Letter from Richmond

As you may or may not know, HTG works in the agricultural sector of our country's economic engine. (How appropriate for a history lover to work with what is TRULY the world's oldest profession, right?)

As part of my duties, I recently found myself in Richmond, Virginia, stopping there for an excuse to drink Virginia's finest fermented grapes an agribusiness meeting and reception.

And by agribusinesses, I mean that we were celebrating all of the wineries big and small farms that make up the largest part of Virginia's economy and workforce. Seriously, whether you like wine or not, it's pretty likely that you like to eat. And Virginia's farmers have an economic impact of over $55billion, providing over 357.000 jobs within the Commonwealth.

Some of those jobs belong to friendly sommeliers.
Virginia has lots of agriculture, and lots of history. It has lots of history that involves agriculture. Thomas Jefferson--statesman, politician, architect--was most proud of his agricultural pursuits ("I am become the most industrious and ardent farmer" he wrote to Madame de Tesse.) If you've visited Monticello, you know that he spent more time on his garden than he did on his finances.

Anyway, thinking of TJ and all his fellow patriots, I made an impassioned "Give me Chardonnay or give me death!" speech right before the reception ended (Patrick Henry? A Virginian, of course).

If you prefer wine to death as well, you can learn more about local wineries at http://www.virginiawines.org/.

Although I didn't get to visit any vineyards on my trip, I did see this very cool sunset out of my hotel window. (Special kudos go to the housekeeping staff at the Convention Center Marriott for the exceptionally clean windows that allowed me to get this shot. See 'em at http://bit.ly/4J5nJ)

It's a modern Marriott, fairly standard with the nice smelling soap perched on a washrag next to the bathub. At least I thought it was modern, until I noticed this little throwback in the 10th floor hallway:

Was it a direct line to the historic society in town? A closed circuit phone that rings in Monticello when you pick it up? It was an internal phone only (although with no visible list of available extensions, I 'm not sure who exactly I was going to call on it). But I thought it was cute, a little pinch of history in a pretty historic state.

I hope to be back in Virignia soon. And I hope to stay a little bit longer than one night.

After all, it's only about three hours to the south of the HTG Homestead. I don't mind making that drive, assuming that there will be a nice glass of grape juice plus waiting for me on my arrival.

Here Kitty, Kitty: Cat Got Your...Foot?

There's a new survey out about cats and dogs and the people who like them (or don't like them). You can read all about it at http://bit.ly/6nJi3l, but here's the gist: 74% of people like dogs a lot, while just under half of the people feel the same way about cats.

As if cat people would fill out some stupid survey.

I like both of them...although I prefer them to be outside, where God intended all animals to be. I grew up on a farm, after all, with more animals than you can imagine (that includes one or two of the hired men, but that is an entirely different story).

But even with that tough-girl-farming background I had an ick moment at the Villa Zorayda in St. Augustine recently (http://www.villazorayda.com/), as I found myself alone in a room with their famous "Sacred Cat Rug" (well, I was mostly alone...but we'll get to that later).

The Sacred Cat Rug is 2400 years old. That's not a typo. And that's old, even for someone who looks for old things and places as a matter of course.

You know if you're looking at something man-made that old, you're probably talking ancient Egypt. Yup. According to the Villa Zorayda's literature, the rug was "taken from a pyramid in Egypt." I'm assuming that means "stolen by the light of a gas lamp by some guy in a pith hat".

Like most items stolen from pyramids, this one has a curse. The Zorayda doesn't say what the curse promises will happen, but it only applies to people who walk on the rug. And since the rug is now hanging on a wall in the Villa, behind protective plexiglass, it doesn't seem too likely that will happen, so I guess it doesn't matter what horrible fortunes the curse portends (if you don't know what portends means, insert the word "pretends").

Here's the ick part: not only does the rug have a bold and graphic cat motif, but it's made of cat hair, too.

Those little minxes just give and give and give, don't they?

Whoever "took" the rug from the pyramid, "took" a little something else too: a mummy (presumably 2400 years old as well). While they took the whole thing (wrapped up in the rug), they only kept the foot of the mummy. It wasn't any ancient fetish, but rather because the foot was somehow embedded with gems--a big ruby in one of the toes, and another milky looking rock in the ankle. I'm not sure how the gems were embedded...and honestly, I don't want to know. What happened in ancient Egypt stays in ancient Egypt, I say, especially if it has to do with embalming and pulling someone's brain out through their nose (that's everything I remember about mummies from school).

Anyway. The foot was in the room, too.

I'm not sure that the foot is cursed, but I know that I cursed when I saw it.

Loving the Craziness: Villa Zorayda

When people used to ask me what my house looked like on the inside, I used to say "early crazy." Because the people we bought the house from were a little...eccentric.

A few details: our living room had one paneled wall, one stucco'd wall, and fake beams on the ceiling. There was white Z-brick in the dining room. If you're not familiar with Z-brick, it's the "easy to install, brick veneer system for the amateur decorator" (http://bit.ly/7GgPQO).

If you are familiar with it, you know it's short for craZY-brick.

Anyway, I've seen some crazy crap in houses. But nothing in suburban Baltimore prepared me for the Town Hall of Crazytown in St. Augustine this past weekend. Villa Zorayda (http://www.villazorayda.com/).

I've been to villas before: the Morning Star Villa in Cape May (www.vrbo.com/52705), Villa de la Roca in Zihautenajo (http://www.villadelaroca.com/). I think there's a difference between the ones that are a villa (said like "bridezilla") or a villa (rhymes with "be-a", as in the southern "be-a de-ah and pass the be-er"). Based on my limited experience, the difference seems to be about two grand a week and a trip through customs.

Villa Zorayda in St. Augustine is a villa; rhyme it with gorilla. It looks like a gorilla may have decorated it. With a box of crayons.

The villa was built as a winter getaway in 1883 by Frank Smith. It's a sturdy structure, to be sure. Frank figured out a way to combine crushed coquina shell (it's the heavy, non-porous rocks found on the east coast of Florida) and poured concrete to create a fortress of a house. (His frenemy Henry Flagler used the same method when he built the Ponce de Leon hotel across the street).

Frank modeled the building after the Alhambra Palace in Granada, Spain. And by model, I mean like scale model, because the whole place is built to 1/10th the scale of the original. 

St. Augustine has a lot of Moorish/Spanish influences. Frank helped start that design bent. In addition to the Villa Zorayda, Frank built the Casa Monica (now a great hotel run by the Kessler Group, http://www.casamonica.com/), which is just up the street. It's a whole little Spanish enclave in that area, with the Ponce and the Lightner Museum (http://www.lightnermuseum.org/..

Let's get back to the craziness of the Villa Zorayda itself. The outside of the building hints at it with its red and yellow accents dotting the cement facade of the building. But it's the inside that is really nuts--a confetti of primary colors on every possible surface. And stuff--there is stuff everywhere, from china sets to statues, to pierced metal lamps to paintings. Vases, and screens, and Victorian furniture. With all the colors, and all the stuff, it's hard to take it all in.

Here's a photo that you can study to see some of the treasures.

As I look at it, I realize the one thing that it needs. A nice wall of stylish white Z-brick.

New Year, Old Tricks

Earlier this week, I shared with you my love for all things Belsnickel.

For the record, the lonely travelers I was talking about were rural Belsnickels. They terrorized children that lived down long lanes, in drafty old farmhouses. Children who had to milk cows and help can beans. Children who spent most of the winter carrying water to thirsty animals. Children who were probably too tired to get in much trouble anyway.

Urban Belsnickels, on the other hand, traveled in packs, gathering under street lamps to dance, sing or ask for donations (it really is uncanny how all of these Belsnickel guys sound just like my Uncle Dave). They could be quite destructive, blocking streets with "old barrels, hogheads, grocery boxes, wheelbarrels, harrows, plows, wagon and cart wheels" (from the Pottstown LaFayette Aurora in 1826). If I came to an intersection, and found that it was blocked by huge piles of hogheads, I think I'd find an alternate route. Fast.

As time went on, many of these hooligans wore masks and performed short skits. The revelry delighted some and annoyed others, with the editor of the Pottstown Ledger writing on December 26, 1873, that "This bellsnickle business, which is becoming more of a rough and rowdy of the Christmas season each year, might as well be omitted altogether."

The dancing around with the masks was called...*wait for it*...*here it comes*....MUMMING!!!

Sound phamiliar, phellow Philadelphians?

While it was omitted altogether from Christmas, mumming found a place on New Year's Day in the Philadelphia Mummer's Day parade. Where it delights some and annoys others to this day.

How are you spending new year's day? Any resolutions that are fit for public comment?

I'm headed off to find some pork and sauerkraut, like any good Pennsylvania Dutch girl (I might cover my bases, since I'm spending the day in the south, and throw in some collards and black-eyed peas...because I can use all the luck I can get!)

Happy New Year!!!!

Glories of Christmases Long, Long Ago

Christmas itself is a time capsule, with a crumpled old green bow on it.

Like...the ornament I bought from Charleston in 2002, the first time I had shrimp and grits (as opposed to the ornament I bought in 2005, which was the first time I liked shrimp and grits). The Christmas plates and canisters that my mother-in-law gave me one year, without any hints or suggestions (see, Mom, I told you I liked them!). The wreath I made with my friend Mary Jane, who could wrestle pine cones onto a wire form like no one's business.

It's why it's the most wonderful time of the year (assuming you like Charleston, Christmas plates, and my friend Mary Jane).

But I'm not interested in talking about recent history here. I'm talking about Christmases *long*, *long* ago. Like the song. Like this blog--historic.

In Pennsylvania, during the 18th and 19th century, Santa was not exactly a fat jolly giggling man but a frightening, evil, masochistic man (or woman) who was looking for free liquor and an excuse to hit young children. I know, I know...it sounds like your Uncle Dave after his football team loses. But hang with me here.

In the wild and unchartered pre-Santa Claus days (Thomas Nast didn't do his first Santa cartoons until 1863; see them at http://www.sonofthesouth.net/Original_Santa_Claus.htm), a mischievous and occassionally belligerent Christmas elf made his rounds of rural children. Dressed in patched and baggy clothes, often the clothes of the opposite gender (not that there's anything wrong with that), the Pennsylvania Dutch Belsnickel rewarded good children with fruit and cakes, while the bad children were punished with whips from the Belsnickel's lash.

As a "gut Dutchie" from Pennsylvania, I grew up with stories of the Belsnickel. Or Bellschniggle. Or Belsh Nichel. We Dutchies aren't much for spelling. Apparently, all of the names stem from the German "Peltz Nicel," meaning "Nicholas in furs," which referred to the bearskin coat or skunk-skin cap that often accessorized the Belsnickel's disguise. When he didn't wear a cap, he wore a tall pointy hood, probably to keep him warm in the Pennsylvania winter.

The December 26, 1826 issue of the Pottstown LaFayette Aurora described the Belsnickel as "a mischievous hobgoblin that makes his presence known to the people once a year by his cunning tricks of fairyism. Christmas is the time for his sporting revelry, and he then gives full scope to his permitted privileges in every sharpe that his roving image can suggest."

Again, a little bit like Uncle Dave.

I have loved Belsnickels since I was a little girl. Maybe because I was a good student, and I would have killed to see the bad kids hit with a stick while I feasted on nuts and oranges. Maybe because I've always wanted a fur hat of my own, or at least a fur muff that I could wear when I went skating like a scene from Currier &Ives. (Full disclosure: I can't ice skate. I just like the costumes).

Boyertown, Pennsylvania has a craft show each November called "The Belsnickel Craft Show." Oddly enough, there are very few Belsnickels there. (Check out the attached link: http://www.visitpa.com/things-to-do/event-calendar/event-details/index.aspx?id=21307024 . For the record, that's an honest-to-goodness, full-blown Thomas Nast Santa Claus there on the right. Not a Belsnickel at all. Someone should really tell the show promoters).

But once, years and years ago, I managed to find a humorless chalkware Belsnickel amongst the crocheted pot holders and funny looking wooden things. I bought him and brought him home, where he could glare at me from a side table.

He looked lonely there, so I bought a couple more, finding them at Christmas stores, in catalogs, at yard sales. I amassed my own little army of angry, arm-folded villains.

This is only about a quarter of my collection. It grows a little each year, and moves around the house: some on the side table, some on a dresser. Some I hide in the bathroom to scare my husband when he steps out of the shower.

There are Belsnickels made of papier mache. Belsnickels made of chalkware, poured in old chocolate molds. Some are--don't tell--some kind of resin concoction. I have two cast iron ones, too...the scariest thing about them is the damage that they do when they fall off a dresser and on to my toes (which is why they're typically the ones that I hide in the bathroom).

They're my favorite part of the time capsule that is Christmas. They remind me of my childhood, and of my family's origins in Germany, and of my many happy years as a credit-card-carrying member of the "Ladies for Economic Recovery" club. They remind me that you can travel across time as easily as you can travel to grandmother's house.

Sometimes more easily; especially when the road to grandmother's house is covered with 20" of snow.

Merry Christmas! From my time to yours!!

PS--The Belsnickels featured above are rural Belsnickels. Meet their urban hip-hop brethren in my next blog, New Year, Old Tricks.

The Root of the Problem...

Many people have asked me just how I've gotten this way. And I don't just mean psychiatrists, either. Normal, concerned individuals have asked: Why do you love historic destinations so much? Do the old portraits make you feel pretty by comparison? Do you think mustiness is a treasured perfume? Are you just against hotel chains on principle?

The answers, of course, are yes, no, and yes. But there is a deeper reason.

I love old buildings, old portraits, and old furniture because of this:

Yes, that's the childhood home. It's been in our family since the 1700's, when my great great great great great grandfather bought it from Thomas Penn. Apparently young Thomas inherited his Pop's stake in Penn's Woods (along with his brothers) when William passed in 1720.

My brother owns the house now, and--to assert that it was his house and not Dad's anymore--he just removed the plaster and re-pointed the house in June. When I was a kid, the house was white plaster with black shutters. I was afraid that the hidden stone would be ugly (Why would someone have covered it with plaster? I asked my brother more than once as he planned the project). I was wrong, obviously. The stone is beautiful.

The inside is even better: the house boasts

• drawers built into the front windowsills (so the lady of the house could pay the help without actually having to stand on the porch with those lowly ne'er do wells)
• hand graining (if you look closely at the wood grain in some rooms you can find rabbits and ducks and other little critters), and
• a fireplace built with a stone from every county in Pennsylvania (my great great grandfather got around quite a bit while his wife was in Europe. Ahem).

My room was in the "back" of the house, facing the driveway and the old barn. I wallpapered it myself around 1979, and I rearranged the furniture as often as I used to apply pimple cream.

And that's why I am the way that I am.

Please tip your docent on the way out.

Smile and Say "Trees"

At the risk of going all stand-up comedian on you, I have to ask: What is the deal with tree lightings?

I mean, HTG is all about spiked hot chocolate. And I love a cute cashmere scarf as much as the next girl (assuming that the next girl is one who really really likes cashmere scarves).

But standing in the cold for an hour, waiting for a tree to go from a dark silhouette to a dark silhouette with little lights on it?

Frankly, I've found you can get the same effect by standing in front of said tree with your eyes closed for about 30 seconds, and then opening them.

Ooooh. Aaaaah. *applause and laughter and squeals of delight*.

Now where's that hot chocolate?

Having said that, I did go to the annual tree lighting at the Physick Estate in Cape May, NJ. I did it not for the spiked HC, but for the free house tour that they offered as part of the festivities. (Full disclosure: I was in the house's dining room when the docent cried that the tree lighting was in 2 minutes. I looked at her with pity and said "I'm exactly where I want to be." She laughed and said "You couldn't get me to stand outside in that cold for nothing." Which I thought wasn't very Victorian, as well as not being very good grammar).

Cape May does trees exceptionally well. Many of the bed and breakfast owners put decorated trees on their porches, so that you can enjoy them without craning your neck to peek in the lace curtains at night. Which HTG has done. And she has been caught doing it.

And she has not been offered spiked hot chocolate afterwards.

But, for those of you who like the tree lightings, here is a before:

and an after:

Hand me the butterscotch schnapps.