Great Grand-daughter of Steve Arrowood,
Grand-daughter of Becky Arrowood Kendrick.
~Emma~
She is the third great grand-daughter of Welzia Arrowood~
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Emma
Great Grand-daughter of Steve Arrowood,
Grand-daughter of Becky Arrowood Kendrick.
~Emma~
She is the third great grand-daughter of Welzia Arrowood~
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Christmas Candolier
Isn’t it strange how a certain smell or sight can invoke memories?
Fresh popped popcorn.
The smell of popcorn transports me back in time to the sticky floor and the velvet seats of the movie theatre. The Webb Theatre was downtown still, even in my early adulthood, having seen it’s heyday when my parents were young.
Magic carpet style, I am transported with one whiff of the buttery, unmistakable smell.
The things and objects from our childhood evoke that same sort of magic.
Grandma’s house had the smell of roses. It had a wonderful undercurrent smell, that was there, no matter what. She used a rose sachet and a rose smelling spray, that she loved.
Unmistakably, Grandma.
She had a ‘candelabra’ of sorts, called a ‘candolier’ that was made of molded plastic. It had seven or eight candles that held flickering bulbs that emanated a soft light of welcome in the front picture window at the Holidays. It’s bulbs were painted red and orange, sort of like a candle’s real flame.
That candle in the window was the sign of welcome that every kid looked for.
I can remember spying that glow from the driveway and running the walk of the front yard to get to the door first.
Christmas time transformed her house into a wonderful place. Holly strung from every door frame and lights were everywhere. It was special for a kid. Grandma’s love made it so.
I went to an indoor “yard sale” of sorts, recently. A church ran facility.
The tables were endless and the piles of junk were tremendous. The very sort of place my Dad would have loved to search for 'treasures'.
I started down each aisle, looking, and enjoying seeing things that reminded me of the past.
Old style wooden school desks, just like the ones that I sat in during my grade school years.
I was taken back to the wavy tiled floor of the old Central Elementary where I began my schooling.
The smell of chalk board erasers. The old doors to each classroom were huge and towering to a small kid. The transoms imposing over each one, open to allow the air flow into the class. The old building had a charm all it’s own. My grandmother had begun her schooling there as well, so it was a treasure of a schoolhouse.
Next stop down my own “memory lane”, I spied an old sewing chest filled to the brim with treasures.
I found a tiny pair of scissors that would do just perfect for me, when I needed to snip the threads of some of my needlework. I fingered through the threads and bobbins and my heart went back again, to grandma and her sewing notions that were always close by her.
The smell of the cotton thread was a memory in and of itself.
I ventured on and down an aisle of shelves that held old Christmas decorations. I had to smile.
There were hand made ornaments, no doubt made by tiny, thick fingers, but made with love.
There were painted reindeer and Santa's, there were ceramic ones and plastic ones.
Most were jumbled or tarnished, some were broken and not so pretty anymore, but once they were magical through a kid’s eyes.
Russ appeared at the head of another aisle, holding something aloft triumphantly, and smiling.
I headed toward him.
In his hand he held 'Christmas Magic'.
A wonderful treasure.
It was a candolier.
Not just any old candolier, but one very much like what my Grandmother had in her front window.
No bulbs. Old style plastic, maybe even Bak-e-lite.
There were the familiar ‘drips’ of ‘wax’ down each candle made of hardened plastic. The cord was old, the plug in was not shaped the same as those of today. It was complete with an old cardboard piece that fit snuggly up into the base, covering the wiring.
I slipped away in thought, quietly, and I could hear Grandma saying, 'now be extra careful when you plug that in, whatever you do', 'Do NOT “Elexocute” yourself'.
Grandma had a way of taking words and making them her own; her own whimsical version. I can still see her smile as she said it.
The only thing missing was the strand of plastic holly that she had woven in and out, between each candle.
No problem with that, easy enough.
Christmas is here. :-)
Christmas in Gastonia, NC. Main Street 1954~
Fresh popped popcorn.
The smell of popcorn transports me back in time to the sticky floor and the velvet seats of the movie theatre. The Webb Theatre was downtown still, even in my early adulthood, having seen it’s heyday when my parents were young.
Magic carpet style, I am transported with one whiff of the buttery, unmistakable smell.
The things and objects from our childhood evoke that same sort of magic.
Grandma’s house had the smell of roses. It had a wonderful undercurrent smell, that was there, no matter what. She used a rose sachet and a rose smelling spray, that she loved.
Unmistakably, Grandma.
She had a ‘candelabra’ of sorts, called a ‘candolier’ that was made of molded plastic. It had seven or eight candles that held flickering bulbs that emanated a soft light of welcome in the front picture window at the Holidays. It’s bulbs were painted red and orange, sort of like a candle’s real flame.
That candle in the window was the sign of welcome that every kid looked for.
I can remember spying that glow from the driveway and running the walk of the front yard to get to the door first.
Christmas time transformed her house into a wonderful place. Holly strung from every door frame and lights were everywhere. It was special for a kid. Grandma’s love made it so.
I went to an indoor “yard sale” of sorts, recently. A church ran facility.
The tables were endless and the piles of junk were tremendous. The very sort of place my Dad would have loved to search for 'treasures'.
I started down each aisle, looking, and enjoying seeing things that reminded me of the past.
Old style wooden school desks, just like the ones that I sat in during my grade school years.
I was taken back to the wavy tiled floor of the old Central Elementary where I began my schooling.
The smell of chalk board erasers. The old doors to each classroom were huge and towering to a small kid. The transoms imposing over each one, open to allow the air flow into the class. The old building had a charm all it’s own. My grandmother had begun her schooling there as well, so it was a treasure of a schoolhouse.
Next stop down my own “memory lane”, I spied an old sewing chest filled to the brim with treasures.
I found a tiny pair of scissors that would do just perfect for me, when I needed to snip the threads of some of my needlework. I fingered through the threads and bobbins and my heart went back again, to grandma and her sewing notions that were always close by her.
The smell of the cotton thread was a memory in and of itself.
I ventured on and down an aisle of shelves that held old Christmas decorations. I had to smile.
There were hand made ornaments, no doubt made by tiny, thick fingers, but made with love.
There were painted reindeer and Santa's, there were ceramic ones and plastic ones.
Most were jumbled or tarnished, some were broken and not so pretty anymore, but once they were magical through a kid’s eyes.
Russ appeared at the head of another aisle, holding something aloft triumphantly, and smiling.
I headed toward him.
In his hand he held 'Christmas Magic'.
A wonderful treasure.
It was a candolier.
Not just any old candolier, but one very much like what my Grandmother had in her front window.
No bulbs. Old style plastic, maybe even Bak-e-lite.
There were the familiar ‘drips’ of ‘wax’ down each candle made of hardened plastic. The cord was old, the plug in was not shaped the same as those of today. It was complete with an old cardboard piece that fit snuggly up into the base, covering the wiring.
I slipped away in thought, quietly, and I could hear Grandma saying, 'now be extra careful when you plug that in, whatever you do', 'Do NOT “Elexocute” yourself'.
Grandma had a way of taking words and making them her own; her own whimsical version. I can still see her smile as she said it.
The only thing missing was the strand of plastic holly that she had woven in and out, between each candle.
No problem with that, easy enough.
Christmas is here. :-)
Christmas in Gastonia, NC. Main Street 1954~
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