Eliza's Cottage
Eliza's Cottage
Eliza's cottage was well-loved and well-worn. She placed some chipped china teacups on a little wooden shelf by the front door. Under the cup shelf was a hand lettered sign reading "Smiles Cottage". It emphasized this was a happy cottage and she frequently referred to it as "Smiles Cottage" in her conversation.
The long redwood stick propped the window sill to keep the window frame from sagging. One could see a small summer cabin down the slope behind the house. Her children would sometimes sleep there during the nice weather.
Several iron-rimmed wagon wheels leaned against the house, all in varying stages of decay and rust. Round slices of redwood logs placed on the hardened dirt provided challenging stepping stones leading to her porch.
There is a lamplight visible through the open front door in this picture. It beamed from an iron floor lamp. Its yellowed shade drooped over a small library table placed in the middle of the room. Eliza would put on her glasses and sit in the hard chair behind the table. She wrote many of her poems here.
Her garden was a composite of carefully arranged discarded dishes, chipped enameled cooking pans, light fixtures and metal bedframes and springs. Enameled metal milk jugs, old light fixtures and a German WWI army helmet hung from tree branches in her yard. It was a visual feast.
The long redwood stick propped the window sill to keep the window frame from sagging. One could see a small summer cabin down the slope behind the house. Her children would sometimes sleep there during the nice weather.
Several iron-rimmed wagon wheels leaned against the house, all in varying stages of decay and rust. Round slices of redwood logs placed on the hardened dirt provided challenging stepping stones leading to her porch.
There is a lamplight visible through the open front door in this picture. It beamed from an iron floor lamp. Its yellowed shade drooped over a small library table placed in the middle of the room. Eliza would put on her glasses and sit in the hard chair behind the table. She wrote many of her poems here.
Her garden was a composite of carefully arranged discarded dishes, chipped enameled cooking pans, light fixtures and metal bedframes and springs. Enameled metal milk jugs, old light fixtures and a German WWI army helmet hung from tree branches in her yard. It was a visual feast.
Eliza's Car
Eighty-four year old Eliza had a little building in her backyard that she called "the cabin". Some of her five children slept there during warm summer weather in the 1920's and 1930's. In 1974 it still contained a single bed along with an eclectic assortment of some very interesting stuff.
A shed-like addition to the cabin created an open ended garage for her Pontiac convertible. She said that in 1936 the automobile factory made only four cars like hers. She was the original owner of this forty-year old car.
She was lucky the car and cabin weren't crushed by a willow tree blown down during a wind storm the previous winter.The trunk of the tree still draped across the roof where it had fallen although she had clipped away some of the intruding branches. The roof supports sagged under the weight of the tree. The overhead doorway beam was cracked and bent, but she could still back the car out of the garage and that was all that mattered to her. The car's tan canvas convertible top was worn, and the car needed paint. The original imitation wood-patterned paint on the metal dashboard was in good condition.The original upholstery was covered with some sort of chenille bedspread, so I have no idea of its condition. A large sheet of protective clear plastic, anchored by loose pieces of wood, was draped over the canvas top.
She called her car "Freida", because, when Freida was there, Eliza was "free-ta come" and "free-ta go". One day she wanted to take me for a ride so I offered to take her to lunch. She thought lunch at a Drive-In in Redwood City would be nice because she hadn't been to a Drive-In restaurant. She drove the three miles into town.
Just driving into town was an attention-getter. She drove in the slower outside lane and each time she stopped at a stop light, the driver in the car in the next lane would drive forward a few feet, just inches at a time. Then, as long as the light was still red, the driver would inch backward a few feet, openly scrutinizing Eliza's car from bumper to bumper. I am sure some of those young fellows had seen nothing like it. A couple of men in pickup trucks, in the adjoining traffic lane, shouted a few questions to her and she answered them cheerfully. She obviously was accustumed to the stares and she enjoyed the attention..
When we finally pulled into the Drive-In restaurant, I had the feeling I was riding with a celebrity. One auto that had been following us, pulled into the Drive-In and parked alongside so the driver could ask more questions. The final one being, "Do you want to sell it?" No.
Eating a Drive-In lunch, while seated in a tattered 1936 convertible, WITH rumble seat, driven by this white-haired old lady was a special experience.
A shed-like addition to the cabin created an open ended garage for her Pontiac convertible. She said that in 1936 the automobile factory made only four cars like hers. She was the original owner of this forty-year old car.
She was lucky the car and cabin weren't crushed by a willow tree blown down during a wind storm the previous winter.The trunk of the tree still draped across the roof where it had fallen although she had clipped away some of the intruding branches. The roof supports sagged under the weight of the tree. The overhead doorway beam was cracked and bent, but she could still back the car out of the garage and that was all that mattered to her. The car's tan canvas convertible top was worn, and the car needed paint. The original imitation wood-patterned paint on the metal dashboard was in good condition.The original upholstery was covered with some sort of chenille bedspread, so I have no idea of its condition. A large sheet of protective clear plastic, anchored by loose pieces of wood, was draped over the canvas top.
She called her car "Freida", because, when Freida was there, Eliza was "free-ta come" and "free-ta go". One day she wanted to take me for a ride so I offered to take her to lunch. She thought lunch at a Drive-In in Redwood City would be nice because she hadn't been to a Drive-In restaurant. She drove the three miles into town.
Just driving into town was an attention-getter. She drove in the slower outside lane and each time she stopped at a stop light, the driver in the car in the next lane would drive forward a few feet, just inches at a time. Then, as long as the light was still red, the driver would inch backward a few feet, openly scrutinizing Eliza's car from bumper to bumper. I am sure some of those young fellows had seen nothing like it. A couple of men in pickup trucks, in the adjoining traffic lane, shouted a few questions to her and she answered them cheerfully. She obviously was accustumed to the stares and she enjoyed the attention..
When we finally pulled into the Drive-In restaurant, I had the feeling I was riding with a celebrity. One auto that had been following us, pulled into the Drive-In and parked alongside so the driver could ask more questions. The final one being, "Do you want to sell it?" No.
Eating a Drive-In lunch, while seated in a tattered 1936 convertible, WITH rumble seat, driven by this white-haired old lady was a special experience.
Eliza's Cabin Ceiling
Eliza had a small cabin in her backyard where her children would sleep during hot summer nights. The rough interior wall boards were painted white. She stored some of her cherished mementos out there. A pair of batons, one with a ruffled lampshade on the end, were tucked behind a rafter. A child's grade school group class photograph hung on one wall and a dog picture swung recklessly from a ceiling nail. A red mesh bag, filled with large wooden childrens blocks, dangled from a nail. The oval picture of the father of her children was hung over the bed. A felt Smoky-the-Bear type rangers hat, a satin-lined black top hat and many straw hats were among the wide variety of hats gathering dust from their high nails. It was a fascinating collection of stuff.
Eliza's Fence
Eliza's Front Porch
Feral cats had shredded the hemp-wrapped rocking chair on Eliza's front porch. She had plants growing in a variety of broken crockery and chipped enameled cooking kettles.
I was painting a canvas in her kitchen on Valentine's Day when there was a knock on the door. It turned out to be a teenage boy delivering flowers. He had a bad combination of lead feet and a heavy step. He handed over the flowers and apologized for breaking the porch. Yes, the rotting boards on the porch had decided that this was just one person too many, and the young man's foot had gone through the porch floor. I found a hammer and an old board and nailed what I thought was a temporary fix to the opening. That was good enough for Eliza, and that's the way it stayed.
I was painting a canvas in her kitchen on Valentine's Day when there was a knock on the door. It turned out to be a teenage boy delivering flowers. He had a bad combination of lead feet and a heavy step. He handed over the flowers and apologized for breaking the porch. Yes, the rotting boards on the porch had decided that this was just one person too many, and the young man's foot had gone through the porch floor. I found a hammer and an old board and nailed what I thought was a temporary fix to the opening. That was good enough for Eliza, and that's the way it stayed.
Eliza's Garage Wall
Where do broken tools, rollerskates and boards go to finish their time on earth? At Eliza's place many of them ended up leaning against or hanging on her exterior garage wall. Old metal clamp-on rollerskates, probably from the 1920's, hung alongside broken rakes, odd lengths of chain, pitchforks and bridle bits to suffer the whims of nature and rust. Loose used redwood boards were treated with great respect. The nails were removed and the boards stood on end. They mingled with the rusted items while gathering a bleached, weathered patina. It was nice to see these interesting items arranged so lovingly and artfully.
Eliza's Kitchen Chair
A worn chenille bedspread was always draped across the seat of Eliza's wicker kitchen chair. I recall this being the only "soft" chair in the house. A fading hand hooked rug was placed on the floor.
She honored certain Presidents. There were curled yellowed newsprint pictures of President Dwight Eisenhower and President Kennedy pinned to the curtains. Small photographs of grade school children were tucked into the edges of picture frames. Judging from their haircuts and clothing, they must surely have grown into adults and probably had children of their own.The curtains were strung onto the javelins her daughter had thrown when in High School. She put loose pins and small pencils in the abalone seashell, clipped meaningful sayings to the little lampshade on the table and stuffed folded Christian Science Monitor newspapers in the widening crack where the walls joined the ceiling.
She honored certain Presidents. There were curled yellowed newsprint pictures of President Dwight Eisenhower and President Kennedy pinned to the curtains. Small photographs of grade school children were tucked into the edges of picture frames. Judging from their haircuts and clothing, they must surely have grown into adults and probably had children of their own.The curtains were strung onto the javelins her daughter had thrown when in High School. She put loose pins and small pencils in the abalone seashell, clipped meaningful sayings to the little lampshade on the table and stuffed folded Christian Science Monitor newspapers in the widening crack where the walls joined the ceiling.
Eliza's Stove
One late autumn morning I found Eliza sitting at her kitchen table, warmly bundled aganst the morning chill. The house smelled of smoke seeping from a clogged metal chimney flue on the kitchen stove.The kitchen window was wide open to let out smoke.
Eliza asked if my husband, Lyle, would be willing to remove, clean and replace the flue. A few days later, he drove out and cleaned the flues and was concerned when he saw how loosely the pipes fit into the brick chimney on the wall. She insisted they always fit like that.
He commented afterwards that, if asked to do this the following year, he would decline. A professional chimney repair person or carpenter needed to be contacted for a chimney job such as this. He felt it was an unsafe situation as the chimney was gently easing away from the house as was the lean-to kitchen addition. She became aware of the house settling in this alarming fashion several years before. This was when she propped that long 2"x2" board under the outside window frame to keep the window square so the window would swing open.
The following year at chimney cleaning time, Lyle suggested that this would be the time for her to get a professional to do this important repair work. She said she would do something about it. We heard nothing more until her great-niece called me on the phone to say that independent old Eliza had climbed on the stove to clean the chimney herself. She fell off the stove and lay on the kitchen floor for two days before her teen-aged great-grand nephew dropped by and found her.
She was put into her bed with a knee the size of a football and the color of mashed purple grapes. Eliza's religion did not permit a physician nor was she interested in seeing one. Her niece and I worked out a temporary care schedule where one of us came out and fixed breakfast and emptied her commode and the other stopped by later in the day. She stayed in the bed every day until she could get up and walk around with a cane.
Her property was on two very valuable acres in an exclusive area. Realtors contacted her frequently, hoping to list the property for sale, and she turned them away saying, "Now, WHY would I want to leave my home?" She had a tough independent spirit and probably felt like a caged bird when it was time to go to a rest-home.
The last time I drove by her property, the two acres had been swept clean of her home, the little cottage and the small tattered building. There was not a sign of her interesting garden bric-a-brac nor the galvanized washtub planted with a white hydrangea. There will probably be a lavish estate erected at that site.
In my minds eye I see her now, dragging that tarp across those leveled fields. I had interesting times with Eliza, and I think of her every time I see the offspring of her white hydrangea blooming in our garden. I say to it "Hello there, Eliza".
Eliza asked if my husband, Lyle, would be willing to remove, clean and replace the flue. A few days later, he drove out and cleaned the flues and was concerned when he saw how loosely the pipes fit into the brick chimney on the wall. She insisted they always fit like that.
He commented afterwards that, if asked to do this the following year, he would decline. A professional chimney repair person or carpenter needed to be contacted for a chimney job such as this. He felt it was an unsafe situation as the chimney was gently easing away from the house as was the lean-to kitchen addition. She became aware of the house settling in this alarming fashion several years before. This was when she propped that long 2"x2" board under the outside window frame to keep the window square so the window would swing open.
The following year at chimney cleaning time, Lyle suggested that this would be the time for her to get a professional to do this important repair work. She said she would do something about it. We heard nothing more until her great-niece called me on the phone to say that independent old Eliza had climbed on the stove to clean the chimney herself. She fell off the stove and lay on the kitchen floor for two days before her teen-aged great-grand nephew dropped by and found her.
She was put into her bed with a knee the size of a football and the color of mashed purple grapes. Eliza's religion did not permit a physician nor was she interested in seeing one. Her niece and I worked out a temporary care schedule where one of us came out and fixed breakfast and emptied her commode and the other stopped by later in the day. She stayed in the bed every day until she could get up and walk around with a cane.
Her property was on two very valuable acres in an exclusive area. Realtors contacted her frequently, hoping to list the property for sale, and she turned them away saying, "Now, WHY would I want to leave my home?" She had a tough independent spirit and probably felt like a caged bird when it was time to go to a rest-home.
The last time I drove by her property, the two acres had been swept clean of her home, the little cottage and the small tattered building. There was not a sign of her interesting garden bric-a-brac nor the galvanized washtub planted with a white hydrangea. There will probably be a lavish estate erected at that site.
In my minds eye I see her now, dragging that tarp across those leveled fields. I had interesting times with Eliza, and I think of her every time I see the offspring of her white hydrangea blooming in our garden. I say to it "Hello there, Eliza".
Eliza's Kitchen
Eliza was 84 years old and wrote poetry every day on flattened envelopes she kept pressed in her Christian Science Book.. It was so stuffed with loose pieces of paper it was shaped like a fan. She took pleasure in reading poems to me.
As I sat and listened to her poetry, I looked about her tidy kitchen . My eye traced the outline of the little iron Bridge Beach stove that had no upper storage areas. All four legs rested on bricks to add height to such a short stove. A five-foot chimney flue was bent into a hole in the wall and a box of wooden matches hung behind the stove next to the dish towel rack. Fuel was stored either in a wooden apple basket or a battered Del Monte cannery cardboard box.
A wooden sewing spool, dangling on a string from the naked light bulb above the stove, helped for her find and turn on the light in darkness. She just waved her arm around in the dark in that general area until she bumped the spool. She then had to catch the swaying spool in the dark so she could pull the string.
She had been living in this little cottage since 1918 and the kitchen portion of the house was added as a lean-to structure. My eyes passed over the room as I listened to her read those many poems. I noted the crack where the sloping kitchen ceiling joined the original old house. It was obvious this marriage of buildings was in the process of a nasty divorce. Eliza blocked the cool drafts coming from this fissure by stuffing the cracks with rolled-up copies of the Christian Science Monitor newspaper.
Her lace curtains were strung onto a javelin used when her daughter was in high school and that daughter was nearing 70 years old. A large loose piece of linoleum covered but one-half of the kitchen floor and the edge had a nasty bulge in the main traffic area. An oval throw rug covered this tripping hazard.
I studied this room many times as I listened to her read poems and I wanted to capture it on a canvas. When I asked her permission, she seemed pleased at the idea and so was I. It was February and too cool to paint outdoors. I could be productive indoors and she knew she had a built-in listener as she read her poems, a listener who wouldn't be reaching for the car keys too soon. Poets need listeners like painters need viewers.
It took several visits, and at least a hundred poems, but I painted a picture of each end of her kitchen as she murmured and explained her many verses.
As I sat and listened to her poetry, I looked about her tidy kitchen . My eye traced the outline of the little iron Bridge Beach stove that had no upper storage areas. All four legs rested on bricks to add height to such a short stove. A five-foot chimney flue was bent into a hole in the wall and a box of wooden matches hung behind the stove next to the dish towel rack. Fuel was stored either in a wooden apple basket or a battered Del Monte cannery cardboard box.
A wooden sewing spool, dangling on a string from the naked light bulb above the stove, helped for her find and turn on the light in darkness. She just waved her arm around in the dark in that general area until she bumped the spool. She then had to catch the swaying spool in the dark so she could pull the string.
She had been living in this little cottage since 1918 and the kitchen portion of the house was added as a lean-to structure. My eyes passed over the room as I listened to her read those many poems. I noted the crack where the sloping kitchen ceiling joined the original old house. It was obvious this marriage of buildings was in the process of a nasty divorce. Eliza blocked the cool drafts coming from this fissure by stuffing the cracks with rolled-up copies of the Christian Science Monitor newspaper.
Her lace curtains were strung onto a javelin used when her daughter was in high school and that daughter was nearing 70 years old. A large loose piece of linoleum covered but one-half of the kitchen floor and the edge had a nasty bulge in the main traffic area. An oval throw rug covered this tripping hazard.
I studied this room many times as I listened to her read poems and I wanted to capture it on a canvas. When I asked her permission, she seemed pleased at the idea and so was I. It was February and too cool to paint outdoors. I could be productive indoors and she knew she had a built-in listener as she read her poems, a listener who wouldn't be reaching for the car keys too soon. Poets need listeners like painters need viewers.
It took several visits, and at least a hundred poems, but I painted a picture of each end of her kitchen as she murmured and explained her many verses.
Eliza's Cellar Door
Eliza had impaled a group of chipped enameled metal milk jugs on the claw-like branches of a dead bush. I was working on a painting of this intriguing setup when she called from her basement. She wanted to show me how she made soap. The yard was sloped so this room was at ground level in the area beneath her kitchen.
I dropped my brush in paint thinner and went into the cellar, careful not to trip on that long redwood stick used to prop up the kitchen window sill. Who knows, the whole house might have been held up by that single prop and I certainly didn't want to be the one that toppled things. The basement door was a future painting all by itself. Eliza didn't have a regular door there, but instead there was a width of green and yellow striped awning canvas nailed over the doorway. What had once been a bottom hem was a tattered fray of fabric and what wasn't rotted had been scratched away by the many wild cats that people dumped in that area. A vine had grown through the broken pane of a small window and draped itself along the inner wall.
This little room was quite orderly. She had an electric round agitator washing machine, very probably a replacement for the old relic washing machine with the corrugated copper exterior that was holding flower pots out in the garden.
Eliza was a careful soap maker, as one should be when dealing with lye. She held a dishtowel to her nose as she stirred the fat and lye together. She also added a little bleach. I had seen my Mom make soap many times so the process wasn't new to me. Mom poured the thickened soap liquid into a big cardboard box and would later cut the soap into squares, like fudge. Eliza poured her mixed soap into waxed quart-sized cardboard milk containers. When the soap hardened after a couple days, she slid the soap block from the milk container, etched the date into the waxy surface with a nail and wrapped each soap block with wax paper. The finished soap was stacked on a shelf, like bricks, for further curing.
A short flight of wooden steps led up to a ceiling trapdoor. This permitted access to and from the kitchen area. One day she came down those steps to find a strange man in her basement noisily whistling and going through some of her storage boxes. When she asked him just what he thought he was doing, he was startled and embarrassed. He apologized and said he thought that no one lived in the house and that it had been abandoned. She was plenty offended by this fellow's invasion of her space. To a person walking by on that narrow road, the house did look derelict, but the man was wrong to enter the shabby property.
I still make soap using Eliza's recipe but I pour mine in shoe boxes before cutting. I use it for special cleaning jobs. My Mother would be aghast if she saw me go down and actually BUY lard for this purpose instead of saving fat from cooking. Today's low-fat, diets produce very little left-over fat for soap making.
I dropped my brush in paint thinner and went into the cellar, careful not to trip on that long redwood stick used to prop up the kitchen window sill. Who knows, the whole house might have been held up by that single prop and I certainly didn't want to be the one that toppled things. The basement door was a future painting all by itself. Eliza didn't have a regular door there, but instead there was a width of green and yellow striped awning canvas nailed over the doorway. What had once been a bottom hem was a tattered fray of fabric and what wasn't rotted had been scratched away by the many wild cats that people dumped in that area. A vine had grown through the broken pane of a small window and draped itself along the inner wall.
This little room was quite orderly. She had an electric round agitator washing machine, very probably a replacement for the old relic washing machine with the corrugated copper exterior that was holding flower pots out in the garden.
Eliza was a careful soap maker, as one should be when dealing with lye. She held a dishtowel to her nose as she stirred the fat and lye together. She also added a little bleach. I had seen my Mom make soap many times so the process wasn't new to me. Mom poured the thickened soap liquid into a big cardboard box and would later cut the soap into squares, like fudge. Eliza poured her mixed soap into waxed quart-sized cardboard milk containers. When the soap hardened after a couple days, she slid the soap block from the milk container, etched the date into the waxy surface with a nail and wrapped each soap block with wax paper. The finished soap was stacked on a shelf, like bricks, for further curing.
A short flight of wooden steps led up to a ceiling trapdoor. This permitted access to and from the kitchen area. One day she came down those steps to find a strange man in her basement noisily whistling and going through some of her storage boxes. When she asked him just what he thought he was doing, he was startled and embarrassed. He apologized and said he thought that no one lived in the house and that it had been abandoned. She was plenty offended by this fellow's invasion of her space. To a person walking by on that narrow road, the house did look derelict, but the man was wrong to enter the shabby property.
I still make soap using Eliza's recipe but I pour mine in shoe boxes before cutting. I use it for special cleaning jobs. My Mother would be aghast if she saw me go down and actually BUY lard for this purpose instead of saving fat from cooking. Today's low-fat, diets produce very little left-over fat for soap making.
Eliza
Eliza's Quince
The little lean-to room built onto Eliza's kitchen was a room of infinite variety. I spent an afternoon there when I painted this picture. She had arranged quince in a battered milk strainer. They were placed in a sunny window on a tall oak bureau that was shoved between the window and a crude shower. The sun-warmed quince filled the room with a pleasant ripe apple fragrance, which is what I think she had in mind when she set them in the sunshine.
The flowered wall under the window appears to be wallpaper, but it was not. Eliza had salvaged some very old-fashioned, traditional Christmas wrapping paper that had tiny red poinsettia and green holly print. It was tacked to the wall to hide the painted, exposed 2 x 4's and painted boards. When Christmas came, Eliza didn't buy a tree. She went to a redwood tree in her yard and cut a big bouquet of branches that she stuck into a bucket of damp sand. She also collected redwood branches to run her iron over when she was ironing and the iron was sticky.
There was a long-legged electric range from the 1930's at one end of the room. She cooked there when the weather was too hot to burn wood in the iron kitchen range. It was a replacement for lhe rusty kerosene stove that sat as an ornament in her backyard.
A trapdoor to the basement was cut into the floor. It was lifted and hooked to the wall when she went down the rustic wooden stairs to the basement. Her chemical toilet was also in this room. Eliza may not have been wealthy but her surroundings were always clean and orderly.
The flowered wall under the window appears to be wallpaper, but it was not. Eliza had salvaged some very old-fashioned, traditional Christmas wrapping paper that had tiny red poinsettia and green holly print. It was tacked to the wall to hide the painted, exposed 2 x 4's and painted boards. When Christmas came, Eliza didn't buy a tree. She went to a redwood tree in her yard and cut a big bouquet of branches that she stuck into a bucket of damp sand. She also collected redwood branches to run her iron over when she was ironing and the iron was sticky.
There was a long-legged electric range from the 1930's at one end of the room. She cooked there when the weather was too hot to burn wood in the iron kitchen range. It was a replacement for lhe rusty kerosene stove that sat as an ornament in her backyard.
A trapdoor to the basement was cut into the floor. It was lifted and hooked to the wall when she went down the rustic wooden stairs to the basement. Her chemical toilet was also in this room. Eliza may not have been wealthy but her surroundings were always clean and orderly.
Kerosene Stove
Eliza's old kerosene stove had been used for cooking on very hot days when she didn't want to burn wood in the iron kitchen range.This kept her little house a bit cooler. The kerosene stove was eventually replaced with a 1930's electric stove that sat on tall enameled iron legs and had an oven that rose two feet above the cooking surface.
She carefully lined up the retired stove in the yard along the garage wall where it became part of a larger arrangement of boards, rusted tools and rollerskates. The orignal glass container for the kerosene, the burner chimneys and the cooking burners were still in place. She placed wooden boards on top of the burners and used this flat surface as a display area for pots and other things. One time she assembled an orderly line of abalone shells against the sparkling white enameled back.
Her garden was filled with artful combinations of little items that most people discard. An old teakettle rested alongside of a few stones on a weathered plank which was carefully balanced on a sawed-off tree trunk. An old galvanized, round washtub became a planter for a snow-white hydrangea.
She carefully lined up the retired stove in the yard along the garage wall where it became part of a larger arrangement of boards, rusted tools and rollerskates. The orignal glass container for the kerosene, the burner chimneys and the cooking burners were still in place. She placed wooden boards on top of the burners and used this flat surface as a display area for pots and other things. One time she assembled an orderly line of abalone shells against the sparkling white enameled back.
Her garden was filled with artful combinations of little items that most people discard. An old teakettle rested alongside of a few stones on a weathered plank which was carefully balanced on a sawed-off tree trunk. An old galvanized, round washtub became a planter for a snow-white hydrangea.
Eliza'a Rusty Lantern
Eliza had two of these rusty kerosene lanterns hanging on her weathered house. They were each a different style but I guarantee they were both rusty. Rust does not discriminate.
Eliza's Stove 2
Eliza's Victrola
The little one-room cabin in Eliza's backyard looked comfy when we went in to look at her Victrola wind-up phonograph in a tall cabinet. The records were almost twice the thickness of ordinary 78 rpm records and the center hole was much larger. She was proud of her collection of operatic records, and cranked up the machine to play one featuring Jussi Bjoerling a famous Swedish tenor, who was born in 1911. In but one fast glance at that cabin interior I knew I wanted to paint a picture of this wonderful collection of stuff.
At one time Eliza and her daughter did domestic work and assisted at parties for some of the wealthy village families. They were occasionally the recipients of some of their employer's cast-offs. This was probably the source of the black top hat hanging on a wall nail. There were batons tucked up behind rafters and small pictures dangling crazily from them. Large hamper baskets, filled with carefully folded fabric items, were shoved under the bed. A large, gold-fringed, 48-star flag was carefully rolled onto its pole and leaned against the phonograph. Several straw hats hung on nails. Also dangling from a nail was a 3" x 8" black and yellow metal sign, similar to a miniature auto license plate, promoting the campaign for womens suffrage. A box containing a large roll of green and white awning canvas was shoved under the bed.
There was not a picture inside her home as nice as the photograph of a nicely dressed gentleman framed in a twenty-inch oval gold frame hanging over the cabin bed. Its convex glass was typical of the 1910-1920 era. It was surprising to see such a fine picture out in this cabin. I commented on the handsome fellow and asked who he was. "That," she replied in a meaningful, measured tone, "is Mr. Silva (her husband);, and THAT is why he is out here." Mr. Silva departed the family home when some of the children were still young, and she never forgave him. His photo was doomed to forever hang out in the cabin where she wouldn't have to look at it.
With her permission, I began a painting of the cabin interior. I propped open the tattered screen door with my rear end, stood in the cabin doorway and worked on my canvas. A bleached skull with the coiled horns of a mountain sheep dangled over the low doorway close to my head. It was exciting to have such unusual subject matter and I soon became absorbed in my work..
While I painted, Eliza puttered about her yard, raking a bit here and there. After a while I saw her dragging a bulging old bedspread down the path. She had used it like a tarp, piling brush, twigs and trimmings in the center. She grasped the four corners with one hand, her cane with the other and wrestled this huge bundle across the yard. I felt guilty, quickly put down my brush and went over and tried to take the bedspread from her grasp. She waved me off with her cane and sputtered, "When I want your help, I'll ask for it." She was also fond of saying, "Anytime you let someone do something for you, you are giving up a bit of your independence." This old lady hadn't given up much independence.
At one time Eliza and her daughter did domestic work and assisted at parties for some of the wealthy village families. They were occasionally the recipients of some of their employer's cast-offs. This was probably the source of the black top hat hanging on a wall nail. There were batons tucked up behind rafters and small pictures dangling crazily from them. Large hamper baskets, filled with carefully folded fabric items, were shoved under the bed. A large, gold-fringed, 48-star flag was carefully rolled onto its pole and leaned against the phonograph. Several straw hats hung on nails. Also dangling from a nail was a 3" x 8" black and yellow metal sign, similar to a miniature auto license plate, promoting the campaign for womens suffrage. A box containing a large roll of green and white awning canvas was shoved under the bed.
There was not a picture inside her home as nice as the photograph of a nicely dressed gentleman framed in a twenty-inch oval gold frame hanging over the cabin bed. Its convex glass was typical of the 1910-1920 era. It was surprising to see such a fine picture out in this cabin. I commented on the handsome fellow and asked who he was. "That," she replied in a meaningful, measured tone, "is Mr. Silva (her husband);, and THAT is why he is out here." Mr. Silva departed the family home when some of the children were still young, and she never forgave him. His photo was doomed to forever hang out in the cabin where she wouldn't have to look at it.
With her permission, I began a painting of the cabin interior. I propped open the tattered screen door with my rear end, stood in the cabin doorway and worked on my canvas. A bleached skull with the coiled horns of a mountain sheep dangled over the low doorway close to my head. It was exciting to have such unusual subject matter and I soon became absorbed in my work..
While I painted, Eliza puttered about her yard, raking a bit here and there. After a while I saw her dragging a bulging old bedspread down the path. She had used it like a tarp, piling brush, twigs and trimmings in the center. She grasped the four corners with one hand, her cane with the other and wrestled this huge bundle across the yard. I felt guilty, quickly put down my brush and went over and tried to take the bedspread from her grasp. She waved me off with her cane and sputtered, "When I want your help, I'll ask for it." She was also fond of saying, "Anytime you let someone do something for you, you are giving up a bit of your independence." This old lady hadn't given up much independence.
Eliza's Kitchen Window
Raggedy Ann Doll in Red Chair
Eliza kept this little red chair by the piano.The red paint glistened as it caught the morning sun. A six-inch hole had been carefully sawed through the very middle of the thick wooden seat and its rough cut edges were beveled and well-sanded so the seat was splinter-free. It had been used as a home-made potty chair for one of Eliza's children. She placed dolls and teddy bears on a little pillow that covered the hole. Baling wire criss-crossed below the seat and strengthened the leg framework. Sold
Eliza's Kitchen 2
Old Boots
Most people would have discarded this old pair of mens work boots. Eliza must have kept them for a sentimental reason that she kept to herself. These boots had already had one or two lifetimes of wear. One shoe was split down the back seam and the other had heavy white cotton wrapping string for the lacing. It seemed only fitting that these boots with a crack down the back should meet her chair with the cracked seat for a little painting session. It all looked like a painting to me so I went to work.
Eliza's Kitchen 3
Eliza's Front Porch
Eliza's Kitchen 4