Saturday, November 25, 2006

Autumn Beauty

















Loud music - Soft drinks

Dear Chroniclers,

after a whirlwind weekend or two, we're taking some time off tonight to put our feet up.

It all has to do with teenygoth's ASBO'n'soft drinks Youth Group at our local parish church in Little Wittering, of which more later.

Pickled and mixed

Regrettably, I have to report that Cook has taken the opportunity to launch yet another spirited attack on the House gin supplies. She's currently to be found sashaying around the TV Room doing the televisual equivalent of a karaoke to "Strictly Come Dancing" whilst draped in an alarming selection of pastry-cutters from the kitchen.

To compound the problem, Fetlock the Butler has recently emerged as triumphant winner in a protracted e-bay auction for a box of mixed turnips. They arrived, mail order from his native Slovenia, earlier this week and he's upstairs in the garrett peeling off the bubble-wrap as we speak. Fetlock intends to put the wretched things to good use shortly, having misguidedly promised to assist Cook with the preparation of Sunday lunch.

The omens, frankly, are not good and a certain unease has already settled on the House as to what the two of them may concoct come the morning. Turnip fritters appear a distinct possibility.

A new mission

Enough of our trials and tributlations - let's return to the theme for tonight's pasting.

Perhaps out of concern as to Cook's ongoing alcoholic challenges, or maybe a little closer to home, a general malaise concerning our own state of moral turpitude, but both mrs electofried and I have been contemplating a change of ministry for some time now.

Whilst mrs electrofried's regular dj slot at our local Women's Institute (the infamous "Loud, Proud and Homebaked") and my own irregular talks to the great unwashed of Little Wittering continue to enjoy a certain following, it has become abundantly clear to us of late there is much need to do more.

The chosen path

"You're kidding me!!!!", was teenygoth's immediate response.

We took this as positive affirmation following mrs electrofried's announcement that we were shortly to join the leadership of the Youth Team at St Simeon's, the Church for the Terminally Bewildered Anglican in Little Wittering.

Regrettably, for teenygoth at least, we weren't and we have ... and great fun it is too!

Windy vantage

The Church for the TBA is to be found at the top of a large hill, overlooking the market square below. Most weekends the youth of the village can be found gathered at this dark and windy vantage point, swapping homework notes on such interesting subjects as Chemistry, Biology and the like.

Evidence of their study is invariably to be found behind the Chancel wall come Sunday morning services, but is usually removed fairly speedily by the Verger before the first of our dear ladies arrive for Matins.

There is however, a new attraction on the hill!

Open for Business

After months of powerful and intense liturgical debate concerning its name, the imaginatively titled, "St Simeon's Church Centre" has opened once more for business. It's a 1950's warehouse of a thing, recently refurbished with copious quantities of EEC money and now suitably bedecked with fancy electronic doors, a new plumbing system and a kitchen clearly designed by a male dwarf with a wicked sense of humour.

And it is here mrs electrofried and I now ply our trade to the passing and frankly bemused young-folk of Little Wittering.

Musical Youth

Opening events for the Centre focussed on all things musical and I'm delighted to say yours truly was asked to fetch out the Box brownies and a box of freshly emulsioned glassy plates.

Mrs electrofried too, was pressed into early action - her role being to crew the lighting rig cunningly fashioned from a torch masked with various coloured wrappers purloined from a half-emptied tin of her beloved Quality Street.

A specimen example appears above - the "Vanilla Fudge Special", if memory serves me correct.

Tales to follow

I sense that as our ministry unfolds there will be much to share with you. Already, after just four weeks in situ, the weekends have sped past in a blur of loud music, soft drinks and general chit-chattery with a burgeoning and highly diverse group of young-folk - some churched, many not.

However, the lure of "X-Factor (reloaded)" calls to me from the TV Room. And I suspect from the loud crash within that poor Cook's karaoke has hit the bumpers yet again.

best regards

electrofried (mr)

Saturday, November 18, 2006

The heart of good and evil

Dear Chroniclers,

this is the last in the series of "Adventures across the Pond". It will be the shortest too, for the actions of the people will speak for themselves.

Helicopters overhead

When we first came into Lancaster on our tour charabanc we saw helicopters flying overhead. We thought nothing of it until we switched on the TV that night in our hotel room.

Preparations

A local milk-truck driver called Charles Carl Roberts IV had pulled up his truck outside an inconspicuous Amish schoolhouse in Nickel Mines three hours before we arrived. It was one of his regular deliveries.

Roberts had prepared his visit meticulously for at least six days beforehand, ticking off a list of items he would take into the schoolroom with him. These included:

  • three guns;

  • a stun gun

  • a bag with 600 rounds of ammunition;

  • a piece of wood pierced with ten eyebolts spaced ten inches apart; and

  • a set of plastic bindings.

There were other things he took into the schoolroom with him.

The heart of evil

Roberts did not emerge alive. Instead, he tied up ten Amish schoolgirls by the blackboard, shot them at close range then put the gun to his own head.

Five of the girls were killed outright, three left in a critical condition and the remaining two seriously injured. They ranged in age from six to thirteen.

The heart of good

The Amish buried their lost girls quietly and as a community. They invited the family of the killer to the funerals, believing they too were victims. They will be sharing the money raised in the wake of the tragedy with the family.

Our last day

On our last full day in Pennsylvania we went into the heart of the Amish community. Here are three memories we carried home with us:

  • the Amish grandmother who greeted us, full of joy, to her quilt-shop. She had three grand-daughters who attended the schoolhouse - one escaped, another was in hospital, her shoulder shattered, the last had just been buried. She harboured no hatred.

  • the ninety-six year old Amish man who showed us around his simple workshop where he still makes the most beautiful furniture.

  • the faces of the straw-haired Amish children who ran out to welcome our charabanc as it pulled up outside the farmhouse where we ate our penultimate meal in Pennsylvania. They greeted us with smiles and waves - the road, just a stone's throw from the schoolhouse, has just been re-opened by the police.
The grace of God

There are tears in my eyes as I type these last words and close the book on our visit. It is the meaning of the grace of God that we saw first-hand in the Amish who carried this message so very faithfully.

The last words are from Him ...

"We know that in all things God works for good with those who love him, those whom he has called according to his purpose."

Romans 8:28


Wednesday, November 15, 2006

American Beauty - Gallery 4













Going for a song!
















Dear Chroniclers,

so here we are again. Take a seat next to me on the hard wooden bench and listen awhile to a lilting song - you'll soon pick up the rhythm if you just let your ears grow accustomed. It starts something like this ...

"tayneantayneantayne ... nowtayneanfiveantayneanfiveantayneanfive!"

The chanted pattern enfolds us and before we know it, we're drifting back in time.

American Gothic

Strasburg is a small "chocolate-box" of a town some fifteen minutes from Lancaster City - the houses that line the main road through its heart are smartly painted and well-kept. One, in particular, catches our eye.

The house in question is set back a little from the road and, unlike its neighbours, it sports a small railing fence delineating the start of a well-manicured garden. Beyond that lies a brick-built mansion. It's flanked on either side by two imposing circular tower-wings, both of which are pierced at regular intervals by a series of leaded-windows.

We pause for a second to admire this American Gothic beauty then pass on by. It's not what we've come to see.

Off Main Street

As the sun begins to fall in a late afternoon sky, we travel a little further west along Main Street then take a left down a small, non-descript turning. A few hundred yards through a picket of white clapper-boarded houses and now it's sharp right.

We've arrived! 203 W Franklin Street - home to the Strasburg Fire Company.

Forgive me for a second if I pause to take a few photographs - unfortunately, I won't be able to get out my camera tomorrow morning as the Amish will be here in force, so I'll take my opportunities while I can. I won't be long - why not go in and take a look around in the meantime?

Exploring the Firehouse

The approach to the firehouse takes you past a swathe of freshly-mown grass and a flag-pole with its stars and stipes lowered to half-mast in respect. There are four huge glazed doors at the front with a vehicle stationed behind each. A simple white sign runs the length of the building just beneath the flat-roofed top. It bears the title, "Strasburg Fire Company No. 1".

You find the Visitors Door. Straight in, then past the Command Office by the entrance and you come to a row of heavy-duty metalled hangers - each bears a thickly padded fireman's uniform and the ubiquitous yellow hat. Their owners are nowhere to be seen.

Buffed and polished

The main hall now lies before you. The newly commissioned, "County Station No 50 -01" boasts two fire-engines, a 3,000 gallon tanker and a Chevy 4x4 Crew Cab and all of them have been buffed and polished until their red-lacquer paint gleams spotless.

You see your reflection in the immaculate chromework ... and just behind you a shadowy figure holding a camera.

"Click!"

I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have crept up behind you like that. I do hope I didn't startle you. Take a few moments to get your breath back then follow me - there's something else I want to show you.

A Feast of Quilts

We walk to the far end of the firehouse where two huge metal frames have been erected, one on each side of the hall. Both are clad in hundreds of hand-crafted quilts, from which just four of the very best have been carefully selected for mounting on the end wall.

The display is a dazzling kaleidoscope of colour and pattern. Stars, zig-zags, fabric leaves, rough-cut patches and smooth creamy rows of hand-stitched embroidery all melt dizzyingly into one. It's more than we can take in.

The unpacking of parcels

We watch as, one by one, the members of our tour party unfurl the packages they've transported across the Atlantic. Each new item is named, catalogued and added to the assembled racks of quiltery.

Mrs electrofried's turn arrives and we bid a fond farewell to "Lancaster Dream" as it joins the display - a wall-hanging in autumnal brown and yellow that she's been working on for weeks.

It's time to go now, but we'll be back again, come the morning, for Strasburg's legendary Annual Quilt Sale.

Custom and Tradition

Like many rural towns in America, the vast majority of the buildings in Strasburg are timber-framed, so an effective fire-fighting capability is essential. However, across in the States much of the fire-service is maintained on a voluntary basis.

Fund-raising events accordingly play a vital role in sustaining the service. In the case of Strasburg, the legendary Quilt Auction has been at the heart of its fund-raising endeavours for many years. It's an event organised by the Amish as part of their contribution to the wider community in which they live.

And there's another long standing tradition - visiting quilters from England bring with them a piece of work to be entered in the sale. So for now, all we need is a good night's sleep and then we can return first thing tomorrow to experience the Auction first-hand.

Sitting on the bench

I do hope you're feeling refreshed - it's going to be a long but fascinating day.

We're back once more in the main hall of the firehouse, only this time it's populated by a steadily growing audience. We take a seat towards the back, on one of fifty or so wooden benches brought in overnight by the Amish. They use them for their fortnightly religious services and they're just as uncomfortable as the typical of Anglican church-pew, though conceivably occupied rather more regularly.

It's only ten o'clock, but already the hall is almost two thirds full. Next door there's a sale of Amish-made furniture and toys, and it too is doing brisk business. The auctioneers on either side of the thin dividing wall do battle to be heard with competing whoops and cries.

Let's settle down and let our ears get accustomed to their rhythmic cadence. Do you remember the start of the song?

"tayneantayneantayne ... nowtayneanfiveantayneanfiveantayneanfive!"

The team gets to work

We watch in fascination as the Amish auction team get to work. The smaller items go on sale first and for this five players are sent out - one auctioneer, two spotters, the book-keeper and the deliverer. Each one weaves in and out of the tableaux before us in a carefully orchestrated dance.

The auctioneer commands centre-stage. He grips the sides of the stand and peers over it like a judge at court, gavel in hand. It's his dipping and barking chant that provides music to the movement.

The spotters stand on opposite sides of the room - two gnarled football managers, each goading on his team to victory. When his side is ahead in the bidding, the spotter rolls a folded Auction catalogue round and round in the air - the sign to keep watch for a competing bid from the opposition. Meanwhile, the opposing spotter will jab a similarly folded catalogue toward his team, seeking to tease out a higher bid that will win the day.

And so battle is done - a mesmeric chant and alternating movements of folded catalogues, rolling and jabbing as the bidding war passes from one side of the room to the other - until at last the victor emerges.

The book-keeper records the number of the successful bidder and the spoils of victory are promptly delivered by the final member of the team.

A pretty bonnet

This pattern is repeated time and again as the smaller items are struck, line-by-line, from the catalogue. Pillows, wall-hangings, linings and fabric bundles are all swallowed up by the sea of bidders, many of whom have travelled across State to join the Auction.

One moment of humour interrupts the flow briefly when a rather fetching pink bonnet comes up for sale. The deliverer seizes the opportunity to remove his traditional Amish straw headgear and replace it with the bonnet in question. He earns much laughter and a round of applause from the audience, and we suspect a "ticking off" to follow from his elders.

Noon fast approaches and we await a special announcement from our auctioneer.

Cousins across the Atlantic

At length the sale of the smaller items comes to an end. The Amish auction team has been rotated twice and now the original members return to take their place to host a special slot that has become part of the tradition for the day.

The English quilts are introduced to a round of applause and much blushing from the assembled tour party, all of whom have returned to see their handiwork go under the hammer. "Lancaster Dream" comes up toward the end and mrs electrofried is delighted to learn she's raised $95 to support the fire-service. Job well done!

Raised high

Now the smaller stuff has been despatched and the English sale completed, the time has almost come to bring on the stars of the show.

The charged atmosphere in the hall goes up several notches as a fresh Auction team steps up, this time supplemented by two further groups of young Amish girls. They take up position on each side of the auctioneer as two matching sets of pulleys and ropes are lowered from the ceiling. Their purpose quickly becomes clear as the first large quilt from the rack is pegged to a fixing bar and hoisted high up in the air for all to see.

The chant resumes and we're off once more ... only this time the bidding goes into hundreds, rather than tens, of dollars. Even so, there are bargains to be had aplenty. Last year the best quilts raised in excess of a thousand dollars each, now they struggle to achieve a little over half that figure.

Mrs electrofried enters the fray

Of course, mrs electrofried is not to be denied. Family savings have been scraped together and a small non-interest bearing loan of Slovenian Tolars extracted under duress from Fetlock the Butler. And now the purse lies in her tender care.

Her first purchase is a navy, rust and cream log-cabin quilt. The hand-stitching in part can best be described as "rustic". Mrs electrofried believes the quilt may well have been worked up by an Amish mother and a young daughter, which only adds to the charm of it.

An hour or so later the girls manning the pulley on the right-hand side of the hall hoist up another log-cabin quilt, this time in green and cream. Poignantly, the middle panel depicts an Amish schoolhouse. Under instructions I raise my hand once, twice, then a third time and as the bidding closes the auctioneer calls out for our number to record in his book.

For many reasons, this quilt will provide a focus for prayer in our House - it lays upstairs as I type, ready to be put on our bed.

A long day comes to an end

Once more the sun begins to fall and it's time to make our way back to the charabanc. Our heads spin with dizzying patterns, colours, dances, rotating, jabbing catalogues, whirring pulleys and ropes - all the while accompanied by the rhythm of this song. I believe you may know it by now, it goes ...

"tayneantayneantayne ... nowtayneanfiveantayneanfiveantayneanfive"

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)