Lift Up Your Hearts!

Sabbath, by Dan B. Allender (Thomas Nelson, Nashville, 2009)

Mystical poets who enjoy attempting to express the inexpressible may find working through Allender's Sabbath a productive exercise, but those looking for a practical, rational discourse on how to honor the Sabbath Day will find themselves banging their heads in frustration.  I know I did.

It's clear that Allender has experienced an otherworldly delight in his own celebration of the Sabbath; unfortunately, like many mystics of old, his attempts at sharing that experience fall flat.  First, there is a language barrier.  Poetical prose as a literary device can work, but like straight poetry it takes effort to make out the sense, and even then you're not sure you've got it right.  When you're expecting an informative book, the attempt at poetic language quickly becomes annoying.

Second, Allender appears to inhabit a different world from me.  When he diagnoses a problem, and recommends a cure, he loses me at the first step.  How can I trust his cure when he seems to be describing a different patient?

Finally, he persists in using the term "sensual" when his meaning would be better served by "sensuous."  I'll admit I'm nitpicking, but he uses the word so frequently that it presents a significant distraction.

Sabbath is not without merit, and what were stumbling blocks for me may be stepping stones for others.  Even I found some worthwhile ideas, especially the question with which I am still wrestling, "What do I find delightful, and why?"

The Sabbath is the day to experiment with beauty that teases your hunger to know more glory.  It is a day of study and silence on one Sabbath, a cutting out of a new kite pattern to fly on a wild breezy Sabbath another. It is crawling through wetlands below your home like hunters stalking big game in Patagonia or an exploration of string theory and Heisenberg's uncertainty principle as it relates to quantum physics on the next.  What intrigues, amazes, tickles your fancy, delights your senses, and casts you into an entirely new and unlimited world is the raw material of Sabbath.

If the Sabbath sends us anywhere, it is to nature.  To spend the day entirely inside on the Sabbath is to forget the sounds of bird twill, the rush of the wind, and the warming fragrance of the dawn.  It is to forget God even if we are indoors thinking about him.  We must enter the earth to be struck dumb by the beauty of the Trinity.  Our task is to plan to be near the face of God, in his creation, and then allow our plans to take shape as we are made alive by the surprise of his world.

Even in the nonhuman kingdom, play is part of the creational mandate.  Diane Ackerman says, “The more an animal needs to learn in order to survive, the more it needs to play.”

To play in the fields of God will vary from Sabbath to Sabbath.  There will be countless Sabbaths spent indoors in front of a fire, reading a novel; and there will be others on the side of a stream watching a bull trout meander with feckless disregard as fleeing cutthroat escape their most potent rival.

An example, though far from the most egregious, of the language that makes my head spin.

We are divided, and the day of reconciliation seems farther away than the bright moon that still shines in the early morning sky.  Division always enlists, forms, and feeds new communities.  Division breeds new alliances that provide us with the ability to survive the heartache.  We tell our story to a friend who suffers the injustice with us.  This friend sides with us to some degree, and as a result he judges the one who brought the pain.  The new alliance spills out to others through gossip, and deeper fissures are created in relationships much the same way that an earthquake tears a landscape to bits.

And one of the "diagnosing the wrong patient" problem.  Say what???

Envy is the craving to possess what another owns in order to fill our desperate emptiness….  And it is usually not enough to have something similar or slightly less than what they own—it has to be bigger and better….  When one looks deeper into the dark hole of envy, it is far crueler than merely the desire to better oneself….  The deepest envy desires to take from the other what they possess in order to bask before their humiliation.  We have determined that our destitution will only be resolved if we can simultaneously deprive our rivals of their goods and possess what they own.

How do we articulate the difference between labor that gives life and work that extinguishes hope?  It may be as simple as saying all labor is done to create something that goes beyond the completion of a task—it seeks as connectedness to someone for something greater than mere compensation.  Work is painting a wall; labor is starting a painting business so that one can choose how a job will be finished with integrity.  Work is taking a literature class; labor is writing a poem to address the death of one’s parent.  Working allows us to control the outcome and therefore achieve our manageable dreams.  Labor calls us to risk our dreams without much control to create something that goes beyond what we can imagine.  It is labor, not work, that we hate.  We prefer to kill the hope of what labor may bring forth rather than to risk so much for possibly so little.

Allender does tie in (though not expressly) some of the ideas I gleaned from Josef Pieper's In Tune with the World, for me a needed reminder of good ol' New Year's Resolution #2.

David Ford writes, “All the senses are engaged in a good feast.  We taste, touch, smell, see, hear.  Salvation as health is here vividly physical.  Anything that heals and enhances savoring the world through our senses may feed into a salvation that culminates in feasting….Jesus went to meals, weddings and parties and had a feast-centered ethic….That combination of sharing and celebrating is, perhaps, the most radical of all the implications of the teaching and practice of Jesus.”  Jesus is the presence of superabundance.  The Sabbath is the weekly entry into a taste of lavish, sensuous delight.  [Note here the use of “sensuous” rather than “sensual”; thank you, Mr. Allender.]

One Sabbath night in Ethiopia, my wife and I had the privilege of being at the home of our translator….  It was abundantly clear that we were eating an extravagant meal that may have cost what the family would spend on food in a month.  The sacrifice of the family was part of their joy; there was no way to reciprocate other than to join in their joy and to add to their immense sacrifice, our humble gratitude in being so undeservedly blessed.  Jesus’ way of being with others was a feast ethic.  All meals, and all joy around a table, are a reminder of the feast of the coming kingdom.

The Mother Tongue:  English and How It Got that Way (first published 1991, reissued by Perennial 2001) and Troublesome Words (first published 1984, revised 1997, reissued by Penguin Books 2009), both by Bill Bryson

My father and my sister-in-law became hooked on Bill Bryson as a writer; perhaps it is now my turn.

For the first twelve chapters, The Mother Tongue is an accessible, page-turning look at the English language:  where it came from, why it’s so popular, and how it came to be simultaneously one of the easiest and one of the hardest languages to learn.

Unfortunately, the book peters out a bit after that, with a few less interesting, apparently random diversions.  The chapter on swearing, for example, was dreary.  As a child I would have devoured it, such words being the kind with some magical power that required one to step over the square on the sidewalk where one occasionally saw them scrawled.  Graffiti was my only contact with profanity then:  no one I knew used such language, and it was certainly not in any books, movies, or TV shows of my experience—not even the dictionary (trust me, we looked).  But that was then, and this is decidedly now.  There is no longer anything rare, titillating, or even informative about bad language—at best it is irritating, and keeps me from giving The Mother Tongue the wholehearted recommendation it otherwise deserves.  With that caveat, however, this is still a delightful and worthwhile book.

One of the undoubted virtues of English is that it is a fluid and democratic language in which meanings shift and change in response to the pressures of common usage rather than the dictates of committees.  It is a natural process that has been going on for centuries.  To interfere with that process is arguably both arrogant and futile, since clearly the weight of usage will put new meanings into currency no matter how many authorities hurl themselves into the path of change.

But at the same time, it seems to me, there is a case for resisting change—at least slapdash change.  Even the most liberal descriptivist would accept that there must be some conventions of usage.  We must agree to spell cat c-a-t and not e-l-e-p-h-a-n-t, and we must agree that by that word we mean a small furry quadruped that goes meow and sits comfortably on one’s lap and not a large lumbering beast that grows tusks and is exceedingly difficult to housebreak.  In precisely the same way, clarity is generally better served if we agree to observe a distinction between imply and infer, forego and forgo, fortuitous and fortunate, uninterested and disinterested, and many others.  As John Ciardi observed, resistance may in the end prove futile, but at least it tests the changes and makes them prove their worth.

We in the English-speaking world have often been highly complacent in expecting others to learn English without our making anything like the same effort in return.  As of 1986, the number of American students studying Russian was 25,000.  The number of Russian students studying English was four million….  In 1986, the Munich newspaper Süddeutsche Zeitung  investigated the studying of German as a foreign language around the world.  In the United States, the number of college students taking a German course was 120,000, down from 216,000 in 1966.  In the Soviet Union, the number was nine million.  The problem is unlikely to get better.  Between 1966 and 1986, 150 American colleges and universities canceled their German programs.  In 1989, some 77 percent of all new college graduates had taken no foreign language courses. 

A presidential commission under Ronald Reagan called the situation scandalous.  In 1987, in an effort to redress the balance Congress voted into law the Education for Economic Security Act, which provided an extra $2.45 million to promote the study of foreign languages—or a little over one cent per person in the country.  That should really turn the tables.

Granted, these figures are old—but somehow I doubt there’s been significant improvement since.  Personally, I think we need an Education for National Security Act, which would forbid going to war against people who speak a language for which we do not have a strong base of fluent translators.

Not only are we not doing terribly well at foreign languages, we’re not even doing terribly well at English.  The problem was well voiced by Professor Randolph Quirk, president of the British Academy and one of that country’s leading linguistic scholars, when he wrote:  “It would be ironic indeed if the millions of children in Germany, Japan and China who are diligently learning the language of Shakespeare and Eliot took more care in their use of English and showed more pride in their achievement than those for whom it is the native tongue.”

We might sometimes wonder if we are the most responsible custodians of our own tongue, especially when we reflect that the Oxford University Press sells as many copies of the Oxford English Dictionary in Japan as it does in America, and a third more than in Britain.

For those who care to be better custodians of our language, I can recommend Bryson’s Troublesome Words.  Although written in dictionary format, I found it enjoyable to read cover to cover.  Do you want to know when to use “fewer,” and when to use “less”?  Or how to spell the name of that pleasant airport in Amsterdam?  Or the crucial difference between “sensual” and “sensuous”?  Troublesome Words will let you know, and entertain you at the same time.

 (Thanks, Janet and Stephan!)

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh;
the Father on his sapphire throne
expects his own anointed Son.

I love Ride On!  Ride On in Majesty! for its profound overview of Holy Week.  We sang it this past Sunday, to the Winchester New tune, and as always I was especially moved by the verse above.  Last year I was inspired by those words to consider the effect of Good Friday on Jesus' parents.  Today I am struck by the realization that Easter was not a surprise, nor an afterthought, nor a Plan B.  In the drama of Holy Week, all scenes—from Palm Sunday through Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday—point toward the finale:  Easter.  The Author includes some dark, excruciating (literally) moments, but the triumphant last scene is never out of His sight.

Ride on, ride on, in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die;
Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain,
Then take, O God, Thy power, and reign.

Music is such a personal, touchy subject—as is worship.  Put them together and you might as well be mixing sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter.  Nonetheless I will boldly go where too many have gone before, in order to draw attention to “Pop Goes the Worship,” an interview in Christianity Today (March 2011) with T. David Gordon, author of Why Johnny Can’t Sing Hymns:  How Pop Culture Rewrote the Hymnal.

I wasn’t expecting much when I began the article (who writes these titles, anyway?), but was quickly drawn in.  A sure way to my heart is to say what I’ve been saying myself, or wanted to say, only much better and with authority.  The article is worthwhile in its entirety; here are a few excerpts to whet your appetite—or raise your blood pressure.  [Emphasis in the following is mine]

T. David Gordon argues that modern worship choruses have trumped hymns in many congregations because for decades, we have been inundated with pop music—to the point that many of us don't know better. If you eat nothing but Big Macs, Gordon says, you will never appreciate a filet mignon.

Regarding church music, Gordon says, media ecologists should ask how music, "once a participatory thing, became a passive thing. What happens when people who used to sing folk music around the house are now surrounded by Muzak? How does that alter our sensibilities of music?"

Many are promoting an "aesthetic" that it is our duty to patronize living artists and not artists who are dead. Should we also not read books that are more than 50 years old, or enter buildings that are more than 50 years old? Christians aren't abandoning their buildings, and they haven't stopped reading Spurgeon or Edwards or Luther or Calvin. We haven't rejected other art forms that are not new. We've done so only with music.

Unless an individual chooses to listen to different kinds of music, the only thing that individual will hear (most of the time) is pop. Sure, one's sensibilities can be shaped deliberately, and many of us have developed tastes that we once did not have. (I spent years cultivating a taste for Brahms, whom I now love, and I spent about two years cultivating my appreciation for jazz.) If I did not believe that sensibilities could be cultivated, I wouldn't have written the book; it is, in some senses, a plea to shape them differently from the way commercial pop culture shapes them. But for people who do not take ownership of the cultivation of their sensibilities, other cultural gatekeepers will shape them for them—and in this case, they will shape them to prefer pop.

In the book, I candidly state that many traditional hymns are outright dogs—just terrible. I never give specific examples, however, because there are always some people who love those dogs, and if I call their beloved song a dog, they will never hear anything else I say. I also think some contemporary hymns are very good; I especially appreciate Getty and Townend (e.g., "How Deep the Father's Love," "In Christ Alone").

Hymns should be easy enough to learn for people who do not read music, so people can pick up the melody quickly. When I was a young child and we'd take drives, the family would sing folk music or hymns. If Mom or Dad started singing "Fairest Lord Jesus," we sang along, and before long we were harmonizing. And we couldn't read music. Hymns aren't too difficult to sing; most of them are easier to sing than the contemporary stuff.  I find it ironic that if I'm attending a blended service, the hymns will have the full musical score, though they don't need it, while the contemporary stuff, which is unfathomable without the musical score, doesn't have it. It's just lyrics up on the screen.

[Modern tunes] are not really easier to learn than hymns (unless they are profoundly simplistic). They seem easier to some people whose sensibilities have difficulty with anything that is not pop. But musically speaking, they are not, as a genre, substantially easier; they just sound more familiar to our culture. When people describe them as "easy," what they mean is "familiar-sounding."

Thank you, Dr. Gordon.  I am so tired of people telling me that "praise music" is easy.  Now I know there are at least two of us in this world who find it "unfathomable" without the music.  (I'm getting better, with practice, at muddling through when I can get my hands on the sheets the band uses, which have chords as well as lyrics; that's rather fun, actually.  I'm still hopeless in the congregation.)

What Why Johnny Can't Sing Hymns will contribute to the ongoing music and worship conflagration discussion, I can't predict.  All I know is that the article cheered me up.

It's not the New York Times, or even the Hartfort Courant, but I'll thank the East Haddam-Haddam Patch for their article on the quilt show, and their mention of Phoebe's Quilt.  (H/T PJS)  As is true with most newspaper articles I've known the truth about, this one manages to tell gist of the story accurately while erring in the details.

One of the most interesting ... had to be Prudence Sloane’s quilt.

“I inherited a trunk from my mother, this was in the bottom of it,” Sloane said. The quilt contained the names of family ancestors stitched into it.

It turned out the quilt belonged to Phoebe (Burr) Scovil, Sloane’s first cousin four times removed. It was most likely a wedding present from friends and family around 1849. Sewn into each square section of the quilt was a different person’s name.

Sloane’s sister-in-law, Linda Wightman, who was very interested in the family’s genealogy, did research on all the names of the people on the quilt. Wightman even went to Boston to investigate the names in a genealogy library.

Wightman made a booklet and gave it to Sloane as a Christmas present with information on Phoebe and how each person sewn into the quilt was related to her.

The quilt actually belonged to Phoebe L. (Scovil) Bonfoey, who is, indeed, Prudence's first cousin four times removed (and my fourth cousin four times removed, for that matter).  Phoebe (Burr) Scovil was her mother.  The creation of the quilt was most likely around 1849, the year one of the signers died and one, who signed with her married name, got married.  Phoebe herself married Horace A. Bonfoey in 1852.

To say that I "even went to Boston to investigate the names in a genealogy library" sounds rather pathetic unless you realize that I, unlike the quilt, don't live in Connecticut.  In any case it's not something to be impressed about; whenever I make the (all too rare) visit to Boston, New York, Hartford, or other research hot spot, it's for a lot more than just the quilt.  Most of my research for this project was done using the amazing resources available online.  That's not to say I couldn't have walked to Boston in the time it took me to gather the information—not true, but at times it felt like it.

And, hey—they spelled my name right!  I'm sure I have Prudence to thank for that.

I created a Wordle picture of all the surnames I have associated with the people who made Phoebe's Quilt:  maiden and married names, names of parents, spouses, and spouses' parents.  (Click on the image for a larger view.)

Piazzolla: Tangazo
Mozart: Sinfonia concertante in E-flat major, K. 297b
Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 4 in F minor, op.36

Alondra de la Parra, conductor
Nikolay Blagov, clarinet
Jamie Strefeler, oboe
Diane Bishop, bassoon
Mark Fischer, French horn

Alondra de la Parra.  Thirty years old, and already an exciting conductor.  Watch out for her.  Seek out her performances.

As OPO supporters, we are invited to attend one of the open Friday night rehearsals before a concert, and we chose this one for the compelling reason that it was the only one scheduled for when Porter was able to attend.  What a fortunate Hobson's choice!

Back when Janet was in the Florida Symphony Youth Orchestra, we enjoyed listening to rehearsals because the orchestra would play, the conductor would make some suggestions, and then the orchestra would play again—with obvious improvement.  Orlando Phil rehearsals are not usually fun in that way, because, of course, they are better players.

And then Alondra de la Parra came as guest conductor.  I don’t know how the musicians felt, being treated like youth orchestra students—for Maestra De la Parra stopped them, and worked them, and even at one point had them play to the accompaniment of a loud and disconcerting rim-tap metronome sound from the percussion section.  She made them play chords again and again, until she heard the right balance:  “I need more of the C!”  She ran late, much to the annoyance of the union rep, who checked his watch every minute and a half.

But what a difference the work made!  The before and after contrast was as discernable as it had been with the students, and the next day's performance was even more brilliant.  I have always loved the OPO, but I had no idea they could play like that.  I loathe the “grade inflation” that has led to standing ovations at nearly every concert, but this time I was one of the first on my feet.

De la Parra is fun to watch, too.  With the baton she is as commanding as a four-star general, and yet she dances her directions, playing the orchestra like a beloved instrument, coaxing out the sound.

She gave most of her rehearsal attention to the Tchaikovsky, and it was consequently the most stunning.  But the Mozart was delightful because of the players:  Jamie Strefeler handled the oboe part with skill, Mark Fischer is always good on horn, Nikolay Blagov would make even Heather like the clarinet, and Diane Bishop’s bassoon playing amazes me every time.  (To be completely honest, my favorite part of the Tchaikovsky was some exquisite solo bassoon notes.)

The Piazolla was fun, all the more so because we recognized both the name and the style from a concert in Japan a few years ago.  There we had heard his Libertango played by a talented cellist, who, like other notables such as Diane Bishop and Janet Stücklin-Wightman, graduated from the Eastman School of Music.  She is now teaching at an arts school in Africa.  This completes your It’s a Large World trivia diversion for today.

We capped the evening by enjoying some drinks (okay, it was water) and cookies (oatmeal) at a table by a fountain, while the rest of the crowd struggled to get out of the parking lot.  Twenty minutes later the way was clear; we packed up our belongings and drove home in peace.

The Olde Cup & Saucer, Jamestown Place, Altamonte Springs, Florida

This is for our friend, Nancy:  I'm taking you to tea at The Olde Cup & Saucer.  All you have to do is figure out how to get here from North Carolina.

It's a pity the Olde Cup & Saucer is in a storefront rather than a garden setting, but if you sit with your back to the window and ignore the fact that you can read the menu, you can at least imagine you're sitting in a European café.  Better, because no one's smoking.

The restaurant serves lunch and afternoon tea; we went for the former, and will be back to check out the latter.  There's a good assortment of teas available, though we chose the specials of the day for the cheaper price and free refills.  True, even $1.25 is a lot to pay when we have a store of many excellent teas at home, but hey, I once spent four Swiss francs for a cup of tea in Bern.  (As that cup came with shelter from a storm, as well as a cookie, the price was not too high.)

It was a good Irish Breakfast, served in a lovely cup that brought instantly to mind the above-mentioned friend.  (Porter enjoyed the Arctic Raspberry, iced.)  From the lunch menu, I chose the Classic, with a cup of the soup of the day and two tea sandwiches.  The cheddar cheese and bacon soup was served as hot as I like it, which is rare in restaurants, and I could have happily eaten a large bowl.  For the sandwiches I chose curry chicken salad, and spinach.  They were out of the spinach, so I substituted cucumber.  Both were delicious and creatively presented.  Porter couldn't resist the dish named for our mutual ancestor, Henry II:  shrimp salad, and a side of hearts of palm with Vidalia dressing.  Again, the food was creative and delicious: the shrimp salad included, among other, less-identifiable treats, walnuts and olives.  Quantities were decidedly un-American, a "tea sandwich" being the size of half of what I'd call a sandwich, and thus even smaller than normal restaurant fare.  But it was enough, just right.  Smaller portions lend themselves better to savoring.

The Olde Cup & Saucer also sells a modest selection of loose teas; my only disappointment was discovering that what they call Russian Caravan is noticeably smoky, unlike the other teas I've had under that name.  Ah, well—we know people who pass through the Basel train station now and then....

Although I generally prefer to have people come to our house to share meals, sometimes folks would rather meet at a restaurant.  I'm confident enough in my cooking not to let this bother me (much), but heretofore I've not had a suggestion to make when asked, "Where would you like to meet?"  Now I can't wait for the next opportunity.

You may remember Michael Merzenich as one of the major researchers mentioned in The Brain that Changes Itself by Norman Doidge.  Merzenich is no doubt a better researcher than a speaker; this lecture is not nearly as good—and certainly not as comprehensive—as the book.  But it will take less than 25 minutes of your time, and is worthwhile if only for his explanation of the dangers of white noise—continuous, disorganized sound—to an infant's brain, and for the hope he holds out to those of us who grew up with the depressing idea that once you reach adulthood (or perhaps early teens, or even age six, depending on who you believe), you are basically stuck with the brain you've got.

Michael Merzenich on re-wiring the brain

(Granchild warning:  I don't know if you consider "crap" objectionable, but there are a few instances between 17:00 and 18:30.)

Not long after we moved to here, we planted a couple of blueberry bushes in the backyard.  As with many of our Florida gardening ventures, this one could not have been called a rousing success.  Or perhaps it could, in a relative sense, simply on the grounds that the bushes are still alive.  But they never seemed to bear more than a handful of berries each year, and the birds always got to most of those before we did.

This year, however, was different.  I have no idea why; but look at all the berries on this branch!  (Click on the picture for a larger view.)

So Porter decided it was about time we stopped ceding the crop to the birds, and built this:

Was he more clever than the birds?  We'll let you know when the berries ripen.

The project that consumed my life since mid-January has now reached—not completion, but a stopping point.  Deadlines can be a blessing.

This particular deadline was the Haddam Neck Congregational Church Annual Quilt Show, coming this Saturday, April 9.  Phoebe’s Quilt will be exhibited there, meaning the real thing, not my book about the signers of this Friendship Quilt.  Fortunately, the quilt owner gave me plenty of notice, because when she asked for a few copies of the book to have at the show, I knew I couldn’t simply print them off.

The first edition of Phoebe’s Quilt had bumped up against its own deadline, which was Christmas 2009.  I hadn’t thought much about it since, but the knowledge of what had been left undone would not let me rest until I had completed a revised version for the quilt show.

Amazingly, much of what is in the second edition could not have been done two years ago, even without the Christmas deadline.  Many of the new facts became available online only in the last few months; even as I was buttoning up the revision more data was appearing, making a third edition inevitable.

Don’t hold your breath.  I’m quite happy with Version 2 for now, willing to scale back the work for a while (and return to normal life) and see what new information will appear in the next few months.  I’m hoping the quilt exhibition will bring to light people with knowledge of the of the quilt signers’ families, people who could provide not only missing facts but also stories of the signers’ lives.

For a mere $30 you can have your own copy of Phoebe’s Quilt.  I know, I know.  That’s why people who publish genealogies don’t make any money.  If you buy a copy at the show, you’ll get the special show price of $25.  At that price, I lose money—but maybe I’ll gain some information.

Or, you can have a PDF version of Phoebe’s Quilt for free.  I make much use of paid genealogy websites, and I don’t think those companies need to apologize for charging for the services they provide.  But I also benefit greatly from genealogical information that is available free of charge, the result of uncounted hours and untold effort on the part of those whose only reward is the value of the work itself.  Hence my desire to make the genealogical information in the book freely available.

If you would like a PDF of Phoebe’s Quilt, e-mail me and let me know why you are interested.  I love to hear about other people’s research!  I’ll be delighted to send you the document, asking in return that you not share the file with others, but instead direct those who are interested here, where they can obtain their own copes.

And if you live within a reasonable distance of Middletown, Connecticut, I hope you’ll take the opportunity to see Phoebe’s lovely quilt, in person.  Here is the show information, taken from QuiltQua.  (Note:  Phoebe’s Quilt will only be shown on Saturday, and if you want to be sure to see it, arrive early, as it may leave before closing.)

HADDAM NECK CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH QUILT SHOW
Haddam Neck, CT
Sat 09 Apr 2011 - Sun 10 Apr 2011

The annual Haddam Neck Congregational Church Quilt Show will take place on Saturday, April 9, 2011 from 10 a.m.-5:00 p.m. and on Sunday, April 10 from 11 a.m.-5:00 p.m. The Church is located at 408 Quarry Hill Road in Haddam Neck, CT 06424. Over 100 quilts will be on display in the church and in the adjacent meeting house. Admission is $5.00 for adults and children under 12 are free. The show includes a quilt vendor, raffle table and refreshments.
Contact information:
email: rdmchutchison@sbcglobal.net
Phone: 860-267-2848 or 860-267-4513

The following is a list of genealogically important names from my quilt research, solely for the edification of search engines, so that other researchers may find their way here.

Anna (Tryon) Bailey, Christopher Bailey, Bela Baldwin, Betsey (Hibbard) Baldwin, Laura Jane (Prior) Baldwin, Oliver E. Baldwin, Mary E. Bannister, Ashbel Bidwell, Daniel Bidwell, Lucy Ann (Johnson) Bidwell, Mary J. Bidwell, Thankful (Hubbard) Bidwell, Abbie E. (Holmes) Blinn, Elizabeth (Franklin) Blinn, John S. Blinn, Leander W. Blinn, Benanuel Bonfoey, Concurrence (Smith) Bonfoey, Eliza (Burr) Bonfoey, Horace Bonfoey, Horace Andrew Bonfoey, Phoebe L. (Scovil) Bonfoey, Susan Clarke Bonfoey, Susannah (Smith) Bonfoey, Alvin Brainerd, Anna (Brainerd) Brainerd, Ansel Brainerd, Asa Brainerd, Betsey (Pelton) Brainerd, Clarissa (Thomas) Brainerd, Daniel Brainerd, Deanthum Brainerd, Elizabeth (Welsh) Brainerd, Ezra Brainerd, Fanny (Smith) Brainerd, Frederick Brainerd, Heber Brainerd, Jerusha (Smith) Brainerd, Martha (Tyler) Brainerd, Nehemiah Brainerd, Sally Maria (Dickinson) Brainerd, Sarah (Brainerd) Brainerd, Sarah (Day) Brainerd, Aaron Burr, Amelia Melissa (Bonfoey) Burr, Asa Burr, Chloe (Hubbard) Burr, David Burr, DeWitt C. Burr, Elizabeth (Brainerd) Burr, Emma (Wellman) Burr, Esther (Spencer) Burr, Flora Betsey (Burr) Burr, Flora Betsey (Kelsey) Burr, George Burr, Joanna (Lane) Burr, Lucretia (Hubbard) Burr, Martha (Kelsey) Burr, Nelson Burr, Noah Burr, Noah P. Burr, Polly (Kelsey) Burr, Rebecca (Bulkley) Burr, Rebecca S. (Wilcox) Burr, Sarah (Johnson) Burr, Sarah (Johnson) Burr, Sylvester Burr, William Burr, William Hollis Burr, Willoughby F. Burr, Admiral M. Clark, Angeline (Cushman) Clark, Lucy (Clark) Corey, William Corey, Anna Colton (Brainerd) Day, Louisa (Bailey) Dewey, Milton B. Dewey, Sabra (Holcomb) Dewey, Samuel Dewey, Adeline F. Corey Elliott, Almira (Gillett) Elliott, Benjamin P. Elliott, Clark Elliott, Dolly (Smith) Flagg, George Flagg, Susan M. Flagg, Ann T. (Wright) Gardner, Henry F. Gardner, Jedediah R. Gardner, Vest (Rathbun) Gardner, Amelia Bullock (Abrahams) Gay, William A. Gay, Henrietta (Squires) Goodrich, Samuel Goodrich, George W. Guy, Lois (Hall) Guy, Nancy Smith (Brainerd) Guy, Orchard Guy, Clarissa C. (Loveland) Harris, Daniel Harris, Henry C. Harris, Huldah H. (Coe) Harris, Phoebe Ann (Smith) Harris, William Henry Harris, Lathrop Holmes, Mabel (Tryon) Holmes, Almira Tryon (Hubbard) Hubbard, Asa Hubbard, Charles Hubbard, Delia S. (Birdsey) Hubbard, Elisha Sears Hubbard, Lucretia (Bidwell) Hubbard, Samuel Birdsey Hubbard, Sarah Anne (Tryon) Hubbard, Alphonso Marsh Hyde, Arunah Waterman Hyde, Mary Ann Hyde, Mary S. (Wright) Hyde, Sarah (Kilbourn) Hyde, Didymus Johnson, Ruhama (Stephens) Johnson, Amon Judd, Austin Judd, Julia (Miller) Judd, Julia A. (Austin) Judd, Emerson F. Judson, Orin Judson, David Kelsey, Eli Jarvis Kelsey, Elizabeth G. (Hyde) Kelsey, Harmon J. Kelsey, Mehitable (Burrows) Kelsey, Olive (Parmalee) Kelsey, Esther Maria (Scovil) Leete, Frederick William Leete, Jeanette S. (Fowler) Leete, William Gilbert Leete, Clarissa (Cone) Loveland, Isaac Loveland, Caleb Miller, Clarissa (Whitmore) Miller, Hannah A. (Corey) Miller, Jane W. Miller, Mary B. (Hendley) Miller, Stephan Miller, Stephen Whitmore Miller, Abner Newton, Phoebe A. (Harris) Newton, Sarah (Hall) Newton, Daniel Peck, Daniel A. Peck, Maria (Olmstead) Peck, Thankful (Hubbard) Peck, Cynthia (----) Priest, Daniel Priest, Edwin Priest, Lucretia (Sizer) Priest, Daniel Prior, Daniel Harris Prior, Elizabeth (Skinner) Prior, Joanna Lane (Burr) Prior, Charlotte (Spencer) Redfield, Frederick Redfield, Abijah Roberts, Elnora (Ella) F. (Bidwell) Roberts, Fidelia (Hubbard) Roberts, Jasper A. Roberts, Adelaide (Holmes) Robinson, Alpheus Robinson, Harvey Robinson, Lydia (Dickinson) Robinson, Atwood Scovil, Cynthia Scovil, Esther Maria (Burr) Scovil, Frances Louisa (Bonfoey) Scovil, Joseph Scovil, Phoebe (Burr) Scovil, Phoebe (Spencer) Scovil, Sarah (Spencer) Scovil, Sarah A. Scovil, Sylvester Scovil, William Scovil, Alma (----) Smith, Barbara (Johnson) Smith, Eliza A. (Smith) Smith, Jesse Smith, John Smith, Joseph Smith, Oliver Phelps Smith, Phoebe H. (Childs) Smith, Simon Gardiner Smith, William Smith, Zeruah (----) Smith, Alvah W. Spencer, Ezekiel Spencer, Fanny (Bailey) Spencer, Fanny M. (Bailey) Spencer, Jane E. Spencer, Joseph Spencer, Maria (Hudson) Spencer, Martha (Tibbals) Spencer, Samuel Brown Spencer, Lowry Stone, Mary (Arnold) Stone, Robert Earl Stone, Susan Virginia (Scovil) Stone, Ebenezer Thomas, Elizabeth (Bailey) Thomas, Halsey Thomas, Israel Thomas, Mary (Brainerd) Thomas, Sarah R. (Burr) Thomas, Albertie Tryon, Franklin B. Tryon, Jane A. Tryon, Jane E. (Squires) Tryon, Anna Maria (Brainerd) Wallace, Betsey (Walker) Wallace, George W. Wallace, Thomas Wallace, Eliza (Stevens) Wellman, Henry L. Wellman, Ebenezer Wilcox, John Wilcox, Noah Post Wilcox, Rachel Florilla (Post) Wilcox, Sally Maria (Smith) Wilcox, Sarah Maria (Wilcox) Wilcox, Sarah (Crosby) Wright, William Wright.

Too many short nights.  'Way too many long days.  I'm currently babysitting the printer as it struggles with the second edition of Phoebe's Quilt, which I plan to take to Office Max tomorrow later today to have covered and bound.  Then I'll pack it off to my sister-in-law so she'll have a few copies when she shows the real thing at the Haddam Neck Congregational Church's Annual Quilt Show this coming Saturday.  Hopefully that will generate interest among local folks who might be able to shed light on Haddam 160 years ago and the families I've come to know through this Friendship Quilt.

The printer is silent.  Four copies printed.  I won't bore you with why it took so long to get four measly copies done, but it almost makes Office Max's charge of 50 cents per (color) copy look reasonable.  Almost.  Anyway, they're done.  Tomorrow I'll change out the exhausted black ink cartridge and hope the (already replaced once) color lasts through one more printing.

Then bind ... ship ... and I'll be FREE!  Um, not exactly.  There's still some work to do on the pdf version, and of course more research I want to do—eventually.  But I'm looking forward to scaling back, a lot, and tackling all the stuff that's been ignored for the last several weeks, including the very lovely Florida spring days that will soon pass into not-so-lovely summer.

Anyway, that's why you haven't heard much from me lately.