Anne here. That's how many of you know me to post on my old blog that started five years ago with Jaime Jo Wright and finished to include Erica Vetsch and Gabrielle Meyer. But the time has come to close down our blog at
Coffee Cups & Camisoles where you'll find all my old posts, and begin anew.
So...welcome to my dirt road...where love for
vintage Americana thrives,
history is rich and deep,
words and stories are power, and the
coffee is always on...
Vintage Americana.
What's that, you say? To me it's anything historically inviting, lost, preserved, or treasured...from our American past. If you love vintage, you know it when you see it--that thing, or story that pulls on your curiosity, that reflects days gone by, that item that holds a memory, that holds a story, that once affected lives... And you just haaaave to wonder about who made it, touched it, or wrote it.
A quilt. A desk. A tool. A faded color. An old photo with nameless faces. A curled document, yellowed with time, with old cursive script. If you love vintage...you know what I mean.
History addict.
That's me. Oh. My. Word. My high school history teacher would never have guessed that's me. He was the high school baseball coach and very old school. He was white-haired tough old breed type of coach and teacher. He scared me a bit but I still joined up to become a bat-girl for the boy's team because I loved baseball--what vintage loving girl doesn't love baseball?! But it was the study of the Stamp Act early in the term on a quiz of ten questions worth ten points each that I quickly realized I could flunk history if I didn't get serious. I managed to pull my C minus to a B by end of term, but it was in the archive room at Fort Wayne, Indiana, scrolling through microfilms of 19th century census records with my mom, that I actually fell head long in love with history. Oh, well, maybe it was before that in second grade when Mrs. Andrews read us all of the Little House books, and in fifth grade when I slept under a hand stitched quilt on a hay tick at my great aunt's Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Still, it wasn't until the Stamp Act quiz of 11th grade that I knew...history is a thing people can get sucked into...it's one ginormous fascinating story!
Words and stories...?
My father is a story teller. My mother is a story keeper.
From little up, I was enthralled with my father's good story telling, whether of his childhood adventures, misadventures, or faith stories, or his reading aloud a well-written story to my mother around the table that brought a tear to our eyes, or reciting a poem he'd memorized, such as
When Father Carved the Turk from Uncle Charlie's Poems, or a hilarious half German-half English tale of humor that had me and my cousins in stitches, holding our sides. It was my mother who always had notebook in hand, a pencil at the ready, down on her knees to look into my bent over great grandmother's eyes to ask her the details of her life, committing memory, names, details, and dates to the page. My mother recorded details, how much things cost, how her grandmother thought of the Great Depression, and the memory of touching the horses noses in the barn. She taught me how to sleuth through genealogy records, tromp through cemeteries for dates, and how primary research of original documents is paramount to good research. Then, at the kitchen table, while in tears over my first major writing assignment in middle school, she coached me to put my thoughts into words. I cried. She edited. I stammered. She helped me make sentences. I hated it--until I realized that words hold power and stories become lost unless we take the time to tell them and write them.
Why all this coffee on my dirt road?
Because I love everything country and backwoods. I live on a dead end dirt road in the woods. I love everything about quiet country living. I was raised mushroom hunting and berry picking with my toes in the garden dirt and my feet running around fresh cut grass on a summer's night. There is nothing better to brew than a hot cup of joe while I reminisce about my childhood here, about raising my children here, or preparing for the next generation. There is nothing better to brew while I dig into some genealogy, or brainstorm my next story. I joke a lot that it's the black brew that fuels me, but it's truly prayers, faith, friends, and family that fuel me.
So if you love a little vintage,
if you get sucked into history,
if you're addicted to a great story or cup of brew, and if you love hearing how faith is woven through family life...you're on the right dirt road.
Pull up a chair at my country table. Sit next to the fire. Let's chat.
I hope to share her about my stories, my writing, my research, and about
faith, family, and life.
I'd be honored if you'd share your comments from time to time.
Welcome to my dirt road...
P.S. I love tea too...
Please leave a comment, add yourself as a follower of the blog, or subscribe to my author website for a chance to win a give away:
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Nurse Practitioner by day.
Wife, mother, writer by night.
Coffee drinker--any time.
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