(Sewing) Caps Off: Chewing a Bun with Tuppence

Laurel (L.R.) Shimer wearing her recently sewn cap
Inspired by a time travel jaunt back to visit with Tuppence
Using a pattern in the book, One Yard Wonders (first book)

(Co-Published with A Stitche In Time)

My all-time favorite Agatha Christie book is the first Tommy and Tuppence story, The Secret Adversary.* So you can just imagine my pleasure when I had a chance to travel back through time recently to chew a bun with that romantic young girl. It was, of course, shortly after the war (WWI that is) and Tuppence was still pretty down on her luck. I mean, you could tell by the hole in her stockings, the one she had darned a good few times. Still, the plucky girl filled me in on some big plans she's been making with her old chum, Tommy Beresford. Golly, I hope something comes of them.

In case you're wondering, my time portal was an old blue willow tea cup that belonged to my grandmother. You've heard of reading tea leaves I'm sure. I've found that reading them through grandpa's old magnifying glass, provided exactly the second necessary ingredient to assist me in heading back to the time just after what was then referred to as the Great War.

When I popped-off back home I recalled that I'd been particularly struck by Tuppence's rakish close-fitting cloche hat. Those of you who've followed her other adventures, as penned by Mrs. Christie, probably recall that Tuppence was extremely partial to hats. I'm not a slavish follower of historical fashion, preferring to take my inspiration from styles of the times I visit, and apply them to my modern life style. However a good hat  is as important to me as the next plucky dame. As a regular hiker and walker I always need something to keep the sun out of my eyes and protect my skin. I found the pattern for the low-browed, cloche style cap I used, in the first One Yard Wonders book (my public library has both the first and second volume) and it worked like a charm. I particularly liked the fact that the author directed me in the techniques for measuring my head and indicated how much to add for those of us who tend to tuck up our hair. As a hiker, that's particularly important. I have quite a large head and can never find hats that fit, except for adjustable baseball-style caps. They can usually be made to fit, but they don't offer a great deal of protection. This one does. I think I've worn it every single day since I first finished it, about two months ago.

Bare Bones Basics: I made the cap in a simple 100% cotten denim with a faint etched print of roses. The pattern indicated that I should form the band out of  three strips (lined with 3 more strips). After sewing two strips together the cap was plenty long enough. Maybe that's because I made the top of the cap good and wide. I used a total of 4 strips outside and in. The main circle/top of the hat is also self-fabric lined. I hand-stiched the circle on top to the bands. I used Peltex interfacing for the brim, which is also self-fabric lined/backed. The project didn't take a great deal of time, though I spent some careful time double checking my measurements and calculations when I first planned the project.

All I can say is that I love it and it works great. I plan to make another soon.

* Though I'm also quite partial to other Tommy and Tuppence books, my second favorite Christie is her autobiography.

Searching for Csilla: The Library in Part 4

Please click on the picture above to enjoy the details of this library,

an illustration in the serial story, Searching for Csilla

Once she’d confirmed that the lovely, Romanesque style red brick building two blocks down, was indeed 1229, Ezther was ready to move on.

“Wait a minute.” I scurried up the steps to read from a brass plaque bolted to the wall. “The sign says it’s the original library and it was built in 1917.”

“Oh you and your old buildings!”

Catchup on the story, Searching for Csilla

Searching for Csilla: Part 4

Did you miss any previous episodes in this serial?

Searching for Csilla: Part 1, Searching for Csilla: Part 2, Searching for Csilla: Part 3

The old mission buildings had been restored about five years before. I stopped to run my fingers over the rough walls and admire the bits of gravel and ancient straw that had been left sticking out of the plaster.

My daughter passed the time while I admired the building, checking her incoming text messages.

“Really Ezter, you ought to look at the color of this stucco. Isn’t it gorgeous? Can you imagine the people who did all this labor? I wonder what they talked about when they were working and what they thought of it when it was done.”

“Umm. We had to listen to a whole lecture on it in my class. Do you know what the population of native people was estimated at before the friends-of-the-inquisition arrived and forced the locals to build this place? And do you know how many of them died from the diseases the Spaniards introduced?”

“No. How many before and after?”

“Unh, well I forget. I learned it for the midterm, though. And if you recall, our people didn’t hold up so well in that era either.” Ezter slipped her phone back in her purse and gestured down the street. I think the numbers go up if we go that way. I’m looking for 1229.”

I took one glance back at the red tiled roofs, sent out a brief wordless message to the people who’d built them, as well as those who’d been compelled to create buildings from the monuments of Rome to the great white buildings in Washington D.C. , and followed after my daughter.

Once she’d confirmed that the lovely, Romanesque style red brick building two blocks down, was indeed 1229, Ezther was ready to move on.

“Wait a minute.” I scurried up the steps to read from a brass plaque bolted to the wall. “The sign says it’s the original library and it was built in 1917.”

“Oh you and your old buildings!”

“It’s one of your old buildings, isn’t it? Didn’t you say this is where your field trip is? It’s probably to do with the library.”

“No. It’s something about a time capsule that was buried in the yard when they built this. One of the humanities profs is opening it tomorrow. And there’s some guest coming from somewhere in Europe I think. I’m not sure.”

“If it was built in 1917 that was just a year after my great-aunt and her husband moved here from Hungary. You remember what I told you about your Grandmother and her twin? They were so close. And her sister left before things got so terrible for Jewish people during and after the war. But then Csilla died here and Grandmother survived to come later.”

“Un huh,” Ezther was clearly unimpressed. At this point in her life, her interest in history didn’t extend back much beyond how many pounds she’d pressed the day before, and how long it had been since she’d eaten apple cobbler.

I moved around the brick porch and read the rest of the plaques, using the light of my phone to pick out the letters under the dimness of the overhanging roof. I learned that the library had been built using money from one of the Carnegie grants, and that the original site had been something to do with an area called ‘Las Pilitas’.

By the time I finished reading the plaques and descended the steps, Ezther had found a flat square of grass and was doing some kind of abdominal exercises. They looked painful. There was an old walkway of colored mosaic tiles that wandered around past the steps and disappeared on the other side of an ancient growth of prickly pear cactus, that was covered in beautiful apricot and yellow buds .

The path was clearly a lot older than the library. I followed it around to the back of the building. It looked a lot like an old television show from my sixties-era childhood, called ‘Old Mission Days’.

There was a circular courtyard of terracotta pavers complete with a bubbling fountain, well stocked with algae but charming non the less. An adobe bench had been shaped out of a crumbling wall topped with more of the mosaics. The broken shards shimmered in the afternoon sun. Just as I’d been attracted to the walls of the mission, their very age made me want to touch them. I sat down on the old seat and slid a hesitant finger over the plaster, enjoying the rough texture and the warmth that rose from the old material after a day of absorbing the sun’s energy. Something swished past the fountain and a large, marmalade tom cat advanced slowly across the pavers in my direction. I wiggled one foot encouragingly

The motion raised some loose gravel that shot back under a gap in the bench and I felt a whiff of warm air rise up from underneath. There was a kind of faint snuffling sound and something rustled along beneath my seat. I’d had one or two encounters with mice that I hadn’t particularly enjoyed. I rose up quickly as the marmalade gentleman shot across the patio, his chubby cheeks aquiver with interest, and disappeared under the ledge of the stucco bench.

To Be Continued

Csilla's Story: Part 3

Please click on the picture above for more clues-following detail

Did you miss any previous episodes in this serial?

Searching for Csilla: Part 1

Searching for Csilla: Part 2

As I reached behind the art deco lamp and drew out the antique secretary box that Hilda pointed out, something inside me quivered. There was a something in this box, that was meant just for me.

The sensation reminded of a popular British mystery series my mother likes to read. The detective is an antiques dealer who has a sixth sense for the truly valuable, the one in a thousand true finds. She always feels a sudden tingling in her flesh when she touches something old that is truly unique. And of course that same little bit of e.s.p. always led her to discern who-done-it. I had tried one of the books and found myself unable to buy into the fantasy of the psychic reaction. Now my own skin was prickling.

I was sure I could feel something pulsing as I began thumbing through the old ivory edges in their plastic sleeves. The light was so dim in my corner of the shop, that I could barely make out the images of European castles, outsized pieces of fruit and scenic wonders of the western United States.

By the time I got to the very last card in the box, my hand was actually shaking. The card had fallen over onto it’s face and lay wedged against the back of the box. I’d known all along that this was it, the quest for this object had drawn me to this shop.

Was it a mistake that had positioned the card like this, I wondered? Or had some unseen presence hiding the image from a chance glance placed it there, just for me to find? Carefully, I dug the card out and, still keeping it upside down, I walked across the store to lay my find atop a red lacquer table that stood beneath an art deco skylight. Very slowly, I turned the plastic wrapped image over.

A beautiful, ribbon bedecked pig smiled up at me. So much for my spiritual quest.

“Did you find something, you liked?” Hilda was at my elbow, eyeing the red lacquered table in an appraising manner.

I picked up the card and pointed to it’s $3.95 tag. “Yes. My daughter has a collection of vintage Lucky Pig cards. She ought to like this one.”

“Oh yes? Did you look through that whole drawer? I just got that batch of cards in a few days ago. Maybe whoever brought them in was a collector as well. I’ll tell you what, you write down your name and email and I’ll keep my eyes peeled for you.”

As I followed her back to the counter I guessed that any future lucky pigs were going to cost me more than a nickel short of four bucks. Really the mystical spirit that moved me had been my daughters pig collection! Did I not have a life?

The two dealers were examining an old Raleigh bike in the front of the shop when I went up to pay for my solitary card.

“They just never believe me when I tell them I can’t pay more than forty or fifty dollars for an early twentieth century bike! It’s ninety years old and it works. Must be worth a fortune!”

“Especially since that article in the local about that Sudbo that turned up. Didn’t somebody pay ten thousand for it? Well you never know, Gail. Maybe somebody will bring us in one of those next. After all, he did build a hundred of them. There might just be another one in a shed somewhere that didn’t make it to the scrap yard.”

“Stranger things have happened. Hey, speaking of hot finds, did you hear that “County Pickers” got-“

I tuned out the two dealers fond hopes, and went on my way with my solitary pig card rattling around in it’s paper bag. Ezter had better appreciate it. I was starting to laugh at myself for putting together my fantasy discovery story. I’d wanted to see my daughter and made up an excuse to make it happen. I wondered what specials were on the menu at the Bear Valley Diner.

Over a a late lunch for me, and a very early supper for my daughter, I heard about Ezter’s three new clients at the gym. Two had asked for her by name. She had changed her major from business to sports nutrition that semester, and the new job was about all she seemed to think about, or at least it was all she was willing to tell her mother about.

I remembered the lucky pig card, midway through the apple cobbler à la mode. My daughter examined it briefly and dropped it casually in a plastic envelope in her purse. “Don’t lose it I snapped I paid $3.95 for it. When you decide to sell that prize collection of yours, in twenty years it could be worth $4.50.”

“Why are you being crabby, Mom? Bet you didn’t get enough exercise with driving down and all.” Besides, she added practically, they don’t put out the free cookies in your hotel until 4 o’clock.”

My daughter, the personal trainer was probably right. A walk after a big meal was always a good idea. And I still had that deflated feeling, as though something, but what I didn’t know, hadn’t panned out.

“Where do you want to go? Monterey?”

Monterey Street contained three of Ezter’s favorite clothing stores.

“I knew what’ll happen if we go that way. Let’s shop for you tomorrow morning before I leave. You probably need two new pairs of workout pants and at least three of those sixty dollar lace bras that last about four months.”

She wrinkled her nose but gave in.

“What about that area around the mission? I’ve got to drive down there on a field trip for my architecture class tomorrow afternoon, and I need to figure out where we’re going and if there’s parking.”

“Field trip on a Saturday?”

She shrugged. “It was the only time everybody could go. We’re not weekend slugs like when you were in college, Mom. You have no idea how much harder it is to be a student than it was when you were one.”

I kept my mouth firmly closed, having heard it before.

To be continued

Searching for Csilla, Part 2

Did you miss Part 1 of this story? Click here.

I’d been so excited to leave that I’d left early, and gotten into town long before Eszter’s last class. I dropped my bag in front of my favorite fireplace, and put on a pair of good walking shoes. Some exercise after the long drive was in order, and there was a delicious looking antique store downtown, that I’d spotted on my last visit.

Antique prices in Bear Valley were just as high, if not higher, than those in the Bay Area. Luckily for me, and my credit card, I wasn’t planning any big purchases. I didn’t particularly gladden the heart of any of the dealers, as I wiled away the afternoon, turning over blue and white transfer ware, spreading out dainty embroidered linens and checking the clasps on the backs of brooches for sturdy catches.

It wasn’t until I asked about old photographs, that I slipped my hand in my pocket to finger the two twenty dollar bills I’d budgeted.

“Hilda’s got some, I think.” The dealer had given up on me when I told her that I wasn’t interested in spending nineteen dollars for the antique, porcelain dog pin. The hound’s stance had reminded me of a dog I’d once known, but up close the face didn’t look like Freckles.

Vintage photographs are a particular passion of mine. I know lots of people enjoy them, but I’ve spent hours studying them. I’ve always had a feeling that I’m looking for one particular photo, that hasn’t quite turned up. But like the quintessential gambler, I always expect it to turn up the next time.

As I reached behind the art deco lamp and drew out the antique secretary box that Hilda pointed out, something inside me quivered. There was a something in this box, that was meant just for me.

to be continued

Please click on the photo above to enjoy more vintage details

Searching for Csilla, Part 1

Go ahead and click on the picture, to enjoy more of the beauty of Central California in the fall.

I’d first visited the area on a trip to Hearst Castle. My then nine-year-old daughter had put her foot down, when it came to roughing the entire trip. She was willing to camp out, but she didn’t see why we should have to make our own supper. It’s true that the two of us aren’t the world’s best cooks. My husband tends to do most of the supper making. But Jacob was doing field work in the Wasatch Range and we were fending for ourselves. I considered putting on my best determined parent act, and reminding her about that girl scout badge she was working on, but we’d been driving for three hours and, I’d just seen a sign for the Bear Valley Farm Diner.

The diner was everything she and I had wanted. It had been assembled in the 1970’s to resemble a pseudo-Victorian farmhouse setting, and the decoration hadn’t been changed since. There were french fries for her and a salad bar for me, plus air conditioning and hot water in the bathroom. Everything two campers could desire. I’d had a strong attachment to Bear Valley ever since.

Eszter and I had enjoyed camping together - there had been a beach within walking distance which helped a lot - but neither of us had ever been inspired to revisit Hearst’s overblown collection of more goodies than any one man could properly utilize. We had, however, stopped by the pseudo-farm every few years, on our regular trips to Disneyland. The kitschy décor of the restaurant, with it’s calico tie-back curtains and idyllic farmyard murals, gave us a soothing sense of returning to an imaginary era, nearly as good as our favorite fantasy world farther south.

Two years ago, Eszter had chosen a school from among nine colleges and universities into which she’d been accepted. And she’d chosen to go to U.Mo., just up the hill from Bear Valley Farm. I was only too happy to make the occasional three-hour drive down, to drop off clothes or sports equipment she couldn’t live without, because the Farm had a hotel as well as the diner. And every room in the hotel had it’s own gas-burning fireplace that turned on with an electrical switch. Just the spot for hanging out in an overstuffed wing chair and working on my laptop.

I suppose it was just the in-room fireplaces and the association with my daughter’s childhood that attracted me to the area. It couldn’t be anything else that had caused me to suggest to my daughter that she might cherish a visit from her mother in the middle of the quarter. Eszter was uncertain. Over the last two years, we’d transported every piece of sports equipment from the garage at home, and her closet was full. Still, I insisted she humor me. We could eat supper together at the diner, for old time sake. I was really coming down to visit a nearby specialty native plants nursery on the way back home the next day, I told her. The business was a small one, and open only certain days.

My husband was at work in remote area of Nevada. Having been married to a geologist for over thirty years, I long ago learned to enjoy time to myself as well as I appreciate our time together. But I suppose my daughter figured I was lonely, and I let her think it. The drive down highway 101 through the fields around Salinas, King City and Paso Robles was alight with color. The grape vines were decked in their autumn finery and the distant coast range was a compelling mass of blue shadows.

But I knew that something more than scenery was drawing me, inexorably, to the central coast.

to be continued