Mrs. Mustard

Mrs. Mustard

     This story is true. The Lady-of-the-House slightly embellished it to fill in bits and pieces of a memory. It is decorated with photographs taken of hand hooked rugs on display in Lancaster. You’ll learn why at the end of the story.

     Long ago, when still a girl (and girl scout) the Lady-of-the-House had a friend (who wasn’t a girl scout) who invited her to the house of Mrs. Mustard. (The name is real). The friend’s family was going to join a small party on a Saturday afternoon. 

     Mrs. Mustard’s wooden house was perched on a steep hill above a winding country road. Across the road was a deep creek. The sound of the water running over the creek rocks probably could be heard from the bedroom windows upstairs when sleeping with the windows open.

     It was mid-summer. A forest of trees - tall oaks, medium maples and delicate dogwoods - shaded the roof and windows of the little house. Everything about Mrs. Mustard’s house seemed lived-in. Its aged appearance was irregular to the girl who, at the time, lived in her parent’s new 1960s house with wall-to-wall carpeting, sliding glass door, push button stove top and automatic dishwater.

     To the girl Mrs. Mustard was old. She had soft hazel eyes and streaks of white in her brown hair. (She was probably the age the Lady-of-the-House is now.) Mr. Mustard looked even older.

     The house was as snug as a captain’s cabin on a sailing vessel so the visitors mostly sat outside on a level clearing bordered by rhododendrons. It might be said to be the front lawn except that it was lacking grass. Rather, a haphazard array of steppingstones was laid among ground cover and flowering herbs. A bee skep sat snugly among the flowers.

     For her guests Mrs. Mustard added fresh sliced peaches, cream and sugar to a small barrel of ice. The barrel was an ice-cream maker. It was matter-of-factly set between the two friends who were sitting together on a tree stump. They were given the job of turning the crank. The friends cranked until their puny arms ached and the sun moved in the blue sky overhead, putting them in a spotlight of sunshine. Mrs. Mustard came and took the barrel away. In a minute she was back and with a disarming smile claimed the ice cream was not quite ready. The girls continued to crank with insects at their elbows and faces perspiring, which made the eating of the ice cream when it was ready, a much anticipated and unforgettably delicious experience. 

     After the friend gave a nudge and a whisper, the girls excused themselves. They climbed down a path through the woods, down to the rocky creek. Cold water on bare feet is always refreshing. The sound of running water filled their ears as they removed their shoes and socks. Little birds hopped and fluttered from branch to branch. They could be seen but not heard for the creek’s babble was louder. Only the bigger birds with their caws and squawks – the contemptuous crows and blue jays – contributed an occasional audible note – complaining about the presence of the adventurers. 

     Inside the house the friends walked on Mrs. Mustard’s wide plank floors that squeaked. The Lady-of-the-House has no memory of a kitchen perhaps because the girl was more impressed with the walk-in pantry. She peeked into it when Mrs. Mustard put the ice cream barrel away. Its shelves were lined with glass jars of preserves, crocks and well-worn cookbooks that were cluttered with bookmarks. The girl had never seen anything like it before.

     In the corner of a room (not much larger than the pantry) sat a pair of comfortable easy chairs, each supplied with a soft fringed cushion in a fabric of roses. One couldn’t imagine the chairs without them. Baskets of wool and a stack of books crowded one corner. A potted fern sat on an oak pedestal by an open window. When a breeze found its way into the house through this window the limp curtains swayed lazily.

     There was something very strange about it all. Mrs. Mustard had no television. That’s what it was. Her eyes squinted with wrinkles while she was full of conversation. The wrinkles disappeared when she listened. All she and her company did was converse - sometimes in serious tones, sometimes with light laughter. 

     Upon reflection, Mrs. Mustard was fond of folk art. Her feet rested on a small rug speckled in browns and reds. How curious it looked. There was another by Mr. Mustard. The Lady-of-the-House doesn’t remember if the rug designs were of prancing horses, birds, flowers, sailing ships, houses, cats or dogs – only that they looked like something in her youthful mind that resembled a sort of high-end girl scout project.

     What she does remember is Mrs. Mustard’s hands. She had smooth rounded fingertips. Eventually, near the end of the visit, Mrs. Mustard couldn’t help herself. She took up some wool to fiddle with while she talked. The Lady-of-the-House wishes she could picture the rugs exactly as they were because so many years later (with white streaked hair of her own and rounded finger-tips) she, too, likes fiddling with wool and would like to accent her house with, folk art – even if she does have a glass stove top with computerized touch controls.

     
     You never know who will add bits and pieces of influence to your Mother Culture creativity – or what influences will eventually catch up with you – when the dust settles.

I enjoyed sharing this story with you.

Thanks for visiting,

Karen Andreola

Explanation of Photographs

Rather than add captions this time I placed my comments here to not distract the reading.

1 Mini mural hooked rug design in Rufus Porter style, in purples at Little Pines shop at the corner of Lincoln Hwy and Greenfield Rd., Lancaster. Betty taught me how to spin. She says that a punch needle is a faster tool for  “hooking” a rug. I’d like to try it.

2 Flowerpot rug displayed at Hans Herr House

3 Bee skep rug at Hans Herr in pretty Colonial blue

4 Anne uses soft wool cloth to bind the edges on the back of a rug at Hans Herr

5 A work in progress of the same Rufus Porter design at Little Pines

6 Red House - Notice the lighter shades of ground are in the background and darker shades in the foreground – Rufus Porter style. These are the colors I’d like to use.

7 Wool fabric is sold and cut in strips for rug hooking at Little Pines.

8 Yarn can also be used for rug hooking. These skeins are hand dyed.

9 I like Anne’s menagerie beside a big brick house – based on an old quilt design.

10 The same Rufus Porter design with a white clapboard house - a work in progress

11 Anne’s rugs were displayed at Hans Herr. I enjoyed our chat last autumn. Look how neat her stitches are on the back. 

At Home in a World of Books

At Home in a World of Books

  
Home teachers are most free to provide an education that makes children at home in a world of books. The books are the teachers.

Parents need not be especially talented or skilled in any one subject because we who take the step of faith are gifted the moment we put one foot in front of the other.

God gifts willing hearts. Those who seek, shall find. We can learn along side our children what we might have missed in our own childhood. This is how Dean and I did it. 

Reading the 19^th century writings of Charlotte Mason who can miss her ardent plea for better schoolbooks? She repeats her theme that children ought to have “living books.”

How do we recognize a living book? 

“A single page will elicit a verdict,” she claims. Thus, my suggestion in A Charlotte Mason Companion for at least a “one page test.” Watch whether or not the writing opens or closes the door of a child’s mind.

Varied Relationships with Books and Things

My search for living books was a quiet but constant quest and experiment. I couldn’t help but be wary of the typical textbook after reading Miss Mason’s plea. More than one hundred years later, classroom textbooks haven’t changed much. We are still faced with their devitalizing effect.

But “a book serves the end of education only as it is vital,” Miss Mason observed.

I placed this book in my parent's garden and those above.

Classrooms haven’t changed much, either. A flood of talk from a teacher’s paraphrasing – put together from hasty notes - cannot possibly do what the carefully chosen words of an author can do.

“Ideas must reach us directly from the thinker,” Miss Mason says, “and it is chiefly by means of the books that they have written that we get in touch with the best minds.” A teacher must talk to give a lesson but this talk “must be subordinate to the book,” she insists.  When education is predominately lecture, commentary, note taking, test taking, after-hours homework, cramming to memorize, preoccupation with making-the-grade, the result is that students leave twelve years of school blasé.  

Dean took this at the New Jersey shore,

Where are These Living books?

Miss Mason uses the phrase “large room” figuratively when she says that we are to set children in a large room of varied relationships. In her country of England, really large rooms are only found in the manor houses. I’ve taken a tour of one or two and I can assure you that such rooms are well and finely furnished. But where are the books that draw a child to establish relationships in many directions – take an interest - be impressed – inspired – delighted – become absorbed – books that satisfy the efforts of attention that he must give to the reading - whether it is listening to a chapter read aloud or something he reads silently – in solitude? (In solitude one can be meditative.)

     Please Miss Mason, will you choose the books for us?

Nigel painted a creek rock to be an owl after reading a naturalist's diary.

Alas, she tells us she will not. “I should not like to play [the part of] Sir Oracle. The One Hundred Best Books for the Schoolroom may be put down on a list, but not by me.”

Instead, she lays out the principles for selecting books while she leaves “the far more difficult part, the application of those principles” to us.

Grandsons wearing Granma's knit vests

1. Something to Think About

Firstly, “The children must enjoy the book,” she simply states. Look for signs in your child that the book is making a delightful impact. Or in some small way it is giving some intellectual stir to the mind. Living books are alive with ideas that spark interest. If the book is interesting it is probably because it gives us something to think about.  

Endowed with Detail
The book needn’t always be a first-hand source. And we needn’t get hung up on whether it’s a short book or a long book, whether it is published in the 19^th, 20^th, or 21st century. The book is suitable providing it isn’t facts-only, that it is endowed with detail, that it is of literary language, is touched with emotion. It should carry away in the reader a feeling that “I’ve learned something new.” 

In the case of books let’s do get carried away. Maybe not today, but down the road, the student may impulsively pass on what he’s learning with a “Mom, Dad, guess what?” 

Library discards, "How and Why" series from the 1960s

2. A Prized Possession
Secondly, Miss Mason thinks “we owe it to children to let them dig their knowledge . . . for themselves . . . for two reasons: What a child digs for is his own possession; what is poured into his ear, like an idle song of a pleasant singer, floats out as lightly as it came in, and is rarely assimilated.” A teacher needs only  “give impulse and to order knowledge;” not to convey it. 

Teachers can “rouse their students with a appreciative look or word” but beware of a flood of talk. “Intellectual sympathy,” Miss Mason says, can be stimulating “but we have all been in the case of the little girl who said, ‘Mother, I think I would understand if you did not explain quite so much.’ ”

Knowledge is Personal

Here is where the value of narration enters the room – where a child puts the reading in his own words – orally or in writing.

With narration the child does the digging. The freedom to dig and delve makes knowledge a personal thing. (Chapters are dedicated to the art of narration in, A Charlotte Mason Companion.)

As a blogger I am always glad to hop on a blog where children are being set in large rooms and are feeling at home in a world of books.

Over the last twenty years home teachers have expressed a desire for better schoolbooks. Better texts are being published here and there and old texts republished. Look for those with truth, beauty, and goodness. 

An enthusiastic photographer mentioned on the pages of Pocketful of Pinecones

Miss Mason says a child is “in the world to lay hold of all that he can of those relationships proper to him so that he may live a full, happy, resourceful life with initiative and serviceableness.” Isn’t this what our educating efforts are about?

Happy New Year

Karen Andreola

End Notes

During the holidays I spent time in School Education by Charlotte Mason (Now published by Simply Charlotte Mason) highlighting passages on pages 177, 228, 229, 231 in preparation for writing you this article. Those who are keen may visit these pages to read what surrounds my quotations. If I post less-often it is because it takes me awhile to carefully say what I think you will be encouraged by. When it comes to Charlotte Mason I write by inches.   

In order of appearance:

Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell

Time of Wonder by Robert McCloskey and his One Morning in Maine

Columbus by D'Aulaire

An Owl in the House by Bernd Heinrich 

The Biggest Bear by Lynd Ward

Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue and CD by Anna Harwell Cekenza

Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare for Children by E. Nesbitt

Snowflake Bentley by Jacqueline Briggs Martin 

    

A Dickens of a Christmas

A Dickens of a Christmas

     At a gathering my mother met the great-grandson of Charles Dickens. Cedric Dickens is his name. He was selling his book, Christmas with Dickens. My mother bought a copy for me and Cedric Dickens autographed it. Isn’t this neat? That was ten years ago or so. 

Faux mistletoe is in the middle jar.

     The book is a framework of ideas on how to create A Christmas Carol evening. Cedric Dickens and his cousin edited the Carol to 28 minutes of reading aloud. The host or hostess acts as the master of ceremonies. Recipes are provided in the book for a banquet.

     Filling the house with greenery is suggested. Period clothing and period music are optional. Between the courses selections of the Carol are read (with feeling, it is emphasized). Later come parlor games and punch. Although never as elaborate, I have adapted some of the ideas within our family and over the years we have extended the hand of hospitality to friends and neighbors.   

     Traditions were formed by degrees. Several Christmases stand out. Looking at our little tree this year, I recall the simplest Christmas of all. It was in 1986.

     In 1986 we spent Christmas in London, England. Joining the volunteer efforts of a Christian literature mission Dean and I had come for the year with two suitcases each – and our two daughters - then age 2 and 4. We were prepared to live simply. But how appreciative we were when we were able to move from a tiny third-floor flat into a semi-detached house. We thoroughly enjoyed its back garden.
  

The glass and plastic ornaments, most from the 1960s, remind me of my childhood.

     Along the edges of the narrow, fenced-in lawn, were plants that took turns blooming through the months. The largest was an overgrown holly. I trimmed a branch, brought it indoors, propped it up on a table, and decorated it with popcorn and paper chains. I cut a star out of cardboard, covered it with (you guessed it) silver foil. The star balanced on the top of our crooked little “tree.” Secretly, I thought it drab. But in the eyes of my children it was fine and dandy – and so – for their sake - I thought it fine and dandy, too.

     A month prior a fellow American had handed me a bag of puzzles, plastic toys and picture books that her children had long outgrown. She was, “just now getting around to cleaning out their closets and would your girls like them?” I thanked her and hid the things away to be wrapped for Christmas.

     I remember my girls sitting cross-legged in the middle of the carpet listening to a cassette. They played it again and again. Sometimes I sat with them. Other times I took advantage of the moment to start supper. At the sound of the beep the eldest knew to turn the pages of the accompanying book. With heads together they gazed at the pictures of Joseph and Mary and the lowly stable. They were quite taken up with the Christmas story – even if the incarnation – one of the most marvelous and important doctrines of the Christian faith – was something they would grow to understand better, later – and yet it is too wonderful to comprehend this side of heaven, really. I can still hum the melody of the sweet song that came at the beginning and end of story. I wonder what ever happened to that cassette – narrated beautifully in the King’s English.  

I like sewing pinwheels. Sophia's homemade teddy wears his holiday bowtie.

     One Saturday in December Dad took us to the missionary closet. We could choose what we wished from what had been donated. After an hour of rummaging, trying on things in a curtained corner - elbowroom only and no mirror - we each settled upon a piece of clothing. I’ll never forget the beautiful wool skirt that fit me perfectly – except that I was in denial of it being rather snug at the waist. It was moth eaten in an inconspicuous spot and easily mended. This soft, black skirt, with its ruffle along the hem, had a nice drape. Add a white blouse with a red ornament on its collar, and it looked smart for Christmas Eve service. Wool provided necessary warmth for sitting in the chilly pews of the ancient stone church – Christ Church Bromely.

Relaxing with a needle at Christmastime

     With our new used things and a couple tiny treats for the girl’s stockings, (literary their socks) Christmas Day arrived with smiles all around. After dinner (a meal that Dad relished) we put on our coats and took a walk around the block. The brick houses sat close to the sidewalk and I couldn’t help notice, through the windows of the front parlors, people sitting in chairs arranged in a circle. I found it odd that they were wearing brightly colored paper hats. I learned later that they were waiting for parlor games to start.



A homemade ornament resting on my new plaid skirt. I need to get better at sewing corners.

     Parlor games on Christmas Day became a tradition much later in our lives. With all the years we spent reading A Christmas Carol, listening to it on audio, and watching it on films, it eventually caught on. Perhaps you play them, too.

"There was first a game of blindman’s buff." A Christmas Carol

     It was our Yolanda who initiated Charades, which I explained in a post last year, “Name That Hymn” is one that I started and it stuck. It is a way to give closer attention to lyrics – some of the most precious in all of Christendom. It is fun to include lines from  contemporary songs, too.

     After the main course is cleared the game is played. One by one, each person seated around the table, unfolds his slip of paper and reads it aloud. He then guesses the hymn title. Although my family is pretty good at answers, lines from a third verse can be a challenge. The guesser is permitted to choose one person to assist. A sudden remark blurted out from across the table of  “Ohh, I know,” identifies a willing assistant.

    But Mom urges, “Give him a minute first, please.”

"There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor." A Christmas Carol.

     I typed out some examples. A hostess will enjoy choosing her own lines.

Christmas morning muffins - orange cranberry

1) A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. 

2) Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care, And fit us for heaven, to live with Thee there.

3) Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing.

4) Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.

5) On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me (what is it?).

6) Where the treetops glisten and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow.

     The hostess keeps the corresponding answers handy.

1) O Holy Night

2) Away in the Manger

3) O Come all Ye Faithful

4) O Little Town of Bethlehem

5) six geese a laying

6) White Christmas

I've been meaning to decorate with pineapple on the fireplace mantel for some years. The apples are editble, too.

    

     My children aren’t little any longer. “Time has stolen them from me” – as one Victorian poem sentimentally refers. While children are with us we work to give them a foundation of pleasant memories – especially because the details of this world are not all fine and dandy. 

     Mom and Dad share the memories. The children grew up and grew into making a memorable Christmas for others. They’ve learned that the advent season is less about material gifts. It is the giving of oneself in various ways and celebrating the joy and true meaning of Christmas.

“. . . apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Crachit family drew round the hearth . . . “ A Christmas Carol

In Fellowship assembled here

We thank thee Lord for food and cheer

And through our Saviour, thy dear Son,

We pray “God bless us everyone.”

Prayer [for the table] discovered by Alan S. Watts, President of the Dickens Fellowship, during research for his book, Dickens at Gad’s Hill. 

    


  Peace and Good Will,

     Karen Andreola