Gabby's Bunny Tails 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.