If We Only Knew -Veterans Day

By: Martha Passman | 2012

On a dusty shelf, in a tiny thrift store in North Georgia, sat an old gold plated glass liquor decanter.

As I traveled along my usual route through the shop, I spotted a decorative bottle resting among vintage glasses and candlesticks, $2.95!  Of course I put it in my stash of finds without a second glance.  I was already thinking about the next treasure to be found.

After a long day of picking, boxes and bags of newspaper wrapped items are usually deposited where ever space is found in my garage, until I can prepare them to be put in my shop.

Months later, while un-wrapping a couple of boxes of merchandise, I came across the decanter.  I studied its shape and speckled remains of gold and I thought how pretty it would look on a book shelf or in a collection of vintage bar finds and bottles.   As I sat there studying the bottle, I noticed a label for the first time, Kentucky Tavern – Personally Selected for Kenneth Gissonne; Rio Rita; 403 Bomb SQ 43 GRP.

I can’t describe the feeling that came over me!  Was this a gift for a person who was part of a bomb squadron?   What or who was Rio Rita?  I immediately dropped everything I was doing and headed straight for my lap top!

The first thing I researched was 403 Bomb Squadron.  Yes!  There it was, the 403rd Bomb Squadron was an active unit of the United States Air Force from 1940 to 1946.  Then later reactivated and then closed during 1961. 

It was activated in 1940, during WWII, as a long range reconnaissance squadron that operated over the mid Atlantic states and later the Newfoundland Straits and the North Atlantic shipping lanes.   In 1942, it was reassigned to Australia and flew from Australia and New Guinea and participated in the Battle of Bismarck Sea.  The squadron also flew over China and Japan performing multitudes of bombing runs.

Now I was on to something!  Next was Rio Rita!  Initially, all I could find was information on a 1927 romantic comedy musical named Rio Rita, written by Florenz Ziegfield and a 1929 movie based on the same story. The story does involve spies and secret service so I assumedsince the movie was the most popular of its day, it must have been well known.  

I finally came across copies of old newsletters that began in 1981.  Known as the 43rd Bomb Group Assn. Inc. – these men remained connected via mailed newsletters and annual meetings!  The 43rd Bomb Group, calledKEN’S MEN, consisted of four different squadrons of bombers, the 403rd being one of them!

I read through several newsletters, announcing member’s deaths, changes of addresses, comments and memories by different members, until, there it was, a small paragraph in the 32nd edition from August, 1989.

“Bryan A. Flatt, 403rd, a new member, says to tell Kenneth Gissonne, 403rd Navigator, he was on the Wewak Mission, 27, August, 1943, and had returned (to base) when Rio Rita came in for landing, shot up, no landing gear, etc.  He will be at the reunion, so see him there to talk it over.”

Ah Ha!  So the Rio Rita was a plane and Kenneth Gissonne was its Navigator!  It sounded as if they had been through an air battle!  I was excited to finally find something!  

Then in an earlier newsletter, 31st edition, dated, May 1989 I read, “On 8/23/43, mission which turned out to be a little rough. Plane was Rio Rita, Crew: Pilot, George Putnam; Co-Pilot, John Taylor; Navigator, Kenneth Gissonne; Bombardier, Phil Wolf.”  The newsletter goes on to list several crew members.  It then states:  “Damage, One KIA, three wounded, two engines shot out, nose wheel retracted, over 200 bullet holes.”

Thank goodness they were able to make it back to base!  I could not imagine the horror of being shot at, losing engines, possibly being on fire and injured and dying crew members! I found three different mentions of the air battle and subsequent crash landing in the air field, but cannot confirm the actual date.  

More research and several hours later I finally found a photo, there she was, the Rio Rita, a B24 Liberator Bomber!

After reading hours of newsletters, absorbing these veteran’s lives, I was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude.  Over 750 men were killed serving in the 43rdGroup. These men who were teenagers and 20 year olds, left their homes, traveled to Australia and then New Guinea of all places, experienced terrible Japanese bombing runs on the island, saw native families and villages destroyed, death and suffering not only of the locals but their brother airmen as well.  They came home filled with memories they would never forget.  They came home sharing a bond of experience, hardship, pride and patriotism!  

Each newsletter included a section called Gone But Not Forgotten, listing the men who passed away since the previous newsletter, and there it was, Kenneth Gissonne passed away on March 20, 2005, as reported by his daughter.   I found a mention of his birth on an archival website, October 16, 1920.  He was 22 years old when he left for Australia and died at the age of 84.  Kenneth Gissonne flew 35 missions with one pilot, Al Putnam, and then went on to also fly missions out of the 63rd Group as well.

I thought about my own grandfather, who fought during World War One in France and my father who fought during the Korean War in Korea, and wondered what hardships they encountered, what experiences and memories traveled home with them.  

And yet, even now, during modern times, all the lives lost since 911, the sacrifices and struggles made by today’s military families, the men and women of our United States Armed Forces continue to protect our nation, our freedomsand our rights!   They make the same sacrifices today as those made decades ago and as they travel around the globe, they carry the same unwavering sense of duty andpatriotism!

The gold Kentucky Tavern Bourbon bottle will stay with me.  I have not been able to confirm when Mr. Gissonne received the gift.  Pure conjecture on my part, but I would think it was a special gift presented to him as a 50thAnniversary of his veteran service from WWII, which would mean he received it sometime in the early 1990’s.  

Over the years, I have purchased many things that included clippings or notes or dried flowers that instantly took me to another time.  These vintage and antique items that we all love to collect have a story!  They represent someone’s life, someone’s home, their taste in clothes or furniture or even liquor!  Or they may go one step further, and teach a lesson about history, brotherhood and duty!

Next time you see a memento from the past, pay homage to it, you never know what you might learn!  Past and present, I am forever humbled and grateful for the men and women of the United States Armed Forces!  Thank You!

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One Nation Under God -Veterans Day

By: Linda Burgess | 2012

Patriotism, as defined by Webster, means great love of one’s own country and loyalty to it. I learned that in my home, my school and in my church. I grew up in a home and family with a World War II veteran, my dad, and a Pearl Harbor survivor, my great uncle.  My father-in-law also served in World War II. My father-in-law also served in World War II. Several years after Dad’s death, I gained a Korean era veteran for a step-father. Yes, patriotism flourished in my home. 

Each school day began with prayer and THE Pledge of Allegiance. Pictures of patriots hung in our classrooms…George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. An American flag proudly hung from the center of the frame around the blackboard. One of the greatest honors was holding the flag while the entire class recited The Pledge. Chills still run up and down my spine as I recall those mornings in a small, rural school in western Kentucky. 

Vacation Bible school held similar places of honor as each day three people made the cut and proudly marched into the church carrying the Bible, the Christian flag or the American flag. On special occasions such as Veterans’ Day or Flag Day or Memorial Day we sang songs such as “God Bless America”, “America, the Beautiful”, or “America” after the church recited The Pledge of Allegiance. 

I often scratch my head as I wonder what happened to all of this. Why do we not see those patriots’ pictures in our classrooms? Why do school children not pledge their allegiance to our flag? Why do we not hear the stories our veterans have to share? Why do many churches not display our American and our Christian flags? The answers neither come TO me nor FROM me but the questions present themselves as fodder for thought. 

Dad never talked to me that much about his military experience. I know that he was an unbelievable marksman who declined the job of sniper. He could hit his target when shooting from the hip with a pistol. He never admitted to that being more than an accidental hit. I hunted with him on many outings where every shot brought home a bird, squirrel or rabbit. He didn’t believe in wasting ammunition. My granddad taught him that during the lean years of the Great Depression. He once ran across a plowed field, dropped to one knee and with one shot, took down a deer on the run. It was a clean shot right through the heart. I knew he never saw action once he arrived in Europe. He helped with clean up and police action. The peace agreement had been reached and signed while he was en route to France. Dad often talked of the beauty of the areas he saw, in spite of the destruction of war. He always wanted to visit Europe again but he never got that opportunity. Among other mementos of Dad, I proudly own one of his dog tags. Part of my tradition for Veterans’ Day is wearing his dog tag in honor of his service. I’m thankful he didn’t have to fight but equally thankful for his patriotic spirit that was willing to fight for our freedom and all the things that make our country great.

My great uncle rarely spoke of Pearl Harbor until after he retired. To some he was known as Doc. Others knew him as Pappy. To me he was Gussie Boy. Although Dad was the marksman, Gussie Boy taught me how to shoot. I had a brand new BB Daisy BB gun and couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. I competed with my brothers (one older and one younger) that Christmas but spent more energy fussing because I couldn’t hit the target. Gussie Boy came to my rescue. He showed me how to use the sights properly and I became a regular Annie Oakley, a name my 21 year old nephew also used on me recently. Gus also gave me my first real gun but that’s another story for another time. During those years of my childhood I didn’t grasp the magnitude of Gus’ service. On Dec. 7, 1941, he would have just been 2 months beyond his 31st birthday. That explains the nickname Pappy. He served aboard the USS Tracey, docked in the harbor that fateful Sun morning. He told of how he stood ironing his dress whites as the attack ensued. He traded his iron for his weapon and, as the saying goes, the rest is history. Along with Dad’s dog tag, I have one of Gus’ that I also wear on Veterans’ Day. That is my way of remembering my two favorite veterans on a special day as well as honoring both the U.S. Army and the U.S. Navy. 

Though I didn’t have much time to really get to know my father-in-law, one of my favorite family photos hanging over my desk is one of him in his uniform. Three WW II veterans greatly influenced my life personally and my life in general. When I began teaching sixth grade, I found it very easy to incorporate a special unit wrapped in World War II information. People such as Bill Burgess, Gus Burgess and Jamie Reid preserved our freedom and set the wheels in motion for America to become the greatest nation on Earth. Although those three men were no longer available to visit with my classes, I found others who did. Perhaps my motives were, in part, selfish, but I felt the burning desire for stories to be shared with today’s young people. My generation seems to have dropped the ball with teaching patriotism, respect for our country and to the men and women who keep us free. 

One of my favorite visitors was a woman who served as a nurse during World War II. She came to my class each year for 12 years. She brought her nurse’s uniform and joked about it not fitting. She never failed to tell about going through basic training just the same as any other soldier. My students found it interesting that a nurse carried a rifle, crawled under barbed wire and tossed grenades. “Mert” never left U.S. soil. She served at the Greenbriar Hotel which was converted to a military hospital for a time. Her duties and specific training found her working the spinal cord injury ward. She always shared the story of a big, athletic young man determined to overcome his injuries and walk. With tears and quivering voice we learned that the day came to prove he could walk but the injury to his spinal cord was too great and he could not walk. Mert said she often wonders what happened to him after he left the hospital. These stories need to be preserved and retold. They are the stories of true American heroes.

My mother remarried many years after Dad’s untimely death -another great guy and a veteran. Clark served during the Korean Conflict. Again I was blessed to have a patriot in the family. I didn’t talk to Clark about his military time but he often spoke about friends he made when he and Ben’s grandmother lived on different Army posts and of how they “took in” young soldiers and their families as they tried to make life a little more like home. That’s just the kind of spirit that makes our nation strong. 

Seeing pictures of my fathers and my great uncle send chills up and down my spine. I get emotional when I hear “The Star Spangled Banner” (when sung properly and not so stylized you don’t recognize it) or when I see a squad of veterans bear the colors in the local Christmas parade. I love listening to John Philip Sousa marches and watching fireworks on the 4th of July. I step aside when uniformed service men/women walk in my direction. I feel the need to pull over and stop along the roadside when meeting a convoy of military vehicles. I still stop and watch as military helicopters pass over my head. I secretly hope they can see that I pause to honor them in my own way. I wish I could hear Dad talk about the beauty of Germany or ask Gus more questions about Pearl Harbor. I wish I could thank Jamie and Clark for their service. Since I can’t do that, I can, hopefully pass along my love for America and my sense of respect to those who serve in the armed forces. We ARE the greatest nation and I, for one, wouldn’t live anywhere else.

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How do you get down from a goose

By: Greta Whitehead || Spring 2013

“Aren’t those geese beautiful?”

The geese belonged to my grandparents, Herman and Lola Render of the Walton Creek area near Centertown, Ky. Summer arrived and with it came more time at our grandparents’ home. It also meant molting season for the geese. Since geese typically molt (lose some of their feathers) during the summer, Mammie took advantage of Mother Nature’s help in harvesting feathers for new pillows. Their feathers sure made neat pillows.

My sister, Jo Carolyn Patton, and I, Greta Whitehead, lived in that neighborhood and were always at our grandparents’ home as much as possible. We had grown up around the geese but we were afraid of them. We knew that geese were sometimes used for security animals because they are so easily excited and alert you to impending danger by flapping their wings wildly and honking loudly to scare off suspected intruders. Still, we loved to find their big eggs. It was always special on Easter to have a big colored goose egg in our basket.

We were daring kids…especially me. I would make one of the geese mad just so it would chase us. The only time we were pinched by one was when we helped our grandmother hold the big geese while she plucked the feathers for her pillows.

She would turn one at a time upside down and hold it with her legs and start to work. Jo and I, as little girls, would try and hold their heads so they wouldn’t pinch her legs. We would get tired and let go a few times. Mammie would end up with black and blue legs but good, soft, fluffy pillows.

Herman Render and Lola Bennett Render, beloved Christian grandparents of our 13 brothers and sisters were near 80 when our family moved on in to Centertown. I have many good memories of Walton Creek people and the good life we had there. Though saddened by our move to town, many new adventures and memories awaited us there.

My dad, the local barber, felt it necessary to move to town so he could be close to his barber shop. Sometime in the 40’s, Dad bought an old Greyhound bus. He converted the old bus into a nice café that sat on Main St. It was quite beautiful, inside and out, with a fireplace, juke box, booth and stools at the counter. The “Blue Bus Café” became the hangout for teens, a safe place that was supervised by good honest folks who believed in their community and its future. Our parents, Raymond “Dick” Render and his loving wife, Lou, ran the café until they moved to Jeffersonville to work in the shipyards.

Times were hard and work was scarce so many families of our hometown had to move where they could find steady work. The Blue Bus closed but the stories of good times there live to this day. Other small cafés have come and gone in Centertown.

Each one had its regular customers who would enjoy a good cup of coffee and the stories shared around the table. More often than not, someone would bring up the Blue Bus Café and fond memories began to flow.

Although we missed our days at our grandparents’ farm, the Blue Bus Café occupied our time and life moved forward.

Lessons and values learned on that farm and in the Blue Bus Café never left us. Whenever I see geese I recall the fun we had helping Mammie make pillows. In reflection I can see that we were learning work and care for the family, but we just thought we were having fun. As I drive down Main St. in Centertown, my mind’s eye still sees that old Greyhound Bus that transformed to a wonderful hangout known affectionately as The Blue Bus Café…a safe place for youngsters to spend supervised time together knowing that Daddy and Momma kept a keen eye on each and every one of us.

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A Southern Treasure | An Essay

    By: Shan Ashby    

My husband and I were traveling in July, through what I call, “my south”  when we stoppedto eat at a popular fast food spot.  We picked a table and sat next to a window looking across a steamyparking lot.  Both of us are people watchers.  I guess that's the school teacher that comes out in us.  It's a skill one develops after a lifetime in the classroom, that allows one to hear conversations and read body language of an entire room full of souls while appearing to be doing something entirely different.

There was an older man, probably in his late 80's or early 90's sitting across from us eating ata table with a much younger but look alike fellow, I surmised he was probably the gentleman's grandson.  He wore faded denim, bib overalls with galluses over an ironed blue and gray plaid shit.  He was clean, shiny clean and hiswhite hair with a speck of grey looked soft as it fell away from his hairline part.  The young man across the table was eating hurriedly, it was after all mid-day and they probably had errands to run. 

A family soon filled the table behind us - parents with three grade school aged children. They were modestly dressed – no name brand clothes, no cell phones, no walking and texting.  They were quiet as they pulled the chairs away from the table across the tile floor and seated themselves.  The father carried food on one tray and the mother carried the drinks on another. The oldest child had napkins and straws which she passed around.  

Our three families continued to dine in the midst of the noise from the soda machines and orders numbers being called – lunchtime patrons, coming and going.  I watched the elderly gentleman finish his sandwich and drink as he glanced often toward the familybehind me. And for that monumental moment I could read his thoughts. I've done it so many times with my own Grandfathers and Dad after they shared stories about their lives during the depression, as well as,  the stories they dared share about the horrors of war. 

I knew as he looked at the family, the gentleman could see himself as a young father, The children, reminded him of his own and he thought about his wife, now gone, and how she had cared for their little ones in the prime of her young life.  

He remembered the struggles of his childhood and his responsibility as a Daddy to feed a hungry family. He had insight. He had a pleasant expression as he watched them enjoy their meal.  The young man who sat across the table from himfinished his meal and motioned for them to leave.  With   little conversation, the young man rose from the table and walked toward the trash and placed his tray in the appropriate place and then waited by the door.

The elder also stood, but much slower.  He scooted his chair under the table, picked up his tray and turned toward the young family.  Without hesitation he approached their table. He stood as tall as his frame would allow and he spoke directly to the father, 

“ Would your family care for my fries?” There was a momentary silence between the two men as my husband and I listened and watched this noble act of southern kindness.

“I haven't touched them and I'mfull, I can't eat them, I don't want them to go to waste.” he spoke softly. 

In those brief seconds I felt my heart begin to pound and a lump tighten in my throat. I couldn't continue to eat.  I held my breath and hoped the tears in my eyes would not draw any attention in this moment – I leaned over my foodto avoid eye contact with my husband.  

We were in the presence of a private moment, a historical moment that only a people of our age in the south canunderstand and appreciate.  This was a hospitable southern offering from this elders generation but might likely bring giggles, smirks and laughter from some of the “ insensitive, self serving” youth of a more modern generation.  

Sadly, the time is quickly coming when this southern offering like so many other unselfish treasures of giving will no longer bemade by a generation of people.  I may never witness an act of this genuine kindness again in my lifetime.

This was a gentile, southern man.  I'm sure his eyes had seen too much that he'd like to forget, his body marked by age but his generosity beyond reproach.  He was old enough to remember the “great depression”, to remember as a child, days with no food, to remember cold winter nights with nowarmth andshoes soles reinforced with cardboard, but he endured.  He was old enough to have served his country in World War II and perhaps seen starving children and adults through barbed concertina wire in the concentration camps in Germany or witnessed his comrades in arms die on the blood soaked battle fields of France or England, but he endured.    

He is a pattern of many many southern men whose ghosts grace sacred places of our world     in honor of freedom at Valley Forge, Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Normandy, Pearl Harbor, Germany, theSouth Pacific, Iwo Jima and Korea.  He is an American son, still a father for his countrymen who still remembers the pains of poverty, the sick and down trodden. And as long as he has an ounce of strength, he will volunteer on their behalf to insure their welfare.

The young father, replied with respect as to allow the older gentlemanhis dignity and sincerity.

“Thank you, Sir.  I think we are fine and have plenty.” 

“I wanted to make sure your family hadenough food. You are welcome to my potatoes, I didn't touch them, really, I didn't touch them at all.”

The young father answered humbly, 

“I appreciate your offer, thank you Sir, we are fine.”  The elder walked away feeling better for his inquiry and concern butlifted the flap of the front pouch of his bibs and carefully tucked the paper sack of fries into the pocket. 

Life has shown me, that the older generation, the “generation who saved the world” is often ignored.  Our aging fathers and mothers have much wisdom to share.  They do not have face book accounts, send many text messages or surf the web.  Their knowledge came from the feet of their parents and grandparents instead of CNN.  Their life lessons and common sense have served our country well.

You may be reluctant to speak to someone with white hair, stooped shoulders orbib overalls assuming they are not aware or they do not notice you, but don't fool yourself.  Their bodies maybe old and worn, but their spirits are still young enough to see more about you than you know about yourself. 

For they have seen our country beforein troubled times and made sacrifices so that we could have what many of ustake for granted. I can remember my mother often cautioning me, 

“be sav'in now, you never know when hard times are com'in.”  and I fear she is right.

They are our wisdom keepers, our historians and they should be cherished and revered.  For they endured and seldom questioned – but they endured.

So if your walking down the street sometime and someone looks at you with hollow ancient eyes and you fail to speak or respond, you have lost more than you may know.   As John Prine, the Kentucky born songwriter/singer sang, “Please don't just pass 'em by and stare, as if you don't care, say, hello in there ”  and smile with some down home southern respect – and a treasure will be opened to you, especially if you are somewhere in my south.

Common Thread

 

COMMON THREADS

AN ESSAY BY MELISSA MCARDLE 

---

Her hands work effortlessly as she turns a skein of yarn into an afghan her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren will warm themselves with on countless occasions…a piece of crafted art, a piece of her, a blanket filled with love and memories of the selfless woman who gave her everything for her family. Whenever a loving couple commits to happily ever after, a birth is announced, or a home is new to cherish, she creates an afghan for that occasion, a keepsake that becomes an instant heirloom in our hearts and homes. It is the one gift we all look forward to receiving, and when she requests the colors of our desire, we choose with thoughtful consideration. A colorful spectrum of soft woolen fiber fills the homes of her descendents, linking us together by one common thread, her loving handiwork, her patterns...a compilation of comfort in every loop, knot and row.

The winter months are when I dust off my needles and sort through the bag of yarns, easing my fingers back into the practice of knitting. It’s a hobby which remains dormant in the sun-filled months, yet tends to warm my heart during the long dark chilled evenings of the crisper seasons. My grandmother taught me how to knit and crochet, both skills I hold dear; a family-tree connection that I am beginning to pass down to my little girl. Recalling the early days, when I was eager to learn and dreamed of being creative like my grandmother; patiently, she watched as my unskilled fingers tried over and over to grasp the yarn and produce an outcome beyond a tangled mess of string. Rhythmic movements of her hands in complete synchronicity, forming a pattern, creating a comforting gift, she could have done it all with her eyes closed. Now that I’m older, I believe I understand why she enjoys this method of crafting: One’s thoughts tend to wander in a peaceful state as the rhythm unfolds and the final outcome of the creative consistency is a practical gift filled with joy and love. Whether I’m practicing my own handwork or wrapped up in one of her gifted afghans, I am reminded of her – warm, loving and safe, an endearing way to carry her with me forever and always.

Ernest Alexander

After going to grad school and studying business for 3 years, Ernest Sabine found himself in the middle of the recession and the fashion district in New York City. The stock market had just recently crashed and for Ernie it seemed like the perfect time to build something from nothing. Having worked in fashion advertising for several years, Ernie learned the ins and outs of the fashion industry and with a childhood dream he set out to create the perfect men's messenger bag. "I always dreamed of having my own clothing line as a kid," he says, "I always wanted to have my own business."

When Ernie began Ernest Alexander he explored the fashion district for a workshop that was able to produce canvas messenger bags. He often carried one for business each day and always wished he could have one that perfectly matched his body in motion and at rest. After finding a workshop only two blocks from his office he started sourcing materials for his first collection of messengers. "I started with one style and three colors when I made my first messenger bag," he laughs.

With the help of twelve very talented seamstresses, Ernie went to work perfecting his first design. "I would design prototypes and test them out for the day. I want my bags to look as fashionable and feel as comfortable and natural while walking and running through the city." With his first design perfected and with three colors available he sold his first 20 bag order, though the power of social media and e-commerce quickly changed that.

When Ernie first started his brand he wanted it to be something could feel proud of. He was tired of foreign manufacturing and unfair wages and living conditions for the foreign laborers. Finding the small garment district in New York City to manufacture his bags and accessories was his way of remedying that problem. With his growing popularity and demand for more products, Ernie has not only been able to support the twelve seamstresses who first helped in creating Ernest Alexander, but has also expanded that workshop and created jobs for new workers.

"I wanted to create a brand with heart and meaning, I wanted to know the people who were making products for me. I wanted to stay close to them and be able to visit any time so that I could stay involved in every step of the process." Today he works, manufactures, and sells his bags within a five mile radius, with his flagship store in Soho on Thompson Street only 20 blocks from his workshop. "Opening the store allowed me to not only get into a shopping area that I'd helping grow my brand, but also allowed me to meet my customers face-to-face." With a growing collection of items to offer including men's shirts, bags, accessories, and a small capsule of women's clothing Ernie is slowly growing his brand which started with one messenger bag into a full outfitter. "I want to be able to offer more to my customers and I think the next step will be denim, knits and sweaters, and tailored clothing and suiting," says Ernie.

Ernie says that the city has played the biggest role in inspiring him to create his clothing brand. "When I need inspiration I go straight to the streets of New York City," he explains. "With so many colors, textures, and personalities the people of New York have their own style, and it inspires me to find new and interesting fabrics and patterns when I source my materials." He also finds inspiration in antiques and often shops at a local antique store called Olde Good things for decor for his store and inspiration for his brand. "My brand focuses on a return to basics with a modern look at vintage fashion, so visiting antique stores helps me focus on those ideas of classic silhouettes and references to the past."

When asked what we could expect to see from Ernest Alexander for the holiday season, Ernie listed a few giftable items that will be out just in time for the holidays. Starting this winter he will offer an apron designed for cooks and blacksmiths alike. Inspired by the aprons of craftsmen, it will feature pockets for tools and is constructed of the same high-quality canvas he uses for his bags. Plaid will be a major focus for the brand this year with a line of weekenders, messengers, and other bags made of classic British woolen plaids and Ernie will also offer plaid neckwear to match.

With workman inspired clothing, a line of utilitarian bags that focus on functionality and style, and classic accessories Ernest Alexander is reviving the American fashion industry. Keeping his focus on the importance of domestic manufacturing and a respect for the history of fashion, Ernie has created a brand that is as classic as it is fresh and modern. "A respect for history and the past has always been important to me, I think it is what fuels this industry and I want to make sure that the people who have worked to keep manufacturing alive here in New York City are recognized."

Greeta's Geese

By: Linda Reid

"Aren’t those geese beautiful?”

The geese belonged to my grandparents, Herman and Lola Render of the Walton Creek area near Centertown, Ky. Summer arrived and with it came more time at our grandparents’ home. It also meant molting season for the geese. Since geese typically molt (lose some of their feathers) during the summer, Mammie took advantage of Mother Nature’s help in harvesting feathers for new pillows. Their feathers sure made neat pillows! 

My sister, Jo Carolyn Patton, and I, Greta Whitehead, lived in that neighborhood and were always at our grandparents’ home as much as possible. We had grown up around the geese but we were afraid of them. We knew that geese were sometimes used for security animals because they are so easily excited and alert you to impending danger by flapping their wings wildly and honking loudly to scare off suspected intruders. Still, we loved to find their big eggs! It was always special on Easter to have a big colored goose egg in our basket. 

We were daring kids...especially me. I would make one of the geese mad just so it would chase us. The only time we were pinched by one was when we helped our grandmother hold the big geese while she plucked the feathers for her pillows. She would turn one at a time upside down and hold it with her legs and start to work. Jo and I, as little girls, would try and hold their heads so they wouldn’t pinch her legs. We would get tired and let go a few times. Mammie would end up with black and blue legs but good, soft, fluffy pillows. 

Herman Render and Lola Bennett Render, beloved Christian grandparents of our 13 brothers and sisters were near 80 when our family moved on in to Centertown. I have many good memories of Walton Creek people and the good life we had there.Though saddened by our move to town, many new adventures and memories awaited us there. 

My dad, the local barber, felt it necessary to move to town so he could be close to his barbershop. Sometime in the 40’s, Dad bought an old Greyhound bus. He converted the old bus into a nice café that sat on Main St. It was quite beautiful, inside and out, with a fireplace, juke box, booth and stools at the counter. The “Blue Bus Café” became the hangout for teens...a safe place that was supervised by good honest folks who believed in their community and its future. Our parents, Raymond “Dick” Render and his loving wife, Lou, ran the café until they moved to Jeffersonville to work in the shipyards.

Times were hard and work was scarce so many families of our hometown had to move where they could find steady work. The Blue Bus closed but the stories of good times there live to this day. Other small cafés have come and gone in Centertown. Each one had its regular customers who would enjoy a good cup of coffee and the stories shared around the table. More often than not, someone would bring up the Blue Bus Café and fond memories began to flow. Although we missed our days at our grandparents’ farm, the Blue Bus Café occupied our time and life moved forward. Lessons and values learned on that farm and in the Blue Bus Café never left us.

Whenever I see geese I recall the fun we had helping Mammie make pillows. In reflection I can see that we were learning work and care for the family, but we just thought we were having fun. As I drive down Main St. in Centertown, my mind’s eye still sees that old Greyhound Bus that transformed to a wonderful hangout known affectionately as The Blue Bus Café...a safe place for youngsters to spend supervised time together knowing that Daddy and Momma kept a keen eye on each and every one of us.

Inside Leyden Glen Sheep Farm

 Kristin Nicholas came out from her charming farmhouse to greet us and I was first introduced to the incredible woman who calls this place home. Kristin is a true and talented artist best known for her knitting and stitching patterns. But it doesn’t stop there, her tremendous talents include knitting, crochet, embroidery, dyeing, painting, decorative and interior painting and pottery. She lives in this picturesque 1751 Antique Cape Cod farmhouse with her husband Mark and their darling daughter, Julia. Together they run their Leyden Glen Sheep Farm which now consists of over 300 sheep, 20 chickens, 10 cats, 3 border collies who work the sheep, 1 Great Pyrenees Guard Dog, a Guard Donkey and a Guard Llama.

A look inside her home.... By: Rikki Snyder

Leyden Glen Sheep Farm

Tucked away in the rolling hills of western Massachusetts is a place so unique and beautiful that it seems like it was pulled straight from a fairytale. I remember the very first time I drove down the windy and desolate dirt roads leading up to the Leyden Glen Sheep Farm.  Spring was in full bloom and my good friend Sarah was behind the wheel. I kept thinking to myself, where is she taking me? Talk about the middle of nowhere! 

STORY & PHOTOGRAPHY: RIKKI SNYDER

When we finally pulled up to the farmhouse we were greeted by eager sheep dogs, so full of energy and ready to play. Sarah had told me how beautiful this place was and as soon as I got out of the car I fell in love with everything. The wooden swing tied to a tree in the front yard, tufts of wool covering the ground in certain spots, grass greener than any I’d seen before and sheep by the hundreds feeding on it with enormous, tree covered hills as their backdrop. 

    Kristin Nicholas came out from her charming farmhouse to greet us and I was first introduced to the incredible woman who calls this place home. Kristin is a true and talented artist best known for her knitting and stitching patterns. But it doesn’t stop there, her tremendous talents include knitting, crochet, embroidery, dyeing, painting, decorative and interior painting and pottery. She lives in this picturesque 1751 Antique Cape Cod farmhouse with her husband Mark and their darling daughter, Julia. Together they run their Leyden Glen Sheep Farm which now consists of over 300 sheep, 20 chickens, 10 cats, 3 border collies who work the sheep, 1 Great Pyrenees Guard Dog, a Guard Donkey and a Guard Llama. Kristin explains how when you live on a real working farm, the farm becomes your life. The animals are in need of constant attention, food, water and are always being moved around from field to field. “I talk to animals more than I talk to people!” she says.

    The reality of Kristin and Mark’s unique lifestyle as sheep farmers is this: long days and intense labor. The lambing begins in January and lasts through March. During this time lamb upon lamb is born and in need of constant care. March is the mud season which Kristin describes as pretty awful! “No one is happy- humans or lambs.” The grass starts to grow in April and weaning lambs starts when the pastures are dry and ready. When May rolls around different flocks of sheep are moved to different pastures and are continually moved throughout the grazing season. Sometimes the sheep are moved by truck but sometimes Kristin and Mark move them many miles by foot depending on the location and traffic on the roads. Harvesting hay soon begins in June and lasts until October when the grass stops growing. Mark cuts and bales all of the hay that their sheep eat during the winter. In November, after the harvest, the sheep are ready to be moved back to their winter quarters where they are kept in a couple barns for cover. And then...it starts all over again.

    Kristin and Mark sell their lamb meat all year long at local Famers Markets as well as the vegetables from Kristin’s garden in the summertime. The sheep’s wool also proves to be invaluable as Kristin uses it to make yarn. She learned how to hand spin wool at a night class during her time in college at the Oregon State University where her and Mark first met. They both grew up on the east coast, Kristin being from the suburbs of New Jersey and Mark, ironically enough, grew up on a dairy farm only 5 miles from where they now live. They bought their first 4 Romney sheep in 1980 before they were married. As Kristin’s mom said, “Some people get engaged; Mark and Kristin bought sheep!”. 

    Just before their daughter Julia was born, they found their current farmhouse. It was love at first sight; they gave a full price offer and it was accepted in a matter of 5 hours! Kristin started telecommuting instead of going into her job at the time, as the Creative Director of Classic Elite Yarns. “It was a chance for us to build our farm and our family,” she says. In 1998, their daughter Julia was born with a life threatening condition, hydrocephalus. Kristin became the primary caretaker and in her words she, “..decided to ditch the full time gig and go freelance.” She started writing knitting books, then stitching books and was even asked to illustrate a couple of knitting books. She used gouache, a technique of painting with opaque watercolors and soon realized that she could draw or paint anything. 

    Since then, Kristin has taken her art to a new level. Her home is a blank canvas that she has transformed into a work of art with her numerous free-form wall murals that she hand paints. The mural in the dining room is dressed with chickens, birds, flowers, leaves, guinea hens and peacocks. A second one can be found in their TV room that Kristin created by cutting shapes out of FedEx boxes, layering these shapes on top of each other and hand painting each one. Her beautiful oil paintings can be found hung throughout the house as well as other handmade items such as her colorful pillows that are displayed on the window bed between the kitchen and living room. 

    “I think every art or craft I learn adds to the others I know,” Kristin says, “They all ‘inform’ each other. The common thread of my work has always been color. I love color! Working with color, mixing color together when I paint or dye, and then combining colors in a canvas or on a piece of fabric or in a knit wear design is such fun and joyful.” Kristin has also taken inspiration from her grandmother who was from Germany. She was always making something with her hands which fascinated Kristin and when she was 9, her grandmother taught her how to crochet. After that, she never looked back. Ten books later, Kristin is still going strong with her artwork and is constantly creating. She also writes a blog called “Getting Stitched on the Farm”, which is a way for her to communicate and connect with the outside world. It allows her readers to enter into her crazy yet captivating lifestyle that is always satisfying and never boring and shows a little slice of what it’s like living on a working sheep farm. 

    It’s been two years since that first day I stumbled upon the Leyden Glen Sheep Farm and after many visits back, through each season, I have fallen in love with this place even more. The beauty of it all continues to amaze me as does Kristin’s artwork. Never have I found such inspiration with color and pattern as I do when I’m in Kristin’s home. I’ve had the pleasure of sitting down with her for lunch on those colorful chairs with her paper lanterns swaying above our heads and the view of the pastures outside the windows where subtle baa’s can be heard from the grazing sheep. They’ve become some of my most memorable days and I always look forward to my next trip back where I travel off the map and step into their unique world once more. 

Leyden Glen Website http://leydenglenlamb.com

Kristin’s Blog http://getting-stitched-on-the-farm.blogspot.com

Kristin’s Website http://www.kristinnicholas.com