Tradtional Diet

Something to think about...
How long did YOUR ancestors live while eating BACON, LARD, & WHOLE MILK?

My Great-Grandma was a tough ol’ chick. She ate real, traditional food & could cook up fried chicken from scratch. When I say “from scratch” I literally mean “from scratch”. As in, she would kill a chicken, dress it, coat it with flour, and fry that baby up in a big ‘ol frying pan of lard... Following a traditional diet will give us optimal health. Seasonal fruits & vegetables, grains, milk, butter, cream, meat, seafood, eggs – all in the best form possible and if you can digest them – is the key to weight loss and disease reversal.

Pine Needle Basket

Article that goes with the video: Pine Needle Basket

 

Cherry Hill Museum

"The historic house was built in 1789 and was home to 5 generations of hoarding Van Rensselaers. The collection if items collected by the family over time include over 3,000 photographs, 7,000 textiles, 20,000 objects, 30,000 manuscript among other things. It is a naturally accumulated time capsule of the family and the time periods in which they lived. In 1963, the last remaining member of the family died and the house became a museum." (source)

Historic Cherry Hill House Museum Website
Help Save Cherry Hill Museum

Bed

In bed we laugh, in bed we cry;
And born in bed, in bed we die;
The near approach a bed may show
Of human bliss to human woe.
Isaac de Benserade

A poem by William Morris

For the Bed at Kelmscott
by William Morris

The wind's on the wold
And the night is a-cold,
And Thames runs chill
Twixt mead and hill,
But kind and dear
Is the old house here,
And my heart is warm
Midst winter's harm.
Rest then and rest,
And think of the best
Twixt summer and spring
When all birds sing
In the town of the tree,
As ye lie in me
And scarce dare move
Lest earth and its love
Should fade away
Ere the full of the day.

I am old and have seen
Many things that have been,
Both grief and peace,
And wane and increase.
No tale I tell
Of ill or well,
But this I say,
Night treadeth on day,
And for worst and best
Right good is rest.

Telescopic Philanthropy

One of the memorable characters seen in Charles Dickens' many novels is Mrs. Jellyby. The "telescopic philanthropist" of "Bleak House" who obsessed with bettering an obscure African tribe but having little regard to her duties as wife and mother; or the notion of charity beginning at home. She spiritually abandons her family to work on philanthropic project to help people far away who she has never seen. The Borrioboola-Gha venture is in deepest darkest Africa, the project ends in a most gruesome manner when a local African chief attacks the project base and sells all the volunteers into slavery and then uses the money to acquire rum. Sadly Mrs. Jellyby leans nothing from this starts another philanthropic project.

Mrs. Jellyby seems to care little for her husband and children. Her oldest daughter is worked constantly on philanthropic projects and sits bitterly her ink-spattered dress sinking deeper into bitterness and cynicism. The younger children are left to fend for themselves. And her husband sinks into a suicidal despair. Her own family or for that matter poor of London are of little interest to her. Sadly forgetting that one's first duty is to your own kith and kin is still a problem today.

Proverbs 31

"The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil... She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life...She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens... She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy... She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness... Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her."

Titus 2

"...teach the young women to be sober, to love their husbands, to love their children, To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed."

High-Wheel Cultivator

A useful tool in the garden.

Plans:Anyone Can Build A Planet Whizbang Wheel Hoe

Lehmans High-Wheel Cultivator

Hoss Wheel Hoe

The Homespun Dress

The Homespun Dress by Carrie Belle Sinclair (Text)

Honor To Woman

Honor To Woman
A poem by Frederich Schiller

Honor to woman! To her it is given
To garden the earth with the roses of heaven!
All blessed, she linketh the loves in their choir
In the veil of the graces her beauty concealing,
She tends on each altar that's hallowed to feeling,
And keeps ever-living the fire!

From the bounds of truth careering,
Man's strong spirit wildly sweeps,
With each hasty impulse veering
Down to passion's troubled deeps.
And his heart, contented never,
Greeds to grapple with the far,
Chasing his own dream forever,
On through many a distant star!
But woman with looks that can charm and enchain,
Lureth back at her beck the wild truant again,
By the spell of her presence beguiled--
In the home of the mother her modest abode,
And modest the manners by Nature bestowed
On Nature's most exquisite child!

Bruised and worn, but fiercely breasting,
Foe to foe, the angry strife;
Man, the wild one, never resting,
Roams along the troubled life;
What he planneth, still pursuing;
Vainly as the Hydra bleeds,
Crest the severed crest renewing--
Wish to withered wish succeeds.

But woman at peace with all being, reposes,
And seeks from the moment to gather the roses--
Whose sweets to her culture belong.
Ah! richer than he, though his soul reigneth o'er
The mighty dominion of genius and lore,
And the infinite circle of song.

Strong, and proud, and self-depending,
Man's cold bosom beats alone;
Heart with heart divinely blending,
In the love that gods have known,
Soul's sweet interchange of feeling,
Melting tears--he never knows,
Each hard sense the hard one steeling,
Arms against a world of foes.

Alive, as the wind-harp, how lightly soever
If wooed by the zephyr, to music will quiver,
Is woman to hope and to fear;
All, tender one! still at the shadow of grieving,
How quiver the chords--how thy bosom is heaving--
How trembles thy glance through the tear!

Man's dominion, war and labor;
Might to right the statue gave;
Laws are in the Scythian's sabre;
Where the Mede reigned--see the slave!
Peace and meekness grimly routing,
Prowls the war-lust, rude and wild;
Eris rages, hoarsely shouting,
Where the vanished graces smiled.

But woman, the soft one, persuasively prayeth--
Of the life that she charmeth, the sceptre she swayeth;
She lulls, as she looks from above,
The discord whose bell for its victims is gaping,
And blending awhile the forever escaping,
Whispers hate to the image of love!

The Washboard

Columbus Washboard Company