Hand of Bela Peck

Wednesday Wanderer: Rural Decay

Feeling imprisoned between the Texas Gulf Coast and Houston's urban sprawl, I made a mad dash for sanity in the great open counties northwest of the city this past weekend.  Just west of Katy on I-10, I took a right and drove until mercados and roadside taquieras disappeared behind me and before me there were only cow dotted hillsides and soaring hawks riding silence like hang gliders.  Meandering along Farm Roads from Bellville to Caldwell, I stopped only for the dilapidated and the obscure.  With winter branches still bare, old abandoned houses set farther back from the road are revealed making their final appeal.

Deep under the pricker vines twisting through the bare oak branches, a collapsed facade is barely detected.  Like a dollhouse opened to exposed rooms, the sunlight shines on a back bedroom.  The bed and a favored chair hold fast to their positions as the floor caves underneath. The skeletal remains of furniture and and hints of delicate wallpaper tell the story of a once treasured life.  This was a woman-centered home.  Feminine touches still shine through the decay and a faint scent of roses lingers here.

 

Once spring arrives, the vines and limbs will strengthen its hold and continue to pull what remains back into the ground, snapping beams like pole beans and shattering windows whose breaks will not be heard.

In another month when bluebonnets dominate the roadsides and fresh leaves camouflage the past, this wee house will go quietly into her goodnight.


Aside from from abandoned houses, ghost towns also offer history rich cemeteries. On the road from Snook to Caldwell  is Providence Cemetery.  This meticulously maintained memorial ground contains the remains of early settlers, Civil War veterans, slaves and the sad reflection of infant mortality in pioneering life.

 

Rows of markers show the sorrow of parents who lost as many as six children; each dying before they reached the age of 4.  As a Mom, I can't imagine such sorrow. It's ironic that as much as I seek out the fallen houses to base my art dolls on the lives that once were- I seldom take into account the lives that never had a chance against frontier life and yellow fever.  I also forget that slavery was a big part of the early Southern Texas cotton industry.  Large plantation houses still stand twenty miles away in Independence and Washington.

  
Time moves forward, people grow old and die, some stories get told while others are left with simple markers in a bygone era.  In an ever growing tech-centered, busy world it's important to get out in to wide open spaces where history paved the way for modern convenience.  It is where history lives, breathes, and mingles with science in the beauty of rural decay.

 LOVE  &  TINY HISTORIES!

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A Forest Fern

A Forest Fern

 Every dilapidated house tells the story of her former glory.  Many stand their last ground as tree roots pull them under, ripping at their foundations until crumbling is the only remaining option.  Even then, their stories can be read.  Chapters are exposed and the main characters greet visitors on weather-worn front porches. It is here I find inspiration for my dolls.

Empty breezeways, dilapidated stairways and outbuildings tell of earlier days when farming was the way of life, self sufficiency was a must, and no scrap went unused.

 

Under every brush pile spectacular enamelware heaped and tumbled.   Some lay still where it was casually tossed decades ago. Some can be seen like submarines breaching the surface.  A spectacular blue like the first blue bonnets of Texas spring.  With so many buckets- literally a hundred or so-  coupled with chewed thread-bare quilts stuffed like insulation in the walls, I can only wonder who the industrious owner was.

 

I imagine she was a commanding woman who loved deeply and moved about her daily chores with precision and purpose. A woman who made prize winning quilts and sang in the Sunday choir.  Living in this wee house in the heart of Louisiana's Kisatchie Forest took a fearless soul ready with a gun or a smile depending on the intruder.  I imagine her name would be Fern; soft, natural, resilient.

My general rule is to take nothing as I explore the old forgotten ghosts of late 19th century rural architecture but on this trip I broke that rule.  I picked up a scrap of pink and white fabric, some mother of pearl buttons from the sawdusty floorboards, and one random shard of blue spatterware.  All of these items will be used in Fern's construction as a tribute to the lady who kept her land in rugged times.  She has a long way to go to completion but this is her start. 

This spring I hope to make it back to the Kisatchie Forest to find Fern's house and return a quilted flower made of the remnants of her past.  I will fill it with birdseed and hang it from the rusted tin roof for all the birds to sing again so lovely as they did back when Fern quilted under the warmth of the early April sun.

LOVE  &  HONORING THE PAST

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Wednesday Wanderer: Indian Gap, Texas

Wednesday Wanderer: Indian Gap, Texas

 Texas travel is like climbing through a time portal.  The further west one goes, modern conveniences disappear, gas stations become less and less frequent until there are simply none.  Houses are few, pastures become endless, and occasionally one comes to the junction of nowhere and what used to be. In the spring and fall these old roads are a biker's dream. But in the confines of winter- these lands are howlingly harsh.

Deep in the heart of old Comanche territory lies Indian Gap, Texas; aptly named for the valley between the hills known to pioneers as the Comanche lookouts.  Perhaps the beauty of the location outweighed the pioneers' risk of decimation.

People still living in Indian Gap are far outnumbered by horses and longhorns that graze the pastures here.  The Indian Gap school house now shelters a healthy herd and while exploring one has to be careful of cowpies and the large overgrown thorns that guard her entrance.  A zoom lens is the best bet for the squeamish- or those not ready to fly under the radar of the rancher's gun as this school is now on private property.  But she is worth the risk.

What a beauty she must have been in her 1913 prime!  Her tin tiles litter the hallways, some still clinging to the rafters like bats in slumber, her interior woodwork crumbling back to dust.  In defiance of her dilapidation, she holds her facade to the bitter end.

    

Looking out of the school's windows, the grass rolls under the unforgiving January wind.  There is peaceful silence and the imagined laughter of the children who grew up in this town that today looks much the same as this 1907 photo.  The general store is still standing along with a few one story buildings in the main cluster.  Early Clabber Girl baking powder advertising can still be read on the store's front door. The surrounding hills are rumored to be good exploration grounds for arrowheads and old artifacts.

So far out from the world even today, Indian Gap is one of my favorite Texas ghost towns.  Most people are drawn to historically accurate preserved tourist attractions to seek out the American story but I love getting into the nitty gritty of what time leaves behind and man abandons in the decay.  It is here that construction elements are exposed like layers pulled back for a lingering peek.  It is here where the distant thunder of Indians on horseback can be heard roaring closer and the panic of settlers with no place to hide plays out  in my mind.

Indian Gap is located on Texas 218 in Hamilton County, approximately 3 hours southwest of Fort Worth.  The surrounding roads are ghost towns unto themselves- offering up the skeletons of random settlements extinct today.

Rusted cars floating on a sea of winter grass, farm equipment standing silent, and houses left to fight their own battles for survival are frequent sights.

These are the immaculate time capsules left behind for future developers to find and marvel at the lives that were.

  

In all my travels I am a mere passer-through.  A lone observer of what has been.  I take nothing but pictures and leave only goodwill to the ghosts still sipping iced tea on front porches as the sun sets on any given day in an ordinary life in rural Texas. 

LOVE  &  GHOST TRIPPIN'

 

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Chillin' With The Girls

Elida  &  Pheobe

With Hubby in Bangkok, my daughter off with her friends, and a house all to myself it was a weekend made for sofa lounging, a lotta lattes, a Twilight marathon, and stitching up some new primitive dolls. 

Dolls are my truest love.  Making wee dresses and spending hours over tiny details and historical research really soothes my Yankee soul.  Perhaps it was from watching my mother's meticulous winter stitches, keeping warm under layers of quilting in the works, or dressing my own dolls in the clothes mom made by hand; these memories come back as I bring to life the historical women who intrigue me.

Elida is a pioneer child who arrived in Texas from Norway.  Born on the journey, her name means "speedy sailing".  Though her parents loved arriving in Galveston, they moved inland to avoid certain death by yellow fever.  Elida's family made a home in the tiny Norwegian settlement of Norse, Texas.

Pheobe Ann Pease is one tough cookie!  She set sail on her husband's whaling ship The Cambria, sailing around the world.  She returned to Martha's Vineyard in 1861, so her child would be born on American soil.

The girls participate in the picking of their finery.  Vintage linens, lace and embellishments add a true time-worn feel to each doll.  Wool yarns are a favorite for hair.  It is soft, rich in texture, and easily styled. 

  

Elida was dreamt up from my many ghost hunting trips in and around Cranfill's Gap, Texas, where Norwegian influence dominates and small farming communities remain untouched by modern inconveniences.

Pheobe was  a nameless stump doll made a few years ago but remained dormant in the unfinished project bin due to her scowling face.  Stumbling across a photo of the real Pheobe Ann Pease in a whaling book, I couldn't figure out why she struck me so that I immediately purchased the book.  Then it dawned on me- the kindred souls had found each other! 

   

These girls already have a destination and are nearly ready for their new adventure.  Another day of stitching, movie marathoning and, of course, LATTES, they should be ready for their big debut!

LOVE  &  BRAVE WOMEN!

Ghosts of Saint Olaf's Kirke

 Deep in the heart of Texas, where roads dip and curve through endless pastures under voluminous skies, Saint Olaf's Kirke steeple can be seen long before one actually arrives.  With no modern development for miles, the location is as peaceful as it must have been back in 1886, when the church was built.  St. Olaf's Kirke, also known as Old Rock Church, is listed as one of the most haunted places in Texas.  With such ethereal beauty and solitude it's easy to see why the dead would return, linger, or possibly be confused: St Olaf's Kirke is the closest I've ever been to Heaven here on Earth.

Located a few miles outside of Cranfill's Gap, Texas, this church is officially in the middle of the nowhere ghost towns that quilt together to form Central Texas.  The church was rennovated in 2009, and is a living testimony to the area's early Norwegian settlers. 

The silence is astounding.  It's five decibels below silent.  The wind blows the dried winter grass without a sound.  The only emotion one can feel is calm.  Legend has it that if you listen closely, you will hear the sweet voices of past parishioners singing hymns in the pews.  Some visitors have reported hearing organ music, while others have seen misty figures in the graveyard.

When I visit this church I love to sit in the pews and stare out the windows.  Simple stained and bulls eye glass offers open views of the surrounding hills, unchanged for more than a century. 

 

How lovely it would be to go back in time to live in towns where people truly relied on one another.  Simple times when social media consisted of sewing circles and mercantile chatter.  Places where imagination and ingenuity were prized over possessions.  Towns where families stayed together instead of spreading out across the globe.

Perhaps the true haunting that visitors encounter at Saint Olaf's Kirke is the product of their own peaceful thoughts and inner need to connect with the past.  In a world that is so tech savvy and relationship poor, Saint Olaf's offers guests a break from the modern world.

The church is open to the public and closely guarded by a nearby rancher.  Be sure to sign the guest book and take nothing more than candid photos.  You just might be one of the lucky ones to see someone from the past.

LOVE  &  GHOST TRIPPING!

 

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Shopping Local With Artist Beth Anderson

Nestled amongst Farm to Market roads along the Texas Independence Trail is the wee tiny town of Round Top.  If you are an artist of any sort, you dream of such an idyllic location: rolling hills, well-preserved historic farms,  meticulously maintained structures, and a welcoming community with a population under 100.  From her quaint Round Top studio, Beth Anderson brings rural Texas to life in vibrant color.

Beth's studio, located in Henkel Square, is a visual treat inside and out!  From the inviting front porch to the cottage casual feel within, visitors are greeted  with the simple richness of rural country life.  Seafoam green bathes the interior walls- a natural choice for this artist with Floridian roots.  The color is the perfect back light for Beth's paintings. 

There is no rush inside the studio.  Beth is a beautiful lady who loves to talk about what inspires her paintings, her travels, and Round Top life.  Little did she know, she was inspiring something within my husband and me as we spoke about life as an artist in a small town.  Beth and her husband started the transition with a weekend home in Round Top, slowly retiring and committing to the country life- a dream hubby and I have decided to seriously pursue.

  

Though her husband passed away ten years ago, his spirit lives on through Beth's paintings as he was the inspiration behind her popular "Egg Lady" series.   Beth also specializes in capturing historic slices of life with scenes from cotton fields, quilt sales, and local churches.

Shopping local artists provides an opportunity to get to know the person behind the work, form new friendships, and be amazed at the power of art to feed the soul.  Personal boutiques offer smaller gifts, just as fabulous, without the high dollar investments of the artist's primary works. 

Hubby and I fell in love with this Texas flag-roofed barn painting.  Such rooves are a common sight in Texas and embody that powerful sense of state pride we enjoy in Texas.  We just had to treat ourselves to this gem! 

 We also purchased a second painting as a Christmas gift.  

Driving away from Round Top, we were in love with the town and the artists we met in Henkel Square.  Perhaps we loved Beth most because she is a Floridian in love with Texas, just like us.  Perhaps it was that fabulous seafoam green and the floor to ceiling displays of rural love.  It might've just been her grand smile and warm nature that made Beth Anderson so remarkable.  Whatever it was, our trip to Round Top was made all the more merry and bright! 

This year, give a gift you will talk about for years to come.  For a stress-free, less crowded, more meaningful Christmas shopping trip- please do yourself and your community the honor of shopping local.  You never know who you might meet! 

LOVE  &  LOCAL ARTISTS!

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This Little Mousey Went To Market

Pinch me, give me the smelling salts, something!! I must be dreaming!!  It's funny how a supply run turned into my first retail opportunity in my most fave store in all of the Houston/Glaveston area.  If you happen to be in this area you can now shop Hand of Bela Peck at Hendley Market on the Strand.

Hendley Market is my go-to shop to pick up silkworm cocoons and PaPaYa paper goods- two essential crafting ingredients for me!  This ecclectic shop also offers rare antiques, steampunk curiosities, and whimsy from around the world.  So last Saturday, druing Dickens on the Strand, I stopped in to pick up some cocoons when I was asked what I was doing with these wee wonders.  As I stumbled through my explanation, my savvy daughter grabbed my phone and pulled up a photo of my mice.  From there it was an explosion of oohs and ahhs and photo sharing.  The store owner asked me to bring in some mice and I just about passed out envisioning my goodes in this ultra hip Glaveston landmark!

And so I went into hiding and high production mode for three sleepless days.  I didn't stop until my basket was full!  Then off to market I went!

I pictured my goodes in a corner, but (nearly passing out again!) they went right on the front table!  Oh how fabulous they look right next to PaPaYa holiday tags and festive offerings from other local artists!

The Momma Mice are thrilled with their public debut and look forward to lots of customers admiring their wee babes in the cocoons!

I am over the moon with my first retail placement and can't imagine a better fit for my charachters.  It's high anxiety in the letting go of my work but also joyful anticipation of this new adventure in growing my business!  And I owe it all to my own wee baby who is now 17!  Wonder if I could fit her back into a tiny cocoon and carry her around a little longer?  Yeah............ probably not!

LOVE  &  NEW OPPORTUNITIES!

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Ghost Tripping in Rustic Texas

Tiny Texas towns are connected by Farm to Market roads; essential highways for farmers to get their goods to consumers back in the day. Today these roads are scenic paths to a land that time has forgotten and nature has staked her reclaim.

Picturesque barns mark the hilltops from which nearly the whole county can be seen.  Standing in their presence, there are few passing cars, no traffic lights, and a silence breached only by the cool whisper of an autumn wind.

There is no shortage of obvious beauty and tranquility along Texas Farm to Market Roads.  And for this Yankee in search of fall foliage, I was not disappointed.

  

But stoic barns and bright leafed trees are not what we seek.  We are looking for lost stables and hidden houses that time has deemed no longer worthy to occupy. 

Not long outside of Washington, Texas, we find our first house just off the road alongside a horse pasture.  Making sure that the land is truly abandoned by checking for any signs of an existing trailer or no trespassing signs, we trudge through the overgrown blackberry bushes and nettles to reach the front porch.

  

Inside these fallen gems is often a time capsule of a former happy life.  Our rule is that we are here to observe the past, honor the previous occupants, and admire the rustic beauty of the decaying process.  This particular house was left as if one day the dishes were washed, the screen door was left open for an evening stroll, and no one ever returned.  Deeds, jewelry, and photographs all returning to dust.

The preserved color pallette of the inside walls makes me wonder what type of gardens this fine lady might have been growing.  Perhaps mustard, collard greens and robust climbing roses ruled the soil here.

 We can feel spirits of the orignal owners walk with us through the house.  By taking nothing from these homes, we assure the departed we mean them no disrespect.

 

Washington County was big on cotton. But even the regal plantations are no match for mother nature.  This majestic beauty is fortunate enough to be roughly maintained and protected by the rancher whose new house is across the street.  This once-stately house sits eerily empty, appearing as it has for 100 years and more.

Then there are the treasures that sit smack in the middle of a cow pasture.  This is where we blur the line between historical adventurer, ghost seeker, and misdemeanor charges; or simply getting shot in an act of country justice.

The early pioneer vibe was strong in this old farmhouse.  From the hand-scraped walls to the muslin curtains, every room held history lessons in early rustic Texas life.

Ironically, the newer addition is leaning back to earth before the original construction. 

  

Windows are the soul of the house.  At every stop, a window shot is taken.  Looking out from within- over the endless prairie, I can feel the panic of a pioneer as the Indians descended or as the pastures cooked in record drought.  I can hear the children playing in between their chores of a hard farm life.

  

 Nowhere is the harsh reality of country life more apparent than in the graveyards.  Rural cemeteries are no exception from mother nature's progress.  Family plots, often including several children, are split open by mature tree roots and impaled by large oak trunks anchoring shade.

  

Sometimes on our journey we find ourselves back in familiar places.  Just outside of Bellville, Texas is a peculiar graveyard of rough stones and haphazzard plots.  Last year this graveyard was 75% covered with neglect; odd for a graveyard so close to daily life. We were happy to see that some of the buried graves were being carved out of the underbrush. 

Though there are still many markers anhialated by time, twisted into the mature landscape, or marked only by a stem of artificial flowers, there is progress to honor the past.

 

Still perplexing is that some of these forgotten graves are often less than fifty years old; some less than five years old.  Walking through the brush and scrub oak, there are strange soft spots, discarded metal markers and overturned cement floral urns.  Most disturbing is that alongside the newly discovered graves is a fresh burial of a teenager.

This cemetery is close to our heart in mystery and intrigue.  Not unlike the farmhouses that now shelter the livestock, all in country life is a slow moving circle without dramatic ends.  Things simply come full circle.  New structures live out their usefulness and transform through decay to empty space and historical markers. 

Without care or tending, their significance returns to dust to nurture the soil for the next wave of growth.  But in this cyclical process there are those of us who find beauty in the forgotten and broken down.  Perhaps it's our way of slowing down our own aging, to see what's real, and what is truly beautiful within ourselves.

LOVE  &  HONOR THE PAST

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Vintage Politics

 Patriotic days always have me reaching for an old history book or stopping to admire one of my WWII posters.  Ever since my Emerson College days when the worlds of the Brattle Bookstore and Reverend Coffee's historical lecture classes collided, I have been a fan of the power of protest and propaganda in US History.

Emerson was one of those small colleges tucked away in Boston's Back Bay, where as a student I spent many hours trading Godiva chocolate for extra history chats with my beloved professor.  The son of a US Senator, he was animated and passionate about history- always encouraging students to look beyond the news and research our own conclusions.

Not far from Emerson, in Downtown Crossing, the Brattle Bookstore sold the offbeat, obscure history books for as little as $1 a piece in the adjoining vacant lot.  My husband (then boyfriend) and I would read away an afternoon with vintage books enticed by subjects as varied as old war poetry, Industrial Revolution training for children, and the history of tea.

I always paid special attention to inscriptions, receipts, and book plates- as if they were hand-written footpaths to forgotten ettiquette.

Twenty years later, married to "then boyfriend", I am happily surprised to watch the same love of history held by my daughter.  She is a huge fan of US History, Women's Rights, and infamous dark periods that shaped the social changes the US. 

This Suffragate print is from her collection.

It is shocking to my daughter to think of a time when women were not allowed to vote, work outside the home or serve in the military.   

Today, she is 6 months shy of 18.  Although unable to vote in the Presidential election, she has paid close attention to the issues and asked me first thing this morning what time today would I be voting.  I just had to share with her an old book discussiing the politics of home as a woman's greatest industry.

I assumed from her subsequent eye roll I had shared this book a few too many times already.

Twenty three years ago, I bought  The Heart of The World at the Brattle.  I turned her pages while sitting with my "then boyfriend/now hubby" on the Boston Commons, and I debated her issues with my beloved Reverend Coffee in his over-crowded brownstone office.  When this book was written a woman's place was in the home.  I imagine many women of the time were divided on the voting rights issue- many believing the home would suffer if women turned their attentions away.

But women truly are the heart of the world- in and out of the home.

So on this Election Day, I want to take a brief moment to thank all the women who paved the way for me to be educated, to be able to vote, to choose whether or not I want to work outside the home, to cheer on women who choose to fight, and to know that these rights will be assured for my daughter as well. 

LOVE  &  COUNTRY

Sweet Hauntings of the Baker Hotel

My favorite haunt in all of Texas is the Baker Hotel in Mineral Wells.  She rises from the center of her desolate town, commanding the skyline with the prestiege of a gothic queen.  When I first saw her in 2006, I was in awe.  When I found out her abandoned hallways were some of the most haunted in Texas- well then I simply fell in love.

Empty for nearly 30 years, the Baker is hard to imagine as the premiere health spa that drew in movie stars, the uber-wealthy, and politicians eager to rejuvenate in her healing waters. Famous gangsters Bonnie and Clyde even hid out at the Baker as welcomed guests.

Ghosts of the Baker are peaceful and plentiful.  It is said by those in the spiritual-know that spirits returned to the Baker because of the happiness and opulence they enjoyed there in life.  Of course, the Baker has a few tragic ghosts who are said to remain: the lovesick mistress who jumped to her death and the young waiter cut in half by the elevator while horsing around with his co-workers.   But all in all- there are no malicious spirits known to exist at the Baker.

During early visits to the Baker, entrance into the boarded-up beauty was easy.  One hoist and skip over the balcony onto the second level by way of a bridge- and into the the hotel hubby and I would go.

  

The main draw was to find the spa floor.  Once a state of the art holistic healing floor- today it looks more like a scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

My earliest pics of the Baker were much better but are currently held hostage on a crashed computer.

  

The source of all this holistic goodness?  Crazy Water.  The minerals in the local water were rumored to have cured a woman of insanity and hence: Crazy water.

As with any proper haunting, the basics of photography fall victim to spirits who distort the images when all the lighting and settings are correct.  Orbs and mists are in abundance and that sense of being watched wears like an old wool sweater.  But there is sweetness in the dank air where silverwear cheerfully clanks and the piano still plays as if the Baker continues to host an elegant afterlife affair.

 

In the past few years, the Baker has been purchased and is currently undergoing a massive restoration effort.  This put an end to easy access and the beginning of criminal trespass charges for ghost hunters caught inside.  Everyone wants the Baker to come back to life, spirits included. 

This past summer, in attempts to raise restoration funds the Baker began offering ghost tours for a  small price.  Oh how I wish I still lived near her!  I would gladly pay for a tour everyday!  For now, I will have to wait to see what A&E's Ghost Hunters found on their recent investigation of the Baker.

To see the Baker in her hayday, take a few minutes to watch Kevin Pruitt's Ballad of the Baker- it is a stunning portrait of a by-gone era that many of us hope to see return to Mineral Wells.  From this video is easy to see why a ghost would choose to return.

LOVE  &  HALLOWEEN HAUNTINGS!!