The House at JoHarry

I remember the first time we went to see the house I've known as home for 40 years now. Built at the dawn of the 20th Century, I remember the basement looking like the door to a great adventure. I remember the red shag carpeting of the powder room off the kitchen. I remember sitting under the windows of the front bedroom, embracing a stuffed dog that was bigger than me, declaring THIS would be MY bedroom.

We moved into the house right before I started first grade. At the time I was eagerly awaiting my 6th birthday, and spent a good bit of my time keeping my little brother from pulling the heads and arms from my Barbies. Instead of getting the biggest, front bedroom, Mama put me in the back bedroom facing the back yard. It was the smallest bedroom in the house, barely containing my twin bed, a dresser, a desk and bookcase. But it did have a huge closet with a built in dresser that was easily twice my height.

Before the move, Mama had been busy prepping furniture for my new domain. My baby brother inherited the bed I'd slept in until the move, and I inherited new (to me) furniture. Mama had painted her grandmother's bed and dresser in a crisp, white enamel. The bed had posters and creaked when I turned over in the night. The dresser was Victorian and had candlestands, a mirror that pivoted on a frame, and a top that looked like a castle crenelation. She'd found a bookcase that would house my well-loved books and desk for future homework that she painted to match the dresser and bed.

She then took me to the Ethan Allan store and walked me through the bedroom vignettes they'd set up to sell furniture we couldn't afford on a college professor's salary. It was there I spotted the patchwork wallpaper that Mama sacrificed to make mine - in all the lime green, yellow, pink and purple glory you can imagine. She found a pink carpet fit for a princess to finish my kingdom at the back of the house.

She spent the winter making a patchwork quilt to match my wallpaper, with blocks of lime green, yellow, pink and purple gingham, and knotted with yarn that would eventually fray into pom poms. She went to the carpet store and found carpet samples in lime green, yellow, pink and purple to create a patchwork floor in my huge closet - a closet that eventually provided hours of playtime for me and my brother.

Though she had an entire house to remodel and repair, she focused on my room first. I got the smallest room in the house as a bedroom, but she made it a vision of a five-year-old girl's dreams. It was a place where we'd lay pallets and read books, a place we'd set up our record player to pretend we ran a radio station, a place where I'd sit and watch the trees sway in the breeze. Eventually, it was the place I'd redo after college to befit a young professional, the place I'd dress for my wedding day, and the place I'd bring my newborn son while my father received cancer treatments.

Though I've not lived in my home town for almost 20 years, and Mama has since remodeled the room to fit her needs, this is still "my room." The trees are no longer there, but the room still seems sheltered and safe at the back of the house. My son has adopted it as "his" room, and gets very upset should we sleep in any other. But in my mind, it will forever be my patchwork princess playground - a place where many of my dreams began.

On being different.

Almost 20 years ago, I moved from my home state to Washington, DC where I found that I was a bit "different" from most of the people I met. I already knew I was different. It had been driven home to me time and again from childhood. My family didn't vacation the same way others in my community vacationed. We didn't play the way others in my community played. Heck, I didn't even color the way other kids colored (Mama gave us any art supply we asked to have but we NEVER, never had a coloring book). But coming to Washington, DC drove my differences home more solidly than ever before.
My father was a history buff, and particularly loved 18th Century history. I think his love of the Lone Ranger and Tonto morphed into a genuine passion for learning about Native American culture, and that dovetailed into stories of "frontier life" in the 1700s. Our region was rife with history from this era. Our home was the frontier, the battles happened virtually in our back yard.

When I was about six years old, Daddy became involved in a project to rebuild an 18th Century refuge fort, called Prickett's Fort. Mama made us period appropriate costumes. Daddy spent 400+ hours making a historically accurate muzzle loader, and started practicing his knife and tomahawk (not to be confused with an axe) throwing. We started going to rendezvous, where others dressed in 18th Century garb, camped in authentic campsites, and competed in shooting, as well as knife and tomahawk throwing. The days would end with campfires and singing of historically appropriate music playing historically appropriate instruments.

I would imagine there are very few people who think it "normal" to regularly dress in 18th Century costume, there is probably a more select group who learned to weave "linsey" on a 200 year old barn loom, spin wool on a 150 year old walking wheel, and cook in a fireplace with a cast iron pot. I doubt many spent their summers listening to the beat of a tomahawk repeatedly hitting a target, even fewer who'd been taught how to throw tomahawks as a child, and I may be the only person I know who had an ex-boyfriend chased off the property with a tomahawk. But this was my family's normal.

While other of my classmates were heading to the beach or an amusement park, my family was heading to another fort, historical site or rendezvous. While other families went hunting for venison, my Dad begged the skins of the deer to make buckskin britches. While other fathers were winning sales awards, my Dad was named State Champion in knife and tomahawk throwing. And Mama and I spent many an hour looking for red fox pelts to make Daddy's fox hat (instead of the oft seen coonskin cap).






My high school science project was on the effects the pot had as a mordant in natural dying (copper pots made the prettiest dyes). While other girls were dressed in 80s neon, I was graduating from shift and mob cap to English bodice and lace cap. And one of the most enjoyable parties I threw in law school involved showing a group of friends how to hold and throw a tomahawk - in the Nation's capitol, just off one of the main thoroughfares.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, my family had taught me an important lesson: embrace who you are. As I grew older, it became easier to be okay with the fact that we were just different, and that there were many other people out there who were also different - in a different way, but still different. Eventually, I found those different people, embraced those different people, and called them friend.

Today, I live in Alexandria, near Mount Vernon, where it is assumed if I'm in 18th Century costume, I'm probably giving a tour nearby. I have a son who's already outgrown his first 18th Century costume - the one he wore with his (proud) Grandfather to a rendezvous at 18 months.

One of the larger challenges I have facing me as a parent is to encourage my child's different self in a way that will encourage him to embrace who he is with confidence. I don't think it will be easy because I know conformity is a much easier path. But what I CAN do, is point to those people I've called friends - some of whom I can claim almost a lifetime of friendship - and say, "See? THIS is what makes you rich. THIS is what makes life good. THESE are the people who will celebrate life with you." And I will thank my "different" friends for embracing the different in me, while I celebrate their different with them. All the while I will know: my life will always be richer for embracing the different.

Inspiration Thursday! Missing home.

It seems like I just wrote about our vacation - stealing those last warm, sunny days - and fall blew into DC. I'm not complaining, mind you. Fall is one of my favorite seasons. Fall is when I acquired new school supplies in anticipation of a new school year. Fall is when the air becomes crisp. Fall brings the kind of sleeping weather where you can leave the windows open and wake up perfectly snug in a quilt.

Although I've lived in the DC area for 15 years now and have a home of my own, I tend to long for "home" this time of year - West Virginia is the home I long to see. When I was in college, our choir sang "My Home Among the Hills." There's a land of rolling mountains, where the sky is blue above. And though I may roam, I hurry home to the friendly hills I love... there autumn hill sides are bright with scarlet trees....

That's what I miss the most in this season, the rolling mountains of color. It's a sea of reds, greens, yellows, oranges or the harder to define colors like a coral or chartreuse that give my hills life in autumn. The color blankets the hills in undulating waves that coat the Appalachians like my quilt covers me in warmth. Although it's the end of their cycle, those leaves give a last burst of life that even now I see in my mind long after they're dust on a forest floor. It's life. It's comforting. It's home.

And so as it turns chilly, my feet itch to return to my home among the hills so I can tuck away another WV autumn in my heart.

Inspiration Thursday! Small town living...

I don't usually do two posts in a day, but I think this tale deserves to be told.

There's a restaurant in my hometown called McAteer's that's run by a local Irish family. They've been there at the foot of the College (now University) for as long as I can remember. My Daddy often goes there for breakfast. In fact, on my wedding day he took most of the family there for breakfast. Even my extended family knows his love of this place.

Today, being St. Patrick's Day and all, is a VERY important day for them. It's a day to celebrate their Irishness with some corned beef and cabbage, and I hear it's delicious. The family gathers early in the morning (I think Mama said 2am!) to start cooking this traditional St. Patrick's Day meal. It's apparently a popular destination today. Daddy has been planning on meeting friends there for weeks to celebrate. Then a "wee" medical problem messed up his plans.

Mama, knowing his distress, called McAteer's this morning and told them of the dilemma. And their response? Don't worry, we'll save you a couple plates. And if you're late getting in, just knock and we'll be waiting for you. That, my friends, made my this a very special St. Patrick's Day for my Irish Daddy. And reminded me of yet another thing I love about my hometown community.

In the McAteer spirit, I wish you all a very special day full of love, giving hearts and great kindness. Irish blessings to you all!