Ghosties and Ghoulies

The subject of ghosts seems to come up a lot in conversations about our house. People always want to know if we have one or have seen one.

Short answer: No.

Not that I'm the best person to ask, since I suspect I would be the last person on earth susceptible to a haunting. Too practical and impatient. If I heard chains rattling in the middle of the night, I would be not so much afraid as pissed off that one more thing was disrupting my sleep.

Anyway.

A. always claimed that the only reason we don't have a ghost is because it's been the same family living here for 140 years. He suspects that if anyone else moved in, the ghost of Aunt Elizabeth (a turn of the 20th century relative renowned for her unpleasantness) would haunt them out of the house.

However, my niece, who is twelve years old, and one of our current house guests, who is eleven, both used the word "creepy" to describe our house. So maybe there's some kind of restless spirit that only haunts pre-teen girls?

Or maybe pre-teen girls who have spent their lives in modern houses find a setting so old and antique to be vaguely disquieting.

In any case, for anyone who has ever wondered, there is no resident ghost at Blackrock. And there had better not be as long as I'm living here. I have enough to deal with. The ghosts will just have to haunt someone else.

Historical Nomenclature

We are anticipating a full house of guests this week. When the MiL was discussing the room in which one particular guest would be sleeping, she referred to that room as "Audrey's Room."

Say what? That particular room has always been referred to as "A.'s Old Bedroom," (for obvious reasons) since I've lived here and never before have I heard mention of an Audrey. Addy, yes. The very back bedroom upstairs is always referred to as "Addy's Room." Addy was the last servant ever at Blackrock. She went back to Harlem to visit her family in the 1930s (I think) and never came back.

Can't say I blame her.

Anyway.

I of course requested enlightenment from the MiL about the mysterious Audrey. She was the hired girl during World War Two, and she apparently had problems with wetting the bed*.

Almost ten years in this house and its history still surprises me.

* Not the same bed that is currently in there. You may think this would be obvious, but this is Blackrock we're talking about. My children sleep in beds that date to at least the 1950s.

Two

Happy birthday to

the indomitable Charlie

Roughing It

The MiL decided it was time to overhaul the upstairs bathroom. I suppose it was time, seeing as it hadn't been done since, oh, maybe the 1940s and there is still (STILL) a hole in the floor from when the last plumber was working up there. SIX YEARS AGO.

Anyway. I'm sure it will be very nice to have a hole-less, modernized bathroom, but in the meantime, I'm going to be peeing in a bucket tonight.

Lemme 'splain.

The other toilet upstairs is in Charlie's room. I do not enter Charlie's room when he's sleeping, for obvious reasons of waking the dragon.

That leaves the downstairs toilet, which is a looooong way from our bedroom. But whatever. It's a toilet. So it's a long walk a couple of times a night (pregnant, remember?), but at least it's a toilet and it's indoors.

However.

The MiL's friend is staying with us tonight, in our guest bedroom downstairs. This is the room through which you must pass to get to the downstairs bathroom. This means that between the guest sleeping and Charlie sleeping, we do not have an available toilet overnight tonight.

My options were either to go outside, which presents some problems related to darkness and aim and so forth, or pee inside in some other receptacle. I briefly considered getting out one of Cubby's little toilet training potties, but then I decided it's too small and low. Still with the aiming problems.

And that is how I came to be carefully placing a small bucket upstairs in the back bedroom with a roll of toilet paper as my makeshift middle-of-the-night bathroom. At least there's a light in there. And it's inside.

Low standards: I am all about them.

A.P.D.--Baking vs. Cooking Edition

I have never been good at following directions. I was always that student being reminded to read the directions carefully, because I never did. Too impatient, I guess.

I suppose this is why I'm such a hilariously deficient baker.

I regularly forget to add the baking soda, or use twice as much butter as a recipe calls for, or something similarly ridiculous.

I also don't like following recipes when I cook, for the same reason. Although with cooking, there's a lot more room for error. I'm a good cook, mostly because I hardly ever follow a recipe, which means I can't really screw up too badly.

So I suppose what it comes down to is that I'm much too feckless to be a good baker, but cooking is sloppy and imprecise enough that I can get away with it.

And now, my lovelies, let's hear from you. Are you a skilled baker? An accomplished cook? Or do you avoid them both and rely instead on the supermarket for your food?

Currant Affairs

That title is not misspelled, but it may be the worst title in the history of blogging. You'll see why in a second.

A few days ago, our very elderly neighbor called to tell me her red currants* (you see about the title? I apologize) were ripe and she would be delighted if I would come pick them all and use them. I assured her the delight was all ours. A. proclaims currant jelly to be the most exquisite of all jellies (his words, believe it or not), and I still remember with great fondness a currant/blackberry jelly the MiL made several years ago.

So it wasn't lack of interest that kept me from getting over there to pick currants; it was a lack of opportunity. Taking the children with me would have made it sort of difficult to actually pick the currants, since this property is a bonanza of old tractors and RVs and various other items of interest to little boys.

My opportunity came this morning, however, when A. announced his intention of going to the neighbors' to cut some more wood. His brother, who is here for the weekend with his wife and daughter, went with him, as did Cubby. Charlie, the MiL, my sister-in-law, and my niece all piled in a different car and went to pick currants.

We got a LOT of currants.

Hello, my pretties.

The MiL and I spent about 45 minutes during naptime pulling the currants off their stems, after which I crushed them a little, added a bit of water, and put them on to simmer. I measured approximately 19 cups of fruit before they were crushed. The recipe for currant jelly in the Ball Blue Book calls for five cups of currant juice. I'm not sure how much juice I'll get from 19 cups of currants, but I think it's safe to assume I'll have at least enough to make two batches of jelly, which is about eight pints.

The currants are simmering at this very moment. A. has gone to the hollow to cut up an enormous limestone boulder into manageable pieces for stoneworking, his new favorite hobby. The children are still sleeping. We're going to a party on our neighbors' beach this evening (not the elderly neighbors, our next-door neighbors), at which I anticipate eating many varieties of chips and dip, although sadly abstaining from the phenomenal homemade margaritas. Later, there will be fireworks that I'll probably only see through the window, since I'll be in the house with long-sleeping children by the time it's dark enough for fireworks.

All in all, a pretty good Fourth of July. Here's hoping yours is just as good, my lovelies.

* Currants, for those of you who care, are similar in taste to a cranberry, though not quite so tart and definitely much softer than a cranberry when raw. They're very high in pectin and have a little seed in each one that is big enough to be annoying when chewed, so they're perfect for making into juice and then jelly.

There Are Moments

We have reached a sibling milestone: Charlie has finally gotten old enough to really play with Cubby.

Needless to say, I'm a big fan. There is just no substitute for having another kid in the house to play with. Adults are too boring; they will never fully entertain a child. At least, not for long. But two kids together--assuming they're not whacking each other with canes or pushing each other down, not that my children would do anything like that--can just play and play and play until the adult supervising is bored out of her skull just watching them. 

Like so:

They're masons, working on breaking rocks. Obviously.

They sat in the wagon for a good half hour whacking rocks. The wagon was conveniently parked right outside the kitchen door, which meant that I could make dinner and keep an eye on them through the door. How convenient.

This only happens sporadically throughout the day, but the instances of Mommy-free playing are getting more frequent and longer. And that makes for one happy Mommy.