I am beginning to look backwards through the layers of pre-relatives going back to antebellum Pennsylvania, and wondering what they ate for breakfast. You know, my real last name isn't Coburn, that's been bought and paid for...the maiden name was crushed into something it shouldn't represent, and the married name is still our son's, but no memory was wanted there either. Sifting through maternal archives found what has become my last name, it being the maiden name of my great-grandmother Emma, who chewed tobacco and was rumored to be mean as a snake. There are a few pictures of her tiny self next to my tall, skinny great-grandfather, George.
She came from western Pennsylvania, and was a daughter of Chester H. Coburn who, it turns out, was a corporal during the Civil War. He married Phidelia Fish, whose twin sister was named Adelia. People have been having babies since the immense herds of mammoths trundled through Babylon and before, but lord, I can't imagine the number of children women in the 1800's went through birthing and raising. There is a picture of Phidelia and Adelia and they look like hell in tight smocking and tiny ruffles. Just plain worn out, their hair slicked down with bear grease (to keep out nits, said my great Aunt Jennie), and dull stares that would scare the bear into handing over whatever else he had.
Bless their hearts. I have photos and a few tintypes with echoes of names told to me by my grandma's sister. My own grandmother didn't care for her mother and rarely spoke of her, the aforementioned Emma the Miniscule Terror. They all lived in Conneautsville, Crawford County, Pennsylvania before the tannery closed, leading to a move up into Portville, New York. Some then came to Buffalo, others went to Elmira, few stayed in central New York.
Well anyway, the digging for information has me twiddling about in the Victorian and Civil War eras, so finding this fireplace piece has me feeling all cozy and family-like, like big fat maybe relatives of mine once owned a frontpiece similar to the one now in the tub. Back in those days they used mercury, lead, and arsenic in construction of kitchen pots, paints, and mirrors, so I am generally suspect of antiques. Cast iron, I think, is plain old cast iron, nothing there to hurt me or the cats. If you know otherwise, drop me a line.
The plan is to prop it against the wall in the bedroom, and put a painting behind it, maybe a few doodads on the bottom piece that was originally designed to hold a teakettle. Now that the headboard is fixed thanks to a pair of talented, wonderfully kind friends, the Eastlake style bed will be put together, just have to get a mattress that fits its 3/4 frame. Women were generally at the five foot mark, men were about five seven, explaining this odd bed size not as large as a double but wider than a twin. Some day soon, you will find me in bed at eight with a bed cap and cocoa, the cats as well.
We will enjoy looking at the painting of the season slid behind the tasteful fireplace arch, and remark how cozy it is. All the pennies found on streets and sidewalks will have gone towards the new mattress that is our nest during evening time. I am looking forward to it, especially since sleep has become a curious, magical restorative more central to healthy living than I ever imagined.
There have been rambunctious thunderstorms the past two evenings, I do enjoy them; only one of the cats doesn't mind the noise too much. Green life appreciates the rain, and the farmers at the market today complained that everything is bolting sooner than expected because of it. Myself, I am in for the day and will putter at putting things right here and there. I know I will flop down tonight exhausted, dreaming of the bed to be. Tendons and muscles relax gratefully, lids flutter shut, darkness wraps mysteriously around bedposts and chairs, curbs and buildings, blades of grass and curled paws. Sail away, sail away, to fond memories of home and hearth. Good night. Love you so.
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