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My featured Merit Badge Awardee of the Week is … Sherrilyn Askew!!!
Sherrilyn Askew ( #1350) has received a certificate of achievement in Stitching & Crafting for earning a Beginner Level Homespun Christmas Merit Badge!
(I know Christmas is over, but honestly, my mother started planning for next Christmas about this time every year just like Sherrilyn does.)
“I made at least 25% of the ornaments on our tree and I made at least 25% of the presents I am giving away for Christmas.
I gathered together a good many of the wooden spools I have saved over the years and painted the edges silver or gold. I then wrapper pretty paper around their middles, and used wire to attach beads to them. Partway through, my daughter caught me having fun and joined in to help. Pictured are a few of the ornaments we made. As for the gifts, every January, I make a list of family members and what I want to get them for Christmas, then spend the year finding or making the items. This year, I chose to make nearly half of all the gifts. I have gained a great deal of pleasure from doing this and only have 2 gifts left to complete before Christmas. Keep your fingers crossed.”
Isn’t there something indescribably sweet about the rumpled hair of a sleeping child?
Sweet Dreams by Marianne Stokes, 1875, via Wikimedia Commons
In days of old, mothers (and, no doubt, grandmothers) attributed a bit of magic to the tousled tresses of sleepy little girls.
Sleeping Girl on a Wooden Bench by Albert Anker (1831-1910) via Wikimedia Commons
What might have been poo-pooed as the work of pesky pillows was instead fancied as the work of fairies, who were said to visit during slumber to tease and tangle the tresses …
Thus Your Fairy is Made of Most Beautiful Things by Sophie Gengembre Anderson via Wikimedia Commons
Hence, the term “fairy locks” or “elf locks,” referring to locks of hair tangled as if by sprites.
“Fairies, they say, tangled and knotted the hairs of the sleeping children as they played in and out of their hair at night,” tells A Child’s Book of Faeries by Tonya Robin Batt.
If only they weren’t so hard to comb smooth once again!
Keepers of bees, lend an ear …
I stumbled upon a curious old custom:
The Telling of the Bees.
Ever heard of it?
It’s new to me, but its roots can be traced deep into the lore of 19th century England and followed to the shores of America on the ships of early immigrants.
“Telling the bees” referred to a tradition of humans informing hive residents about important events in their keepers’ lives, such as births, marriages, or notable comings and goings of the household. Perhaps recalling the events of the year at the start of a new year?
Photo by Pokrajac via Wikimedia Commons
Most importantly, though, people believed that bees must be told of their keepers’ deaths. If left out of the loop, the bees might abandon their hives, halt honey production, or even die themselves.
So, how would one announce such news to an apiary?
If the keeper had information to share, she might rap gently upon the hive and murmur softly to her bees. A bit of lace and slice of cake might be left to include the bees in a wedding celebration.
But if the sad news of a keeper’s passing was in order, the bearer was inclined to drape a hive in black cloth while humming a “doleful tune,” according to New England Legends and Folk Lore by Samuel Adams Drake. Funeral food and wine would be “shared” with the bees, and an invitation to the funeral tacked to the hive. In some cases, the hive might even be rotated to face the funeral procession. It was considered critical that these valuable members of a household not be neglected.
On an Apiary by Aleksandr Makovsky via Wikimedia Commons
In 1858, American Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier published “Telling the Bees” in the Atlantic Monthly. In his introductory note, he wrote, “A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home.”
Here are a few stanzas from Whittier’s touching poem:
Just the same as a month before,—
The house and the trees,
The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door,—
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go.
***
And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on:—
“Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!”
From Whittier and Whittier-Land, eds. Donald C. Freeman, John B. Pickard, Roland H. Woodwell. Courtesy of the Trustees of the Whittier Homestead, Haverhill, MA.
As I was buzzing about the Internet, I also found an English folk band called Telling the Bees. This captivating album cover was created by artist Rima Staines:
Image courtesy of Threadsofspiderwoman.blogspot.com
For more beguiling bee lore, I suggest Bees in America: How the Honey Bee Shaped a Nation by Tammy Horn.
Need a quick getaway to a warm, leafy refuge?
Well, come along …
I just dug up a fun bit of history about winter gardens.
Ever heard of such?
I’m not referring to those lucky gals in southern locales whose pretty plots are all gussied up in green as we speak (like, say, the folks in Winter Garden, Florida).
I can hardly even imagine.
Nor am I talking roots ‘n tubers (even though you know I adore them).
Historically speaking, winter gardens were large and wondrous conservatories that originated in Europe somewhere around the 17th century. It seems that the noblest of the noble would construct grandiose greenhouses, often attached to their palaces, like supernatural sunrooms, which housed tropical plants—even towering trees!
This, for example, is the little ol’ People’s Palace and Winter Gardens in Glasgow, Scotland:
Photo by Finlay McWalter via Wikimedia Commons
The earliest winter gardens were constructed of masonry and glass, but toward the 19th century, it became all-the-rage to utilize wrought iron and curvilinear glass. A breathtaking example of this type of architecture is the Curvilinear Range Botanic Gardens, built between 1843 and 1869, in Dublin, Ireland.
Take a gander:
Gorgeous … can’t you just feel that humid mist?
Here in Idaho, all sweatered and snowbound, it looks heavenly.
If you’re reluctant to return from this mini-vacation, visit this website to stroll through more winter gardens.
Sauté ½ cup diced scallions in 2 T butter. Add 2 T fresh minced tarragon, 2 T fresh minced dill, 1 lb frozen peas, ¼ t nutmeg, 3 cups vegetable broth; boil for 2 minutes. Purée lightly (leaving some chunks). Stir in 1 cup half-and-half and 2 T honey; heat for 5 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serves 4.
Buy props used in MaryJane’s books and magazine!
5% of profits will benefit www.firstbook.org, a non-profit that provides new books to children from low-income families throughout the U.S. and Canada.
Here’s how:
MaryJane will post a photo and a description of a prop and its cost along with a few details as to its condition here: https://shop.maryjanesfarm.org/MaryJanesCurations. It’s a playful way to be the new owner of a little bit of farm herstory.
