘to shake’.  Especially should one ‘not want to’.

            Ok:  Fine.  This is easy to grasp in this front line poise (IN THE ATTIC OF THE OLD HOUSE) but gets a little bit more rough and tumble when it is operated in the “IN THE TRADE” mode.

            Simply, ‘antiques dealers’ “depend” on ‘pickers’ to “supply them’ with... ‘good stuff’.  They (the antiques dealers) qualify for “THAT” by ... how much they know... followed by a small pause and then followed by ‘how much they PAY’... for this... picker found... ‘the good stuff’.  And... at this point... I add... that without the picker’s ‘FIND’ the dealer... must ...find it... themselves and

            They are not very good at that (going into old attics and buying very, very good antiquarian objects for

            Nothing.

            Stepping into a boat with a tote bag are we?  It is a fine old boat that pickers use and it travels ‘on the water’ very fast.  The picker is back outside of the old attic well before a ‘dealer’ ‘climbs the stairs’ TO that attic.  Most dealers are ‘fine’ ‘with that’.

            But... what about the picker?

            In attic the picker is ‘fine’ ‘with that’ TOO.

            OUT of the attic, the picker ‘drops down’ from that halo; that antiquarian ‘high’, to find self ‘before’ in a ...suggested... submissive position; ‘before’ the “I DO KNOW” dealer and... after the pause... ‘the money’.  The seated and sherry gurgling minister’s... position in this... ‘is retail’; a ‘customer’ the antiques dealer ‘caters to’ (services) and the picker... ‘never sees that’ and... actually... ‘avoids’... even if he happens to be sitting in the same room.  That leaves... one (1)... hard to notice... enigma...

            Yes... enigma:

            This enigma is:

            Pickers... ‘doing this’ (the antiquarian profession) with... pickers.  Go ahead and try to find ‘some writing down’ ‘about that’.  It is rare.  I have actively collected it (archival study) for decades.  This is where the ‘this writing’ (this blog) comes from and so... and “yes”:

            WHO CARES.

            And that is just fine by me EXCEPT when... in the middle of my now one hundred page essay on... old New England glassware in the home... some dead weight sherry gurgling fog voice tote bag toting MAN OF GOD suggests I ‘break’ HIM ‘cheap’... MY... “I FOUND” set of diamond point pattern EAPG cordials that WE ARE sipping sherry from right then:

            “NO.”  Not happening.

            “WHY?”

            Picker to picker you ask... that? 

            It’s a little brutal.  A little vulgar (?).  A picker, to I, as a picker, is OF the brutal realm.  That realm is a galaxy “far, far away” from ‘normal people’ (Eve and Bing Part One) and with this galaxy being a warren of weaving iota alleyways ever lost in delightfully mazed whispers to assure one a captive for eternity.  I... leave off this ‘back pat’.

            BUT report the picker-says-to-me (a picker)... after a glance ‘at that’ (here ‘those’; the EAPG cordial set):

            “Don’t let them gang rape you on that (those)”.

            That’s it.  That is an “I CAN BANK THAT” ‘appraisal’ of their (the cordial set) value as OBJECT and as money.  Roughly it denotes that the object(s) are ‘good’ if not ‘great’ and the (cash) value is thereby there... too and...

            We get dicey...

            He knows that I know that “THEY” (a minister at the least but the dealers at the front line of the trade) “won’t pay” (will try, as a whole, to ‘not pay’ ‘fair value’) (gang rape)

            Me

            “On that (those).

            It’s that quick.

            Because ‘they’

            “Won’t pay”.

            Of course the Godly minister ‘would like’ ‘a set’ but

            “Won’t pay”

            And of course I can sell the ‘set’ easily if I price them to

            “Give away”.

            So....

            There you go...

            Picker to picker.

            The ‘string on the ground’ of the ‘market’ is bent over and picked up by

            The antiques dealer.  IF

            It happens that the current MARKET engages the JUICE GLASS as

            “More saleable” to the...

            Eve and Bing are the ‘only ones in the market’ for

            Old New England glassware... in the home?

            I do not sell ‘mine’ ‘good stuff’ ‘for less’.

            I do sell ‘juice glasses’ for ‘a little more than less’ to

            Them who do not know?

            Or do they know... their “OH I REMEMBER THOSE GRAPE JELLY CAME

            IN THEM

            REMEMBER we ate ALL OF IT TO GET THE

            Glasses

            I CAN’T BELIEVE IT WE HAD ONES JUST LIKE THESE I THINK WE

            STILL HAVE THEM

            In the

            Kitchen cupboard

            At Mom’s house.”

            Like pickers say to pickers:

            “Don’t let them gang rape you on that” (“those”).

"It's Been Two Years" - Part Nine - "The Medicine Spoon" - (A) - "I Hate That"

"It's Been Two Years"

Part Nine

"The Medicine Spoon"

(A)

"I Hate That" 

            At this precise... seated in Cadence’s shed doorway AT the old Captain Snow mansion... moment... I step WAY, WAY away from that moment... a moment where I am promised to reach further my hand into my “WHY?” of my antiquarian intrigue... of old New England homes and ...tilt the reader’s head back and DOSE YOU with this “WHY?” I reach for and... I am calling THIS (“THAT?”) out as medicine?  It is convenient for me... to do ‘that’?

            It is, WE understand do we not that... it is... my “WHY?” and MY trail that gets me to THAT and THAT TRAIL is MINE too and so... that means VERY FEW have I seen on that ‘this trail’ and THAT includes the... Bangladesh... (as a descriptive adjective)... of MY ‘did not suffer fools’ along MY way and I

            SIT (on Cadence’s porch with her there)

            WHERE

            NO ONE... seeking a searching of old New England homes...

            GETS TO

            “Easily”

            With this

            Meaning... “no one” “else” is... in my common experience... “ever there” and...

            IN THIS CASE... NOT THERE... last Friday

            Sitting in Cadence’s

            Shed doorway.

            That allows my “ME” to tell MY ME TALE (TAIL?)... MY WAY.  And that means I can say... for I will be saying that very soon anyway...too...:  “Don’t bug me when I’m high.  I am writing something down”.

            WHEN... I was thirteen years old... I “hated” the “BOOK” “LITTLE WOMEN”.  I’d ‘got there’ fair and square by a public school system forced reading of ‘that book’.  MAYBE I WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD but more likely TEN years old and I could have been TWELVE YEARS OLD but more likely ELEVEN years old... I figure... sort of ...for... “who knows?” is a safe default ...at “eleven years old”.  By age thirteen I had qualified “LITTLE WOMEN” (the book) as “I HATE”.

            Right there then... I remind that I... ‘was already’ and ‘antiques dealer’.  I have written of these funny moments of my truth and destiny... and plan to write more.  The old tale (blog post) of “The Old Antiques Store” and the gathering of short stories of my youngest days as an antiquarian and antiques dealer... under the collection (blog subject) label “Damnation Delights In Details”... pontificate upon this ‘very young to be doing this’ antiques TRUE STORIES.  Here... I adjust my “hate” for LITTLE WOMEN by REMINDING that I ‘was already a dealer’ TOO when I... TOO... “HATE” LITTLE WOMEN.  I was... buying and selling... antiques... THEN.

            Now... it should be reasonably obvious why a thirteen year old boy crawling around in old Maine barns gathering ‘stuff’ that was becoming ‘antiques’ to “SELL”... cared little for “LITTLE WOMEN” and... well ...anything off in that direction ...including such as ‘knowing who the author is’ and:

            I HAD READ... TOM SAWYER... and ‘liked that’.  “LIKED THAT” means that I had already, by age thirteen, acquired a deep, deep, deep... mystical... foundation level... invincible... appreciation of... “THAT BOOK”... and its ‘follow-up book’ that... I have now “HAD TO” read at least a dozen sit-down-and-read-it-HARDBALL times ‘ever since’; Huckleberry Finn; The adventures of.  I, too, even “LIKED” Becky Thatcher.

            After ‘growing up’ at ...age sixteen... with that ‘growing up’ being the allowing me to “DRIVE”... LITTLE WOMEN and my hate of it began a long travel-a-trail... together.  Somehow, way away way up in Maine I ‘heard’ ‘about’ ‘a place’ called... “CONCORD”.  It had, I heard... order... “in order”:

            The American Revolution

            The Battle of Lexington and Concord

            The... guy who lived in the hut... there.

            The pond where the hut was... there.

            The... “you can go there”

            The... “place is full of antiques”

            The... ‘there is a museum there”

            The... “Famous authors” “LIVE THERE”  It is actually “lived” but... what did I know.

            Right?

            THE... OK:  Things start to scatter to the wind here as these “The” become little tiny snippets of “I heard” and therefore “THINK” that was actually a very supple ‘feel’...sort of.... “I”:

            Didn’t really get the idea that I could connect the famous set of four “PRINTS” by Amos Doolittle of THE BATTLE... with... ah... “Bronson” ah... like... LITTLE WOMEN.  I mean... WAS THAT HOUSE (the Bronson Alcott house) THERE THEN... with a musket ball stuck in its clapboards TOO?

            BUT:  I was gathering a storm of MY “WHY?” about this “CONCORD PLACE”.  Even including ‘American Literature’.  Example?

            “AH LIKE HE WROTE ABOUT THIS GIANT GEM STONE YOU CAN SEE SHINNG IN THE SUN ON MOUNT WASHINGTON I’D REALLY LIKE TO FIND THAT and HE DOES THIS STORY ABOUT A GUY WITH A BLACK CLOTH ...draped over his face... LIKE FOREVER”.

            Hey:  You weren’t around to help me with my studies:  YOU WERE NOT THERE.

            You were not in Cadence’s shed doorway last Friday.  I am ‘got there myself’.

            Soooo... after a while I found out about “Louisa May Alcott”.  And her house “YOU CAN GO THERE”.

            So I did.

            So... ah... what?

            Well... the problem was... and IS... that... to my primary eye; my antiques eye... that Alcott house... “TOUR” showed the... THE PROBLEM... that THAT HOUSE of the “I HATE LITTLE WOMEN” book was... and I hate that; having to say that... this...:  That house, as public-let-in TOURS go... is ...particularly... of attention as to the house-full-of-objects... is... VERY... VERY ‘right’... especially for that ‘the stuff’ ‘in there’ IS ‘the original stuff’ ‘undisturbed’.  (They; the curatorial, DO move ‘the stuff’ around but... I actually LIKE THAT... because ‘that’s the way it really was’ TOO).

            So... ‘in tour’... one goes upstairs to the front bedroom and there... is... where... she wrote

            That.

            And I’m like back on the banjo clock and diamond point EAPG (early American pressed glass) compote downstairs and the... “THAT” and the “THIS” and the GOD DAMN trove of elementary school children being tethered around with their idiot “QUESTION SHEET” and... I... ah...

            LOVE... MY EVER SINCE THEN I PAY admission HOUSE TOURS of

            Louisa May Alcott’s

            BEDROOM

            WRITING

            POSE.

            And...the book...LITTLE WOMEN

            That she wrote

            “Right there.”

            “WHY?”

Copyright

The Chimney Cupboard

Copyright © 1975-2013 F. B. Freeman

All Rights Reserved.  No part of this work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means - graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems - without the written permission of the author-publisher.

Written, Illustrated and Published by F. B. Freeman

chimneycupboard@gmail.com

Table of Contents

The Chimney Cupboard

(thechimneycupboard)

Table of Contents

(Periodically revised and improved)

            This blog is about northern New England antiques and rare books.  It is stories, vignettes and profiles of objects and stories of buying and selling these things.  Most of the featured items, the setting and the stories are about traditional and classic New England antiques and rare books from before the Civil War.

Long Stories (Thirty or more posts)

            “Can” B. Worth (thirty-three posts in three parts)

            --- “Can” B. Worth (twelve posts)

            --- “Can” B. Worth Epilogue (twelve posts)

            --- “Can B. Worth” Feeding the Birds (eleven posts)

            Summer Place (forty-eight posts)

            The Crow’s Nest (forty-four posts in four parts)

            --- The Crow’s Nest (ten posts)

            --- The Crow’s Nest Part Two (nine posts)

            --- The Crow’s Nest Part Three (thirteen posts)

            --- The Crow’s Nest Epilogue Blood Farm (twelve posts)

Midsized Stories (Five to thirty posts)

            A Door Knock (nine posts)

            John Henry (in progress)

            The Oldest House (five posts)

Shortest Stories (Two to five posts)

            Gardiner’s Garden Basket (four posts)

            Peach Pie (four posts)

One Post Stories

            Fox Gets Goose

            Getting In... Writing It Down

            Ice House Ephemera

            “Nope”

            Snowbound (“Privacy of Storm” – Emerson)

Damnation Delights in Details (collection title)

(Short stories about my youngest days as an antiques dealer)

            A Family of Scoundrels (two posts)

            Bee Balm (one post)

            Downtown (five posts)

            Maggie’s Store (eight posts)

            The Codman Place (seven posts)

            The Dead Doll (one post)

            The Horse’s Grave (five posts)

            They Vacuum the Alamo (one post)

Poetry – Dead Mother’s Place (collection title)

            Bunch of Letters in a Desk

            Dead Mother’s Place

            His Two Wells

            Photographic History of Junk Dealing

            They Were In the Attic

            They Were Leaning Against the Wall

            To Time His Last Hours

Information About This Blog

            Getting In.... and Writing It Down

            Table of Contents

            Why Does This Blog Look Like It Does?

(BELOW – incomplete... and being worked on... at this time)

A Rare Maine Book

Tale of the Kennebec

The Lobster Catchers

The Loggers or Six Months in the Forests of Maine

Early Posts

Antiques, Art and Rare Books

            The Saco River Valley (Maine)

Characters

            Baxter

            Ferris Cronkite

            Goody Coffin

            James Hutton

Personal History

            A New England Pictorial Flask

            Mice?  I HATE MICE!

            The Old Antiques Store