Gabby's Bunny Tails December 18, 2009   Who doesn’t remember Paper Chains and Tin Foil Stars?  Life at the vicarage during the Christmas season was all about giving. We baked and gave. We crafted and gave. We took in old clothes. We washed them, we mended them, and then we gave them to others less fortunate. I remember, gentle readers, one year when we decided to decorate the tree, pioneer style. Up in the attic the bright and shiny ornaments were to stay. We would decorate the beautiful fir with the work of our own hands (I must note we were allowed the use of modern glue and an old stapler). Vicar Teacake brought home left over  bulletins in a rainbow of colors. Mother, diligent housekeeper that she was, brought out a ball of tin foil, saved and cleaned. Mother also produced a ponderous bowl of popcorn, and a large ball of string (once used to wrap packages for the post) with two huge needles for stringing. We searched the Harrington Woods for holly and berries. Father set up a work shop and had a secret project (started in the spring). We were on our honor not to peek through the window of his workshop. I was allowed to invite Miss Sweetpea Pittypat and the Brown Sisters for the decorating party. I was so happy my best forever friends were in on the happy affair. Miss Violet Teacake and H. Harriet helped mother with the refreshments. They made lovely sugar cookies in the shapes of bells and stars. The cookies were decorated with butter cream icing in lovely pastel hues. Mugs of hot chocolate filled out our little menu. You could choose marshmallows or peppermint stick stirrers, or both if you dared! H. Harriet, in true librarian fashion, set-up our work table. It was divided into stations. A station for paper chains, a station for popcorn strings, a station for holly and berry ornaments, and last but not least, a big cardboard star lay on the end of the table ready to be covered with tin foil. Miss Sweet Pea chose popcorn strings, I chose paper chains, and the Brown Sisters chose to make holly and berry ornaments. We all agreed the star would be a group effort. Soon, we had strings and ornaments enough for the whole eight foot tree. With father’s help we soon had the tree festooned in a sea of paper chains, popcorn strings, and delicately placed holly and berry tussie mussies. We stopped to ooh and ahhh. It was gorgeous, and our young hearts were filled with pride at a job well done. We took a break from our labor. The cookies and hot chocolate were like a little taste of heaven. We nibbled and looked at the tree. We sipped and stirred and gazed at the tree. Soon, well fortified with our treats, we decided to tackle the star. It was a good 12 inches from point to point. We pasted foil on every square inch and made sure all the edges were covered too. We wanted to hurry and put it at the top of the tree. Father forestalled us. “Gabby”, he said, “Take the girls into the kitchen. I have a surprise for you. I will call you when I am ready.” Oh joy, I love surprises. Don’t we all? So, into the kitchen we trooped to wait for the grand unveiling. We heard a sound like chairs moving and other little noises, but we couldn’t figure it out. When we were invited back into the parlor, it was dimly lit. H. Harriet, Mother, and Miss Violet Teacake led us to four chairs placed close to the tree. We sat down barely able to contain our excitement. All at once Vicar Teacake’s voice could be heard from the nether regions of the room. This is what he said:    When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense and myrrh.   Then all the lights were turned up and the star on top of the tree looked like it was ablaze because of the reflection. But, the best surprise was under the tree, right up front. Father had carved a beautiful nativity scene, complete with a swaddled baby Jesus. Now we understood the reason for all our labor. We gave the best we had, out of the supplies at hand. What better way to celebrate the Nativity than to offer Him the work of our hands. That was the best Christmas tree I have seen unto this day. I wanted to share it with you, dear ones. Merry Christmas, Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody     September 27, 2009   My father was quite the storyteller. Although his hands were thick with callouses, and his working clothes were stained with plant juice, my father was quick of wit and full of laughter. The fall season always filled him with joy. He would call on Miss Sweetpea Pittypat and one Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody (me) to help him mulch the plants against the coming freeze. With gloves the size of daddy’s hands, we spread the rich ripe compost first, and then a layer of sweet smelling hay. Father said, “First we feed the plants for next years bloom, then cover them up in yellow blankets.” When all the plants were put to bed for their winter naps, father would gather all the limbs and dried vines for a small bonfire. He would sharpen two small sticks, and bring a tray of mother’s homemade marshmallows out into the yard. Miss Sweetpea and I would pull up our little folding stools close to the fire pit as soon as the fire turned to glowing embers. Father would hand us the sticks with marshmallows at the ready. Then the story would begin: “Now girls, have you ever heard the story of Jack Frost and Autumn Levy? (We had for several years, but we always shook our heads noooooo!!!) If ever there was a couple in love it was Jack Frost and Autumn Levy. Now don’t cry girls, but their families were upset with this pairing because they came from different walks of life. The families did everything in their power to break up the lovely pair. They nagged and cajoled, they brow beat and bothered the pair without mercy. Jack and Autumn knew they were meant for each other, and decided to run away.  The family got wind of the elopement. The Levy family sent Autumn up north to New England. She lived the rest of her days with an old maiden aunt and never married. But she vowed she would reunite with Jack somehow. Jack Frost searched and searched. He looked high and low across the country, his heart growing colder and colder every day. I wonder if it is a coincidence that they passed from this earth on the same day. Jack Frost lifted his eyes toward heaven and said, “I have lost my true love on this earth, but please, let there be a reminder every year that I was faithful and true to my Autumn girl.” And up north in New England, Autumn murmured this prayer, “My faith is strong, but Jack is lost to me on this earth. Somehow let our love be remembered as the beautiful type of worship that it was.” God heard their prayer and now every year there are thousands of beautiful reminders of Jack and Autumn’s love. Every time you see frost on the pumpkin and all the leaves turning their bright fall colors you will remember Jack and Autumn and their undying love. When the trees hold up their glorious heads of yellow and orange and red, and the ground is tinged with delicate white webs of frost, you will know Jack and Autumn have been remembered.  Together at last they color our world, and add beauty not made by human hand.” Dear Reader, I have never looked at Fall the same way. Thank you Father. Love, Gabby Yet he has not left himself without testimony: He has shown kindness by giving you rain from heaven and crops in their seasons; he provides you with plenty of food and fills your hearts with joy." Acts 14:17   August 11, 2009    It never came soon enough, our Peddler’s Tea. Every year I can remember the anticipation, the preparation, and finally, the great occasion itself... The porch was usually a place of security, of shelter. A place one sat for hours, reading on the porch swing. That all changed for the Peddlers Tea. It would come alive with color and vibrancy. The quilts would dance on the railing in the afternoon’s sunny breeze. The tea settings sparkled in the warm sunlight. Miss Violet Teacake and H. Harriett would work for hours choosing just the right gewgaws and tchotchkes to exchange with the peddlers. Miss Sweetpea Pittypat would bake teacakes and cinnamon buns to sell to the parishioners who came to the old vicarage at Harrington Woods. Mum and I would shave ice for lemonade and brew tea for the annual charitable summer event. The peddlers would come with pots and pans, and fabrics and knickknacks. The lawn overflowed with goods and people. The air overflowed with chatter and laughter.  The porch reigned supreme in its royal attire. Even with its regal dressings the porch was still a place of calm and security. You could buy your ticket and have tea on the porch, escaping the cacophony of the front yard. You could view the quilts to be raffled and see if their stitches per inch met your demands. Yes, the porch was queen of the day, holding court over that busy affair. Even at the end of each celebration with the quilts gone to new homes, the peddlers gone to new towns and the parishioners settled back in their own cozy parlors, the porch still reigned supreme. Gone was its spring finery, gone were the glistening tea settings, but in place of all the outer beauty there still remained the inner beauty. Our porch, our shelter, our sanctuary.   The Peddler’s Tea is now long gone, but if you are ever in Harrington Wood’s, stop by  the old vicarage which now houses Cottage Violets, you are welcome to relax and sit on the old porch swing for awhile. Regards, Gabby   February 8, 2009 Valentine’s Week   Duchess Delphinium Hammersley was on the scene. This meant treasure had come to the vicarage. The Duchess (and she is a duchess) was left an early widow, with an estate that barely eked out an existence. For an income to keep her life style up to a certain standard she brought us trunks of china from England and abroad. She had friends in many lands, and what with death taxes and income taxes and estate taxes, many of her friends could be prevailed upon to part with a certain amount of their porcelain stash. The Duchess loves tchotchkes. So, she often brought a separate trunk of bric-a-brac, or linens or anything that struck her fancy. I hovered, truly hovered, when the Duchess was in the vicarage. She was quite formidable, and ever so proper. Servants belonged in their places. Hoity-toit as my mum would say, although she never thought she said this within my hearing distance. (As an after thought I might add, certain circumstances and a certain episode happened in a future meeting, that changed the Duchess’ mind on that subject. Please do not think her unkind, just a product of her time.)  At that time H. Harriet had contacts in New York who paid a handsome price for such beautiful china and  whatnots. The Duchess taught me how to set a table under Miss Violet Teacakes guiding eye. The Duchess was not unkind just rather sharp and may I say it again, PROPER. I learned more about fine china and table settings from the Duchess than any book I have read over the years. I look back on those times with fondness and thanks. I had so much schooling that did not involve school. I see God’s hand in the steering of my life. God used the Duchess to stir up my love of  fine English china. She was also a well traveled, and interesting person. Many’s the time I sat on the staircase beyond her sight listening to her stories of England, Scotland, Ireland, and the Continent. She had a great fondness for Wimbledon, but that is a story for another time. She used a lorgnette, which is a pair of eyeglasses with a handle. Her lorgnette had diamonds on the handle, and was like a piece of jewelry she waved about when she got excited or exasperated. She was waving it about with excitement when I heard the news. “I am taking you, H. Harriet, and your sister, Miss Violet Teacake to New York for a week, said the Duchess with much waving of hands and touching of hair, “we shall come back on Valentine’s Day, so don’t worry about your duties.” I stood there in the doorway with the tea tray in my hands. I was crestfallen. Miss Violet Teacake received the most beautiful Valentine’s Day Cards. I was allowed to open them and arrange them on her morning tray. Now they would set unopened for a whole week, and I really lived for those valentines. Oh misery of miseries, no Valentine Week, no sumptuous cards to open, no Miss Violet Teacake, I was a most unhappy girl.   January 1, 2009 Miss Violet Teacake truly loved the New Year. She would construct a new journal and all occasion book. She would write all the birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays into the pages and fill the book with pressed flowers and pastel pencil drawings to remind her of all the lovely occasions she would be a part of. She took great care with the journal. It held a place of honor on her writing desk. And I remember seeing her smile softly as she penned in scriptures under each person’s day of birth. “Oh may I see my scripture,” I asked as she finished the entry under my birth date. “Certainly, Gabby,” she replied, and held the journal out to my waiting hands. I looked down and read with wonder the verse she saw fit to write for me that year. I suppose I was a little disappointed as I read “Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain who build it…Psalm 127:1” Miss Violet Teacake was my ideal, and my very definite idea of perfection. But, I couldn’t fathom this verse. Miss Violet saw my facial expression (have I told you, gentle reader, I have never learned to school my face against the world, and all is written there as if I had said what I thought out loud). “Gabby,” she said, “remember how your mother always tells you that you are a Saturday’s child and must work for your living. You remember the old nursery rhyme don’t you? Well, you certainly are an industrious child, and a great planner and dreamer of dreams. I just wanted to remind myself on every occasion to help you remember, it is God who truly builds the house. It is great to work hard and make your plans, but it is God who knows us best and has the very best for us. So, just include God in every step, and ask for His best in your life at every turn. You alone, Gabby, are a great force to be reckoned with, but YOU and GOD together can change the world.” I looked back down at the journal and saw the picture she drew underneath the verse. It was a picture of the vicarage shining bright and sort of, well, celestial looking. Later, I went up to my attic palace and knelt down by my “fainting couch”. “God,” I said, “please build my house, and bless my house, in Jesus name, amen.”  Dear reader, Cottage Violet’s in the old Vicarage at Harrington Woods is the result of God building one Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody a house that is better than she could ever have envisioned. Gabby, Miss Violet, H. Harriett, Sweetpea Pittypat, the Brown Sisters and Duchess Delphinium Hammersley all wish you a Blessed and Prosperous New Year.   A Thanksgiving Surprise It was a dark and dreary Thanksgiving week for one Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody, that’s me, Gabby. Mum was under the weather, and I felt uncertainty about the future for the first time in my life. Mum, always hail and hearty, was confined to her room, and needed absolute quiet. To make matters worse, Miss Violet Teacake was off to tour England with her aunt, Dutchess Delphinium Hammersley. Next to mum, Miss Violet Teacake was my staunchest ally and the closest person to perfection I had ever known or imagined. Dad was busy with the gardens and animals, and seldom came to the kitchen, the heart of the vicarage, except to grab a bite to eat or ask about dear mother. Miss Sweetpea Pittypat, my precious cousin and forever friend, was at home preparing for Thanksgiving and taking care of her small brothers and sisters. The Pittypat home was a large and rambling affair, and filled to the rafters with Pittypat’s. Thanksgiving is a busy affair at the Vicarage, with baskets to fill for the needy and clothing to supply to the mission in the city. Miss H. Harriet, that rather large and imposing person, was always in charge of the organization. H. Harriet was the complete opposite of Miss Violet Teacake. Miss Violet was all softness, pinkness, roundness, and grace. H. Harriet was tall, angular, brusque, and quite an authority on Bible matters and books in general. Not to say she wasn’t nice to me in her way, but certainly not the pink of perfection I saw in Miss Violet. Never have two sisters ever been so different as Miss Violet and H. Harriet. H. Harriet called me in to the library, where she was filling baskets and sorting clothes. “Miss Gardenia, (she seldom called me Gabby), would you kindly help me with these baskets and clothes. Your mother’s illness has left me a little short handed and there are so many poor ones in need of help this year. Perhaps we can recite our favorite verses as we work, in the way of a little recreation. Then we will have afternoon tea in the kitchen when the tasks are done.”  So we spent the afternoon reciting and folding, mending and filling. I must admit there was a little bitterness in my soul (for God knows our every thought). Why couldn’t H. Harriet be Miss Violet? Miss Violet always made the tasks light and fun. For H. Harriet’s sake I must admit H. Harriet was not ill tempered or mean, she just didn’t have that childlike quality that Miss Violet possessed. I was happy to have the tasks done that afternoon. I removed my person to my wonderful attic palace, and lay among the cushions with Annabelle. Annabelle is my most favorite doll and confidant. She even knows secrets I don’t share with Miss Sweetpea Pittypat. I told her I wished H. Harriet was Miss Violet, and why couldn’t H. Harriet do anything FUN for once. I prayed that God would send me an angel to keep me company, and fell asleep holding Miss Annabelle in my arms. Sometime during the late afternoon someone carried me to my bed, and I remember the faint smell of roses in the air. The next morning I awoke with a start. Who had brought me to bed? As usual I ran to the window to check on the snowfall. I love snow in all its white fluffiness. As I lifted my curtain and looked down I saw an imprint in the snow. It was the shape of an angel. Careful to be quiet lest I disturb mother, I ran to find H. Harriet to explain to me that form in the snow. She came to my room and pulled back the curtain, “Miss Gardenia, it looks as though the angels have been resting in the garden. How the Lord must love you to send you an angel to rest outside your window.” I was overjoyed. I had my own personal angel who lay in the snow so I could see his presence. Every morning the rest of the week I looked out to make sure my angel had made his appearance. I was not disappointed. Each morning in the fresh pristine snow there was another impression the same exact size. I went about with renewed joy and happiness each day. I noticed H. Harriet was tenderer towards me and I actually enjoyed the tales she spun about the orphans and homeless who would receive the bounty we were sorting and packing. Maybe I should say I was tenderer towards her, because if you happen to have your very own angel you can do anything you are asked to do. I wanted to see the angel in person. The last morning I woke up quite early to see the angel God had sent to keep me company during my lonely week. I tiptoed to the curtain, and peeked out with one eye so as not to disturb the curtain or the angel. And lo, and behold there was H. Harriet lying down in the snow and moving her arms and legs. It was the funniest sight I had ever seen. H. Harriet was my angel. It took me awhile to understand, but then it came to me, H. Harriet had sensed or seen my unhappiness, and with a tenderness I had never known she possessed, she went out of her way to create a wonderful experience for me, Gabby. I have never told her that I found out about her snow angel, and I have told the story many times of the miraculous Thanksgiving that God sent me an angel friend. But I never forgot what H. Harriet did for me that dreary Thanksgiving. And I quite saw a different side of our H. Harriet that week. Someone once said, if you look for the good in people you will find it. H. Harriet taught me that a person is not the sum total of their looks or stature. Happy Thanksgiving, Gabby 11/24/08     October 5, 2008 Vicar Teacake and his daughters, Violet and H. Harriet, had settled nicely into the Vicarage at Harrington Woods. The church was sailing along nicely under his leadership. So, Miss Violet decided it was time to have a young ladies tea to discuss the jumble sale in the church yard come fall. Sweetpea Pittypat and I were enlisted to help with the refreshments and serving. Mother declared, “Twill be a bonny affair, and so long since we have had such excitement in the old Vicarage.” We cleaned, we polished, and we daydreamed too! Miss Violet and mother made scones, muffins, teacakes, and a large quantity of persimmon cookies (my favorite).  Sweetpea and I squeezed lemons until our hands were fairly cramped, but we didn’t mind as soon as we added a fair amount of sugar and water to that sour juice. Father chipped large chunks of ice for us and we soon had the best lemonade we had ever concocted. We sliced the left over lemons for those who preferred lemon in their tea. We heaped the sugar bowls with little square sugar cubes, and poured fresh thick cream into the creamers. We decorated the tables and laid out Miss Violet and H. Harriet’s best china settings. We had six small round tables set up in the room, with four settings at each place. Let’s see, we had Miss Violet’s favorite Hammersley Victorian Violet’s pattern at her table. Then of course, there was Royal Albert American Beauty for H. Harriet. As for me, I preferred the Colclough Ivy Leaf pattern because ivy mixes with all the other patterns. Miss Pittypat took a liking to the Royal Albert Tearose because it was bright and cheery. I chose Hammersley’s Morgan’s Rose for my mother because there is “none so fair as Morgan’s Rose”, unless it is mother. And last bust not least, the last table held Hammersley Clover. Mum said that pattern always reminded her of home. Fresh flowers from father’s greenhouse, and lovely ferns from the forest’s edge crowned the room with sylvan beauty. I couldn’t take my eyes off that room. I had never seen so much beauty in one place. Alas, Sweetpea and I were rushed off to the kitchen where freshly ironed, crisp and starched aprons awaited. With a few last instructions from mother we stood at the ready. Miss Violet answered the door with charm and grace. I studied her ways hoping that one day I might have her assurance and generosity of spirit. Finally, everyone was seated, the pots of tea, and trays of dainty delicacies lay ready on the tables. Sweetpea, mother and I rushed to the kitchen to remove our aprons, and silently returned to take our seat at the tables. I was bursting with pride, and  could scarcely believe that I, Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody was included in such a posh affair. Then Miss Violet Teacake asked us to bow our heads for the saying of grace. I will never forget that prayer, delivered in Miss Violet’s sweet childlike voice.   ” Dear Heavenly Father, we gather together today in fellowship and love. Let every word uttered be one of kindness or faith. Thank you for this bounty, and the hard work that went into its making. Remind us to be thankful everyday in every way for your blessings. In the precious name of your Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”   Precious readers as I sit in the attic (my own workroom)in the same Vicarage all these years later I can still hear that prayer. Miss Violet set the tone for a shining and God blessed occasion . I still remember the tinkling of  spoons stirring tea, the lighthearted chatter of a happy occasion, and all the colors of the rainbow that made the room seem to dance with joy at being chosen to wear those colors. We must hold close the memories of special or sacred times, they are always available to us when we need them most. That prayer was a special testimony of that special time. Regards, Gabby   June 25, 2008 I stood at the window of my little kingdom, (the attic, dear readers) and looked down with amazement at the site below me. A huge hat was walking around in the yard. It covered a good 24 inches of space and seemed to be navigating on it's own. Every once in awhile it stopped and I thought I could see the gold leaf of a bookpage shining in the morning sun. The  large blue hat was wreathed with pink roses, bluebells, white netting, and various green sprouts. Can you imagine my surprise when the hat turned, and the other side sported a jaunty bird, a blue bird I think. I stood there, very still, as if I had just put down roots and could not move away from that spot. It was a wonderful sight, and a little terrifying, too. I had never seen a hat move about on it's own before. I was still transfixed when the hat started to tilt up. Lo and behold, Hyacinth Teacake was under that hat. Under her chin was the biggest bow I had ever seen. I suppose she needed that big bow to keep her hat on her head. There was a book in her hands, a beautiful worn Bible. She would look up toward heaven every now and then, and then start to pacing again. Suddenly, I realized I was intruding on her morning devotions so I left the window to go recline on my royal fainting couch. I pulled my doll close and whispered in her ear, "Annabelle have you ever seen such a sight?" And somehow I knew Annabelle whispered back, "No, Gabby, never, ever, ever". Annabelle is my dearest doll, she almost always agrees with me. And that was my introduction to Miss Hyacinth's (H. Harriet to you and me) wonderful assortment of  crazy and colorful hats.  Kind regards, Gabby   May 23, 2008 The morning sun felt good on my head. There I stood in the violet strewn lane waiting. I was wearing my Sunday best. I looked over at my cousin, Miss Sweetpea Pitty-pat. She was shuffling her feet and fidgeting with her bow. Waiting, we were not good at waiting. Waiting, would they ever get here? Vicar Teacake was coming with his two girls, Miss Violet and Miss Hyacinth. We had cleaned the house with Mother until the house literally shone. The window panes looked transparent in the morning glow. The hedge was trimmed, the lawn mowed, and the barnyard spotless. Ooh, I could see dust rising off the road about 500 yards away around the bend. Here they come. They’re almost here. Here they were… The vicar stepped out first. He was a handsome middle-aged fellow in a navy serge suit. He was very scholarly looking, with a twinkle in his eye that is unusual for a vicar. Well, any vicar I had known in my short life. Now, for the girls. Would they be playmates, friends, and bosom companions? Would they warm up to two country girls in homespun and high topped shoes? Violet came first, a gentle looking lass with a light step. She was dressed in violet, and so shy. She was a sweet homemaker, unless I missed my guess. She peered at me from under her bonnet and said, “Oh, are you Gardenia. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. With a hesitant step toward me, she held out her hands and took mine. “We shall be happy here, I can tell,” and with a turn, called out to her sister, “H. Harriet come and meet Gardenia and Sweetpea.” Sweetpea blushed at hearing her name thus mentioned. H. Harriet was the taller of the two sisters. She was very studious looking and wore a large colorful hat. She stepped out of the conveyance with an air of authority. She shook hands with Miss Sweetpea first, and then me. “Glad to meet you,” she said, and then without any further formality turned to the house and made a beeline to the library. “You will have to excuse H.Harriett ,” said Miss Violet,” She misses our mother overmuch and has turned to books to assuage her heartbreak. Linking her arms with Sweetpea and me, Miss Violet Teacake led us straight to the house, and right to the heart of Harrington Woods Vicarage, my mum’s kitchen. “It smells delightful,” said Miss Violet, “your mother must be a wonderful cook and housekeeper.” And that is how I met Miss Violet and H. Harriett. And, that is how Miss Violet won my heart forever. Because, when you love and appreciate my mother, you have won a special place in my heart. And even better than that, I could tell Miss Violet loved our Lord. She had that special look and carried herself in a way that told me, she was truly a princess and child of the most high God.   April 12, 2008 I remember sitting in the pew at Harrington Chapel. The Vicar, a rather favorite hero of mine, stood tall and straight in the pulpit. A shock of white hair contrasted starkly with his black vestments. I knew he was old, sort of…..But I always thought he would be the Vicar forever. Youth has no concept of age. We were young, they were old. Simple…But now, here he was announcing his departure from Harrington Chapel and the Vicarage itself. I look back and realize I should have seen the signs. That very morning I had gone in to find Mama sitting in her kitchen chair with her apron up over her face. “I was just doin’ a wee bit o’ praying, lass”, says she. The brogue always intensifies during stressful occasions, but my hair bow was not cooperating. Her weepy eyes were nothing compared to the intricacies of my hair bow. My youthful intolerance bid me escape to my father to see if he could fix my problem. I should have known something was amiss. He smiled at me tenderly, but his jaw was clenched and his eyes held a mystery I was too preoccupied to solve. So there I sat, an earnest little soul, wondering what or who could ever replace the only “Grandfather” I had ever known. Hadn’t he given me pig-a-back rides, and let me sit quietly by the fire in the library while he practiced his sermons. Who could compare to the Vicar? I trudged home that day having refused luncheon invitations from the Brown sisters and my cousin Sweetpea Pittypat. My sweet mum greeted me at the kitchen door, noted my gloom, removed her Sunday hat, and said, “Oh lass, yur world will not be comin’ to an end now, and don’t e fret. Weel try to be brave today, but tomorra we hae to get busy. Our new vicar will be arriving Thursday next, and he’s bringin’ his blessed family wid him.” His name is Vicar Teacake and he has two lovely lassies by the names of Miss Violet and Miss Hyacinth. He is a widower so we need to do our best to help the puir anes to fit into Harrington Woods. I sucked in my lower lip and pulled my apron from the peg. If my own mother could be brave in this sorrowful time, who was I to let her down. After all I am Saturday’s child and hard work is in my nature. Next time I will introduce you to two lovely girls named Violet and Hyacinth (Hyacinth is now known as H. Harriet and I would not forget that if I were you). Regards, Gabby   March 15, 2008 Who was your best friend as a child? Was she pretty or smart? Everything you thought you weren’t? Bolder than brass? Meeker than a lamb? Could she run and play? Perhaps she was confined to a chair, and could fly down the lane like lightning with steel sides gleaming in the sun. Everyone has someone who made an impression on them. And I have a cousin, Miss Sweetpea Pitty-Pat. To be honest she was a little scatterbrained and never a star athlete. But, my mom always said, “Oh and she’s having the face of an angel now.” So pretty she is, and pretty is as pretty does, we all know that. She had a knack of seeing my dreams (and creating a few of her own).  So, whenever we retired to the attic for an afternoon’s play, we wiled away the hours being shopkeepers, or royalty, or gardeners or tea room proprietors’ in perfect harmony. When we imagined our tearoom, I was always the waitress and hostess, while she concocted delicate cakes and tested fine English teas from far away places. I guarded the crockery from her and she kept the kitchen safe from my meddling hands. It was a bonny arrangement and provided hours of entertainment on those balmy summer afternoons. Now she lives in the village and does fine sewing and crafts. She can still produce a meal of epicurean proportions, and she happens to run a cottage industry called Miss Pittypat’s Mercantile. So welcome to the Vicarage, Miss Sweetpea Pitty-Pat. We are glad you are here. Cousins forever, friends through eternity. Yours, Gabby   February 23, 2008 Maybe you noticed the new logo on the front page. The Brown Hare Trading Company, now that takes me back to yesteryear. I was about 5, and every week my father and I would take a large basket of eggs to sell at the mercantile. The name of the mercantile? You guessed it, The Brown Hare Trading Company. In those days a lot of bartering was done between the locals. My mother's specialty was eggs. I just know she coaxed those hens into laying eggs. She had the touch. Anyway, I remember the first time I met Mrs. Brown. She was a beautiful lop eared lady with sparkling eyes. She always wore an apron. The first time I ever met her there were two little bunnies about my age peeking out from behind her. Kathy and Pat Brown. We became fast friends that day and have never looked back. We attended school, Sunday School, and all the local functions together. Kathy was gregarious and adventurous, while Pat was more shy and serious. Since their parents owned the mercantile we always got first dibs on the new penny candy, or dress fabric. Mrs. Brown was a lovely seamstress and spent all her spare time sewing darling childrens items. "She had a way wid the needle," my mother would say in her slight Scottish brogue. Sadly, the mercantile is gone, but the Brown Hare Trading Company lives on in the persons of two talented Bunny Ladies named Kathy and Pat. I am proud to welcome their work to Cottage Violets. Miss Violet Teacake and H. Harriet heartily agree with me that they should have a place at Cottage Violets. So look for their work, and I think you will also agree.   February 16, 2008 Do you have a special place? I do. I remember the first time I saw it. I was around 9 and the Vicarage at Harrington Woods was my whole world. It was spring cleaning time, and I was in the kitchen with my mum. “Gardenia,” she said, “take this box to the attic and set it on one of the shelves. Now mind that you don’t dawdle.” I had never been to the attic, and I must admit I was a little afraid of going to the top of the stairs alone. But I had never been deemed important enough to carry a whole box anywhere by myself, much less to my mum’s sacred store room. Anticipation and the importance of such a task won out over the fear. Carefully, I mounted the stairs, wondering what I would find when I finally reached the top. Would I find a weeping lady ghost in Victorian attire, a murky sinister room with bats in the belfry, or would I suffer the letdown of finding a common, dark, damp, musty room. Now, that would shatter my vivid imagination. Carefully I pushed the door open. I remember as if it was yesterday. Before me lay the most wondrous and wonderful space I had ever seen. The floor was a rough wood made smooth by the passing of time and many footsteps. Two large windows lay at either end of the space casting dappled sunlight into even the darkest corners. The ceiling was finished and I couldn’t find one musty damp spot. I put the box on the floor and started to stake my claim on the ponderous area. I partitioned the area into four sections. I called each section by one of my names. The Gardenia Room held the old kitchen table and four chairs, with an old sideboard. I found some old chipped china in the recesses of the sideboard. Ah, enough for my doll and I to hold the formal teas the Gardenia Room would soon be famous for, no doubt. Next, I toured Abigail’s Castle in the western section with its large window. Here I would be Abigail and recline on the old fainting couch, (left there, of course, by some Victorian woman who knew how to swoon). Since Abigail was a Queen, and I had her name, I knew I was entitled to lounge and be waited upon by my doll and teddy bear. I ran back to the sideboard and found a tattered silk dresser scarf to cover my beloved couch. The northern section of the room consisted of shelves against the wall filled with boxes and bags. I named this the Bluebell Emporium. I would wash the old china, and press the old linens. True to my Scottish nature I would soon make a fortune selling the cast off goods of the household. Oh, and I saved the best for last, the east window where the sun rose and spilled warmth and light over the whole room. This section I named Boxwoody’s Gardens. I dragged two backless benches over to the window. Here I would have my greenhouse and cold frame.I would be a world class gardener and create at least two new varieties of roses a year. My father would bust his buttons with pride when I, the youngest Boxwoody, would bring fame and fortune to the family tree. I still remember my mother’s voice bringing me back to the present. “Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody, come down here and help me put these curtains on the stretcher. You ken I told you not to dawdle.” Author’s note: As of this writing I am sitting at my beloved desk in that same attic room filled with all the things I love so well. My dreams have come true and so can yours. Just work hard and believe.  Best regards and God Bless You, Gabby   February 9, 2008 Hi, it's me Gabby! Perhaps you've heard and even recited the old nursery rhyme,   Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace,  Wednesdays's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, and Saturday's child works hard for a living.   Mother, bless her soul, loved the old rhymes. And when I was born on a Saturday, she said, "My poor bairn, tis hard work for ye in your days to come.  It's been said the old Vicarage at Harrington Woods came alive upon my arrival. The old Vicar even left his study to give me pig-a-back rides in the parlor. I am told I was a bonnie wee lass, and when the Vicar christened me, I came out with a full throated laugh as the water rained down on me. And true to my mother's words, I learned to work hard from a young age. Once I asked her, "Mum, why did you give me so many names? Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody is so long, and a struggle to write when I was learning my letters." "Gardenia," she replied, "Our fortune and title were stolen, and being a Saturday's child I knew your life would be full of busyness and work. I gave you a name fit for royalty, and a name full of meaning. Never forget who you are. You are a daughter of the most high God. Behave as His daughter, believe in Him and you will go far in this world. " And here is what she told me about my name:   Gardenia is the first flower my father ever bestowed upon her, Abigail was the name of a Queen married to King David in the Holy Scripture, Bluebell was sentimental, bluebell's reminded my mother of her native Scotland, Boxwoody was my father's name, and she was proud of it.   And lastly she said, 'Hold your head high when they call you the "Girl of all Work",  tis a noble thing to work hard, and you will always prosper. So that is my name and my birth day, and plenty enough for now....Regards, Gabby   February 1, 2008   Hi, you may have heard of me. I am Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody, Gabby for short.You may wonder how three, quite mature hmmm, bunnies ever came to run a boutique out of the ancient Vicarage in Harrington Woods. I guess it all starts with me. My father was the man of all work at the Vicarage in the days when it still functioned as a Vicarage under Vicar S. Burns. The Vicar was quite an ancient scholar and spent his days in the study poring over manuscripts and whatnots for hours at a time. My father on the other hand was a hale and hearty soul with a green thumb the size of an artichoke. My mother, bless the saints, was a petite and bonny lass with an iron will and heart of gold. She came to our land from Scotland, via steerage class, to find work in the new world. Her maiden name was McClain, and she always claimed to have come from royalty. A reprobate ancestor thrust the family into poverty, resulting in the loss of not only fortune, but title also. By a sheer stroke of luck, or guidance from the good Lord, my father and mother met at the local teashop. She looking for work, and he buying scones for the Vicar's tea. Well, the rest is history as they say. She became the Housekeeper at the Vicarage, and the blushing new bride of one William Stuart Boxwoody. Then in the fullness of time, and the way of all nature, the Boxwoodys found they were with child. And that is where I, Gardenia Abigail Bluebell Boxwoody came on the scene. But that is a story for next time.