Heart and Home Tea Room

"Perhaps that is the true gift of a teatime celebration: It fills our cups with joy and warmth and friendship. May the echo of the teacups' message be heard not only at Christmas, not only on special occasions, but anytime friends come together."

                                                                                                           Emilie Barnes

Although we feasted through the holidays, munched through the blizzard, and gorged through the frigid cold, we haven’t stopped eating yet. I looked in the winter-stocked freezer and found plenty of food still there. After copious cups of warming tea, the cabinet even now holds numerous tins of blacks, greens, and herbals, enough to open a tea shop. But when the sun threw warming rays our way today and the occasion to have lunch out with friends popped up, we never hesitated for a minute to leave the house for some lunch out.



After days of wind chills and icy temps, traveling down Highway 71 with sunshine streaming in the car windows was a delight. Sharing the ride with friends made it even better. We headed down to Heart and Home, an aging Ozark stone cottage sitting at the crossroads of two minor Missouri highways. The cottage had been a gift shop for several years when Linda the owner was convinced by an elderly lady to mingle a tea room in her business space. Linda is a darling person, and she admits she knows nothing about tea or coffee since she drinks neither. But she was eager for a new adventure and four months ago added Tea Room to her Heart and Home sign. She has been busy cooking, serving— and learning ever since.

The décor is minimal, leaning towards shabby chic. The teas are well known brands to some like Boston Teas, Tea for Life and Tea Forte. She does serve hot tea in bags, but brings everyone their own china tea pot with hot water and checks often to keep it satisfactorily filled. Prices are inexpensive. It is the food and personality that are the blue ribbon features of Heart and Home.


Each table has a loaded plate of banana or pumpkin bread; when diners are seated, a bowl of butter is added. They have a special of the day that might be something hearty like a meatloaf. The menu has a few varied salads, sandwiches, and soups or a combination. Heart and Home serves all sandwiches on homemade bread; soups are served in generous portions. Desserts are homemade, look and taste like something from the “good ole days” and cinnamon rolls are the specialty.

Heart and Home is not a place to go if you are looking for French cuisine, fancy desserts decorated with spiraling trims, or swanky label wines. But if you are looking for good food served with a smiling face and place to share “joy and warmth” over a cuppa with friends, seek out Heart and Home near Neosho.

Moon of Popping Trees

"The days are short,
   the sun is a spark               
 Hung thin between
 the dark and dark."       
JohnUpdike


               

Native Americans called January the Month of Popping Trees. I call it the Month of Wiping Out. In the kitchen it is a month of wiping out withered potatoes from the pantry, wrinkled celery from the crisper, and using up those half packages of cream cheese left from Christmas. From some deep shelf in the freezer, we consume the last loaf of pumpkin bread made from this year’s Halloween pumpkins.

Ragged clothes are sorted and cut into shop rags. Run over and leather-worn shoes are used up in the wet snow for a couple of weeks and then pitched into the trash can with no laments. January sales might bring in new towels and sheets, but old ones are tossed out for sure.


The last of those half-squeezed tubes of lotions, failed nail colors, and dated medicines are flung to the waste basket with no feeling of waste. Notebooks with only a handful of unmarked pages are lobbed in File 13. Any poinsettias that look more like a naked winter branch than thriving plant are chucked to the dumpster.


Normally, I have a writing and reading list to conquer, to wipe out, but this year’s the extreme cold has made me lethargic. I don’t feel very creative; my mind wanders like a snow plow roaring down the street pushing new ideas to the gutter. Even reading, my attention span rambles more than normal, thinking more about cold toes and fingers than the story in my hands. Last night’s wind chill here was -15, the coldest record in the last 25 years.


A final wiping out the last bits of loose tea in all the nearly empty tins takes place this month. The late mornings, the loitering in jammies and heavy flannel robes, lingering over whopping breakfasts with the copious amounts of hot tea make for leisurely use of many tea pots. With no hurry to the day, the procedure of choosing, warming, and brewing in varied pots is a treat. I use the Christmas reds a few extra times before they are put away, or I pull out the Blue Willows and other blue and whites. A large Brown Betty under a tea cozy means tea for breakfast and some still warm for a later cup. After several days of a snow blanket and frigid temps, when we think we can stand it no longer, I pop out a lively pastel or floral tea pot to remind us that the spring will come.


As we wipe out the food supplies here, face the extra hard cold spell, and tolerate the long confinement with little exercise but plenty of comfort food, the Month of Popping Trees might become the Month of Popping Buttons this year.

Making Pretty...

"...a picture shoud be soemthing pleasant, cheerful, and pretty...There are too many unpleasant things in life as it is without creating still more..." Renior


My mother-in-law, now in her nineties, has painted or delved into art related things since she was a young girl working at the Wichita Art Museum. I have a few of her pictures on my walls, and I appreciate them because they are scenes of places I know, express moods I like, or are painted in colors I enjoy. One I have in a hallway is a water color that she was throwing away because she didn’t like it, and the painting had a damaged corner. I salvaged it, framed it, and hung it.



I couldn’t say whether these art works are grand or not, but I like them. Like Renoir, I think there are enough ugly things in the world and any picture that is pleasing to someone is splendid. Unlike writing, a picture can be enjoyed if it doesn’t sell. It can hang in the artist’s home or be given as a gift. But what does one do if her canvas is paper and the paints are words? Once a story or poem is written, it can not decorate a wall or stand on a table easel. If no editor or publisher finds it worthy of printing, then the work goes into a box under the bed or file cabinet in an office. It, too, might be pleasant, cheerful and pretty, but without that stamp of approval from the critics, it is hard to share, hard to enjoy.


I love any old barn. Barns are like country dowagers that stand in the wings waiting for someone to appreciate their worth. Even as they crumble across the rural landscapes, the old barns radiate a beauty. This picture of a local barn and cows rests in a barn wood frame DH made for me. I finally got it together and placed on a wall between two doorways. It hangs where I see it immediately when I leave my office; I can view it from my desk. I love the blue shades and appreciate the promise of spring my mother-in-law painted into the scene. By Renoir’s definition, my mother-in-law’s work is a success because it gives me pleasure and cheer with each glance I make during the day.

Changes Are Made

"Out with the old and in with the new"; the old saying is right for the entire month of January.

Change is never easy for us anal retentive types, and the older I get, the less I want to make the changes the world leaves on my doorstep. Abandoning the landline phone was not much of a challenge, but letting go of my irreplaceable Mrs. Tea when she wore out was like saying goodbye to an old friend. When faced with changes like cleaning a closet or a file cabinet, I flounder at what to toss and what to save. I will admit to having eliminated things occasionally that I later wish I had back. However, over all, I never miss most of the cluttering minutia I have tossed out.


Seeing the magazines and newspapers I known forever reduce in size, change format, or even cease publication is a distressing change. But I am part of the problem when I have to cancel my own subscriptions due to budget changes in my own life. The last year’s economy and forced retirement at this house felt like strangulation at times. The changes it brought on were many, and like stinging shots whizzing from a Gatling gun, they came fast and furiously. I have to make tighter choices now on what publications I keep coming to my mailbox for the next year and which ones were not necessary to my reading and writing life.


I have always paid the price for an up to date Writer’s Market, a fat tome on my bookshelf. It was always worth the pricey cost, but the last few years that price just got too steep for me. Today I decided to subscribe to Hope Clark’s TOTAL FundsforWriter’s, www.fundsforwriters.com/total.htm, a paid subscription for markets. She is running a special during the month of January at $9 for the year of biweekly markets delivered to your email box. I figured $9 was a bargain for the year and will give it a shot. I don’t remember how I found Hope, but I do subscribe to her free weekly newsletter now, which also includes a few markets each week. Her motivational essays and writing tips help inspire writers. Her newsletters are a bright spot and welcome sight when they appear, especially on a stark winter’s day.


I never meant for anything online to replace any book in my life, but this is one of the changes I am forced to make. I read more and more online, getting tangled in the wonderful world of blogs and websites. Each one introduces me to another, and if I am not careful, I follow each one like a strand of fiber into a snarled knot of yarn. I have met interesting people and outstanding ideas online; it is a temptation to spend too much time there. So I remind myself to accept the change of reading online, but not to squander too much time there. Today my order for Hope’s markets is made, and now back to my own work of laundry, writing, cooking, writing, cleaning, writing…..


Happily, some things never change!

Writing with the Wizard

There were not many books with Kansas settings or heroes when I was growing up. One of the first books I remember my mother reading to me was Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz. I found the story thrilling as Mother read a chapter or two a day before naptime; I could hardly wait for the next installment. When the Judy Garland version of the book was first shown on television years ago, my mother made watching the movie a special treat. We stayed up late, had saltines and milk for a snack, and curled up on the couch watching the movie together. I remember the flying monkeys scared the dickens out of me!


It turned out that The Wizard of Oz was a good lesson and preparation for the writing life. Any writer needs courage to take on such an endeavor as writing. A writer throws herself into the piece, producing the best product possible and then has to have courage to face editors who fail to see its value. She must have a heart to keep trying when it seems everyone gets into see the Wizard (read Editor) but her. That same heart makes her try again and again with more and more markets. When an editor rejects her wonderful, heartfelt efforts, the writer must not allow rust to set in from her tears of disappointment; she must keep herself well oiled and working.

Yesterday, to end this year, I got two rejections. Two in one day makes it harder to deal with at the time. It makes the stretch since the last acceptance seem extra long. It makes the near misses not count for much either. I went to my writing journal and counted the sales, the maybes, and the rejections. My numbers clearly said I was not getting in to see the Wizard as many times as I was traveling down the Yellow Brick Road!

But I heard Dorothy’s chipper voice and Toto’s little enthusiastic bark urging me on. I melted the Wicked Witch of Doubt with belief and I vowed I will write again in 2010. Now if those darn Flying Monkeys will just stop battering my confidence and leave me alone!

Happy New Year!

Winter Solstice

Winter Solstice, 2009


The hushed house is festive but serene.
No tree, house eves aren’t strung with dazzling lights.
But the house is not drab and gray,
Like the thinning hair at my temples.
While no longer a place of clutter and chatter,of children,
Yet memories of their voices do ring in my heart.
Fragrant kitchen, warm oven bakes cookies still,
While steaming up frosty window panes.
Pots of radiant poinsettias adorn room corners
And fence in the antiquated Nativity scene
That quietly heralds the approaching season.
Although with slower steps, friends still tread
Across the boards of a greenery laced porch,
Arms no longer filled with gifts and gizmos but
Still stretched wide for hearty hugs,
Seeking the warm comfort of friendship.
Later, I gaze across the cold night sky,
Gleaming crystal bright with star candles,
And soak up the quiet stillness while opening
The ribbon-tied memories of my life.
I celebrate the passing and changing seasons,
Treasure the tranquility of another winter.

Doing Up Christmas

Recently, I was in my children's old grade school. At the front door, a female teacher and four little girls were decorating the Christmas tree for the front hall. Short arms reaching around the tree, one girl was helping the teacher stretch lights while others were hanging ornaments. Where were the little boys?

What is it about men that they don’t like to be bothered with decorations, lights, and carols during the Christmas season? They like eating the fudge, having a large dinner served, and opening the packages, but sometime after Thanksgiving they begin the duck and cover routine when they hear the gals rooting in the storage closets and looking at red and green ribbon. A friend gave me a nice seasonal refrigerator magnet that says, “Three wise men, are you kidding?” because I had a household of one husband and two sons. She was right on target because not a one of them enjoyed putting up a tree, hanging lights on the house, or heaven forbid, taking anything down in January.

When I was growing up, we used a live tree bought at the local grocery store. I can smell the pine and balsam still, but we had to put it up late in the season due to drying out and fire dangers. Once we had a tree bought, it leaned outside on the porch anchored in sand or a tree stand soaking up water. We had to wait until Dad was ready to “deal with” the tree. He would put us off night after night until finally, grumbling all the way, he would string the lights out, check the bulbs, and begin to wrap the tree with strings of lights evenly from top to bottom. He put the star on top and then he was done. Mother and the girls hung the ornaments and placed the tinsel.


Once married, I found the scenario was much the same. After the children came along, we did try to go to the tree farm for several years. We took babies and dogs, tramped across the fields in frost and snow trying to find just the right tree. Our best choosing still would yield field grown trees that were sometimes sparse on one side, dry on the tips, or sporting crooked tree trunks. Once home it was a trick to set the tree up right. One year, a huge tree was whittled down as DH tried to find a good fit for the room and to solve the problem of a bad trunk. After several attempts at sawing and then watching the tree fall over repeatedly, he lost his temper. He hoisted the offending tree up, carried it through the sliding glass door, and thrust the tree into the back yard. That year was our first artificial tree, and we have not had fresh trees since.


Our boys are grown now, and they inherited the "bah humbug" gene from their ancestors. They seemed to enjoy coming home from college to a tree up, especially if there were lots of packages underneath wearing their own names, but moaned when asked to deal with lights or help take a tree down. Putting Christmas away was always a lonely time on New Year’s Day unless the enthusiastic blather of commentators from a televised football game in the family room was meant to be company.


No one ever like the tinkling carols of Christmas cheer or the solemn songs of the season either. Right after Thanksgiving this year, I heard one son grunt and growl under his breath when he heard the early music of Christmas playing. I decided that maybe I shouldn’t do so much Christmas if I were the only one who cared. I remember as a child going to a grandmother’s house where there was no tree except a pink net job on top of the television. I always felt sorry for my Gran because she was missing out on the green trees. Maybe she had just given up years earlier. When I took children home and both their grandmothers had no trees at Christmas, I felt sad there were no Christmas trees, a seasonal thrill, to share. Maybe those mothers just wore out too from doing all the planning, decorating, cleaning up afterwards—from doing all the caring.


So this year I am going to forego the lights all over the house and won’t drag out the tree. I won’t move all the furniture, stuff lamps and end tables in closets, drag down a multitude of glass balls, Santas, reindeer, bows, snowmen, glitter, and lights from storage. I did get some poinsettias, arranged a few candles, put out the Nativity, threw a red tablecloth on the dining table, and brought out the Christmas cups for our morning breakfast tea. I bought an Andrea Bocelli Christmas CD to listen to in my office. What I am finding is that less is more really.


I am going to minimize the cooking too. No one needs sugar, some can not have nuts, and everyone is watching the cholesterol. Gifts of food are nice, but no one I know is truly hungry or needs more food. I am going to invite my friends to have soup and homemade bread some evening instead of a feast. I will ask them to stop by the house after their own frantic shopping sprees. On their way home, they can come up the walk by windows steamed from a hot oven and a brewing tea pot. I will invite them to kick off their shoes for a few minutes, sip cinnamon tea and sink teeth into homemade bread slathered in yellow butter. Those few minutes of warm home and simple whole grain bread will be their gift.


In an essay titled Redeeming All Brokenness, Madeleine L’Engle writes: As we are called into Advent, we are called to listen, something we seldom take time to do in the frenetic world of over–activity. I think that is truer this year, now more than ever. It has been a year of job loss, economic ruin, moral corruption, foreign wars, and generalized disappointment in our society. Now more than ever we need to stop and look again at what is important, to realize the commercial glitz of Christmas is not bringing satisfaction or meaning to our lives. I find that less bustle at decorating and buying is making for a soothing atmosphere. I will take time for Advent church services, think positive and constructive thoughts, try to find reason and meaning in my life, find a way to show gratitude for the past year. Maybe next year I will return to the flurry and commotion, to the tree and lights, and then again, maybe this calmer, simpler manner might become my new tradition for Christmas.