POT holders - - who knew? by Karla Stover

              

It's 1945. 

The War is winding down.

On the home front, things have gotten a little shabby thanks to rationing.

What to do?

Why not crochet some cute and colorful potholders?



Thanks to archeologists, knitting, embroidery, and weaving have been dated to far back in history. When and where crocheting originated isn't known. The "American crochet expert and world traveler Annie Potter says, "The modem art of true crochet as we know it today was developed during the 16th century. It became known as 'crochet lace' in France and 'chain lace' in England."

 

The Danish writer/researcher, Lis Paludan has offered three theories. "One: Crochet originated in Arabia, spread eastward to Tibet and westward to Spain, from where it followed the Arab trade routes to other Mediterranean countries. Two: It came from South America, where a primitive tribe was said to have used crochet adornments in rites of puberty. Three: In ancient China, women crocheted three-dimensional dolls.

 

Others date it to the 1500s when nuns in Italy crocheted church textiles.

 

                   

 

What we do know is:

One:  whole families crocheted items to sell and support themselves during the Irish Potato Famine.

Two:  Queen Victoria crocheted. In fact during the Victorian era women were crocheting "flowerpot holders, bird cage covers, baskets for visiting cards, lamp mats and shades, wastepaper baskets, tablecloths, antimacassars (or "antis," covers to protect chair backs from the hair oil worn by the men in the mid- 1800s), tobacco pouches, purses, men's caps and waistcoats, even a rug with foot warmers to be placed under the card table for card players."

Three: During World War I, crocheted items for the war effort were limited to blankets, mufflers, scarves, hospital stockings, wristlets, Baklavas, mine sweeper gloves, knitting bags, and making knitting needle point protectors by crocheting over rifle shells. Crocheting was not being discriminated against; It's simply that knitting uses less yarn--helpful during times of rationing.

 

Once yarn became available, women started crocheting afghans, slumber rugs, traveling rugs, chaise lounge rugs, sleigh rugs, car rugs, cushions, coffee- and teapot cozies and hot-water bottle covers. According to www.crocheters.org, "It was during this time that potholders made their first appearance and became a staple of the crocheter's repertoire."

 

During World War II, things hadn't changed much. The American Red Cross provided a pattern for a circular shawl for female refugees.An Australian Red Cross Society Knitting Book included a pattern for crocheted Bed Socks, and one in Canada promoted crocheted baby clothes. Instructions for crocheting a helmet that resembled a ski mask were included in he booklet, Pointers for Crocheting and Knitting.

 

However, after World War II, from the late 1940s until the early 1960s, "there was a resurgence in interest in home crafts, particularly in the United States, with many new and imaginative crochet designs published for colorful doilies and potholders." I'm thinking of seeking out the little dresses and stringing them to make a curtain in my mud room.

 

FURTHER COMMENTS

 

To me, the above website quote is questionable. Here's why:

 

 

Made to express sentiments during the Civil War. Wikipedia says the first homemade pot holders were appeared at Antislavery bazaars.



Interned Japanese men crocheted to pass the time during World War II

 

And apropos to nothing, Pot-holders have been banned from commercial kitchens in New Zealand.

 

 

The Bong, another kind of pot holder, was used by tribal chiefs in parts of Russia 2,400 years ago.

 



 

 

Reminiscing the Christmases of my Childhood by June Gadsby

Check out June's Author page for books and purchase links

 

Today the grass is glistening with frosty crystals; a beautiful reminder that Christmas is just around the corner. Here in Gascony, south-west France, I hope for a white Christmas, though it’s more likely that there will be blue skies and sunshine, or rain.  

How I long to revisit the Christmases of my childhood when my mother and I lived with my grandparents and my aunt in an old upstairs miner’s cottage built in 1901 and described then as ‘luxury flats’. Built over a disused pit, the long street of terraced houses was at the top of the small mining town of Felling. It curved down steeply towards a stone quarry, passing by a grassy area where concrete mine traps still sat waiting for the German invasion that never happened. Further on, down and down, you could keep going and reach the River Tyne. From our house, we could hear the ships hooting and see their black funnels as they passed by. In the distance lay the city of Newcastle and I often wondered what life was like across the river. It seemed a long way to a small child, almost a foreign land. And yet, there would come a time when I would work and live there.

As Christmas approached, the atmosphere in my grandparents’ home became electric with excitement. Presents were wrapped and hidden out of my sight. My grandmother, so house-proud, would complain about the needles from the fir tree dropping on the carpet and swear she would buy an artificial tree for the following Christmas, which she did, and I so missed the smell of pine that increased in strength with the heat from the open coal fire, the fire that she black-leaded regularly and where I used to post letters to Santa Claus in the soot trap. How upset I was, one day, seeing her rake out the trap and, with it, my precious letter with all my dreams for Christmas carefully written upon it. Every year my list was headed by the same two items: a bed of my own and a piano. They were both a long time in coming, yet the money my family spent on a dining table full of gifts would so easily have bought a bed and I would not have had to spend my nights perched on the middle hump of the old family bed between my mother and my grandmother, while my grandfather occupied one small bedroom and my aunt the other.

It was with my aunt that I enjoyed preparing the Christmas decorations for the living room [then called the kitchen], twisting strips of coloured crepe paper and stringing them across the ceiling and around the gas light, there being no electricity. We also saved the silver paper from sweets and chocolate and rolled it into little balls to thread together and drape around the Christmas tree. I saw little of my mother in those early days as she worked full-time in Newcastle as a statistician for the National Coal Board, having separated from my father when I was only ten months old. At weekends the family gathered around the wireless to listen to our favourite programmes and sang along to records on the phonograph that had to be wound up regularly, but would make us laugh when it ran down and distorted the voices of the singers. My aunt had a beautiful soprano voice and we often sang together. She was the solo singer in the Songsters of the local Salvation Army, to which my grandmother’s family belonged. She was married to a sailor, who was sometimes there, sometimes not, and was the kind of character that you felt you shouldn’t like, but couldn’t help being fond of him. He was a joker, laughed a lot and we would laugh with him; and he cried at Lassie films.

On Christmas Eve, I was put to bed and told to stay there while the family brought out my presents from their hiding places. I lay there with butterflies in my tummy, tingling with excitement and longing for morning to come. Sleep was difficult to achieve as I wondered what Santa would bring me. Maybe this year I would get that bed of my own, no matter how small, no matter which corner of the tiny house it would be tucked into. I would lie there awake, it seemed, forever, longing for morning, the air tinged with ice in the room; no heating and the wind howling through the window that was frozen solid and the curtains billowed out, making me afraid that there was a ghost or a monster behind them waiting to pounce.

Then morning would come and I took on the task of opening mounds of presents, far too many for an only child, and I wished I had a brother or a sister to share them with. Books. There were always books, and how I loved them. I had a miscellany of other small presents. My family thought that the more presents there were the happier I would be. But there was no bed. There was never a bed. I would return that night to the lump in the middle of the family bed, squashed between my mother and my grandmother, hoping that next year might be different.

After a mammoth clear up of torn gift wrappings, my grandmother would start the Christmas ritual of baking sausage rolls and brewing up her mother’s secret recipe of hot ginger wine. The house already smelt wonderful as the turkey had been cooking gently throughout the night to ensure that it would be ready and melt in the mouth by midday. Outside, the world had turned from frosty silver to cotton wool white snow and the sun was shining down from a clear blue sky. We all listened with baited breath for the sound we loved – even my grandfather, perched on the end of the fender, reading one of his beloved Western books, was dressed smartly in his Sunday clothes.

And then we heard it. The heart-lifting sound of the Salvation Army brass band, in the distance, moving nearer and nearer until it reached our street and stopped. We all rushed down the front stairs and opened the door. The Soldiers of Christ were gathered together in a tight group, their dark uniforms with flashes of red disappearing beneath a blanket of soft snowflakes, the faces of the bandsmen rosy with the cold.  Hark the Herald Angels Sing turned into Silent Night as a special treat for my grandmother, Polly, a grim-faced little sparrow of a woman who hardly ever smiled. I was too young then to ask why she was like she was. Now, it’s too late. They are all long dead.

The music ended and the band was, as always, invited into our small home. They shook off the snow from their shoulders and crowded into our kitchen, laughing and joking, enjoying the hot sausage rolls and hot spicy wine. Before they left they said a prayer, then off they went to their own families and Christmas dinners, while we sat around the table enjoying ours – turkey and all the trimmings, laughing because my grandmother one Christmas thought that the turkey had four legs. It was a never-ending feast that continued through the afternoon with chocolate and fruit. Later we would join my grandmother’s sister and family for high tea with ham and salad, cakes and tarts, all home baked. And there was fun and games with my great uncle playing the organ. I was too shy to join in and how I now regret that paralyzing shyness that kept me from enjoying myself. Back home, around nine o’clock we would have supper – succulent turkey sandwiches. I couldn’t cope with all that food now, but the memory of those festive times still gives me a tickle of excitement – so much so that I included this family ritual in my book “When Tomorrow Comes” with my favourite heroine, Hildie, in charge.

I did eventually get a bed of my own, and I swore to myself that I would never again share a bed with anyone. It didn’t quite work out that way, but a lot of water has run under that proverbial bridge since then. Maybe I’ll get to write about it one day, when I have the courage to face my adult past.

In the meantime, I hope you all have a jolly Christmas when it comes and, if you’re sad, remember the good times you had in the past. Smile, laugh, shed a tear or two if you must. That’s what I do.

Thoughts on Writing A Novel – Show Don’t Tell by Rosemary Morris

 Visit Rosemary Morris' Author page to view books and purchase

I was born in 1940 in Sidcup Kent, England. As a child, when I was not making up stories, my head was ‘always in a book’.

While working in a travel agency, I met my Hindu husband.  He encouraged me to continue my education at Westminster College.  In 1961 I and my husband, now a barrister, moved to his birthplace, Kenya, where I lived until 1982.  After an attempted coup d’état, I and four of my five children lived in an ashram in France.

Back in England, I wrote historical fiction and joined the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Historical Novel Society and Watford Writers.

Apart from writing, I enjoy classical Indian literature, reading, visiting places of historical interest, vegetarian cooking, growing organic fruit, herbs and vegetables and creative crafts. 

My bookshelves are so crammed with historical non-fiction which I use to research my novels that if I buy a new book I have to consider getting rid of one.

Time spent with my children and their families, most of whom live near me, is precious.

Show Don’t Tell

If you are thinking about writing a novel, are a new or experienced novelist or someone who likes reading about an author’s thoughts on writing, I hope you will find this brief blog post interesting.

To write quality fiction it isn’t enough to have a good idea for a story. Whether we write literary fiction or popular fiction we need to understand how to write effectively and hold our readers’ interest.

For the novice and experienced writer there are numerous non-fiction books about How to Write. These include subjects such as creating believable characters, viewpoint and show don’t tell. Although Books We Love have published nine of my novels, I still enjoy dipping into copies of my ‘how to write books’.

My advice is don’t tell the reader anything at the beginning of a scene to ensure it makes sense. Find a livelier, more interesting way to explain it. Show the main character in each scene through what he or she says, does and thinks. This admits the reader onto the stage and allows him or her to experience the protagonist’s emotions and reactions as though watching television, a film or a play.

In fiction, showing is usually a blend of dialogue and narrative. Telling is undiluted exposition about something your character does not know.

Since the action arises from the characters, by dramatizing them they can demonstrate essential information and give hints.  Ask yourself what the characters want and feel. You can show through specific details, thoughts and action, what is important or relevant to them. This can also be shown by the reactions and thoughts of other characters. 

Was, were, had, feel, felt and feeling are words that tell instead of showing. They should be used sparingly. When I am editing a novel I always check to see if I can replace them.

In fiction a main character should be introduced immediately, and the scene should be set.

I hope you will agree that the first sentence in my published novel, The Captain and The Countess, achieves this.

“London 1706

Edward, the Right Honourable Captain Howard, dressed in blue and white, which some of the officers in Queen Anne’s navy favoured, strode into his godmother’s spacious house near St James Park.”

I had researched costume and the area, but resisted the temptation to write a long description which would have been exposition.  

Also, I avoided using the word ‘was’ because it often tells instead of showing. e.g. Captain Howard was dressed in blue and white tells instead of showing; so do the words were, had, feel, felt and feeling, which should be used sparingly.

Fairy Tales continue to have a glamour and grip on readers, whether young or old. Previously ‘Once Upon a Time there was…’ often began the story. Today, a writer needs to cut right into the core of the book.

Modern-day readers are not prepared to read page after page of descriptive prose to reach the main point.

The beginning of a story needs to show the character.

Your comments would be appreciated.

The Captain and The Countess – Back Cover

Why does heart-rending pain lurk in the back of the wealthy Countess of Sinclair’s eyes? 

Captain Howard’s life changes forever from the moment he meets Kate, the intriguing Countess and resolves to banish her pain.

Although the air sizzles when widowed Kate, victim of an abusive marriage meets Edward Howard, a captain in Queen Anne’s navy, she has no intention of ever marrying again.

However, when Kate becomes better acquainted with the Captain she realises he is the only man who understands her grief and can help her to untangle her past.

The Captain and The Countess

Chapter One

London 1706

Edward, the Right Honourable Captain Howard, dressed in blue and white, which some of the officers in Queen Anne’s navy favoured, strode into Mrs Radcliffe’s spacious house near St James Park.

Perkins, his godmother’s butler, took the captain’s hat and cloak. “Madam wants you to join her immediately.”

Instead of going upstairs to the rooms his godmother had provided for him during his spell on half pay—the result of a dispute with a senior officer—Edward entered the salon. He sighed. When would his sixty-one-year old godmother accept that at the age of twenty-two, he was not yet ready to wed?

He made his way across the elegant, many-windowed room through a crowd of expensively garbed callers.

When Frances Radcliffe noticed him, she turned to the pretty young lady seated beside her. “Mistress Martyn, allow me to introduce you to my godson, Captain Howard.”

Blushes stained Mistress Martyn’s cheeks as she stood to make her curtsey.

Edward bowed, indifferent to yet another of his grandmother’s protégées. Conversation ceased. All eyes focussed on the threshold.

“Lady Sinclair,” someone murmured.

Edward turned. He gazed without blinking at the acclaimed beauty, whose sobriquet was “The Fatal Widow”.

The countess remained in the doorway, her cool blue eyes speculative.

Edward whistled low. Could her shocking reputation be no more than tittle-tattle? His artist’s eyes observed her. Rumour did not lie about her Saxon beauty.

…Continues

5* Review by Mrs. Jennifer M. Black

Rosemary Morris lives and breathes the late Stewart period of history. The world she describes, in which Morals and Rules were known and adhered to, has vanished now, but her characters speak and behave in keeping with what we know of the customs of the well-born of the time, which makes a refreshing change to the huge amount of historical fiction where young girls behave and think as they would in this century.

The Right Honourable Captain Edward Howard, a handsome young naval officer and artist is at something of a loose end when he visits his godmother – and ignores her attempts to marry him off to an empty-headed young thing. Twenty-two years old, he meets Kate, Countess Sinclair, who is nine years older than him and hides a terrible secret from her past life behind a beautiful face and a formidable façade. Edward is at first intrigued and then falls heavily for the lady, but she swears she will never marry again.

If you enjoy sentences put together with care and grace, dialogue that sparkles without falling into clichés, slang and platitudes; if you want a storyline with genuine twists and turns and a happy ending that comes as a surprise and does not jar against the habits of the time, then this book will give you, as it did me, great pleasure.

Novels by Rosemary Morris 

Early 18^th Century novels

Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess Courtship.

Regency Novels

Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child

Mediaeval Novel

Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary