At this point I have written a few essays beyond the 700 mark. It is possible that it is a repeat of an earlier essay, but I doubt it. And in any case, it is a pleasant memory which obviously bears repeating.
In 1955 my employer decided that he had a promotion for me and I should leave the confines of Chicago. And so it was that my wife at the time and my 14- or 15-month-old daughter arrived in New Jersey. We had determined that New Jersey would be the place where we would live. Our want ad was answered by a fellow who owned a five-acre farm. As it turned out, he was leaving to pursue divinity studies and he wished to keep the farm under his control. The farm was a well-known establishment called the Rickenbacker Farm which abounded in berries of all kinds and outbuildings that were in good shape. My daughter, known as Blondie, alias Ellen Maureen, took to farm life with great enthusiasm. The house was a bit old. It had a large room on the second floor near my daughter’s bedroom. There were a table and some chairs in this room. Immediately Blondie decided that she would have endless tea parties.
Now, the tea parties were not totally tea parties but they consisted of a pot of water filled from the tap, which she considered her tea. A good many people were invited to Blondie’s tea parties. I remember a woman from Chicago who had worked with me in Chicago Traffic visiting the home. Her name was Ann Hincks, who was then about 58 or 60. Ann Hincks was an Irish woman who fell in with Maureen’s tea party idea with great gusto. She stayed on the farm for perhaps two or three days, long enough for her to be inundated with tea parties. Ann Hincks was a good Irish woman who spoke tea partyese.
When Ann left, there was a neighbor named Jesse Neilsen, who lived on the next party south of us. Jesse and Blondie formed a bond. Jesse had a picnic table on her back porch where she often canned vegetables. Jesse was very much like Ann Hincks in that she could talk to Maureen, her discussions being interspersed by salvos of laughter. Jesse’s husband, Chris Neilsen, sat on a stool behind Maureen and from time to time he laughed so hard that he had to steady the stool. Now mind you, all of these discussions were of a very serious nature. As I reported in an earlier essay, it was Chris who cut a path with his scythe so that Maureen could traverse our home to Jesse’s place.
Now that I have told you about Ann Hincks and Jessie Neilsen, where do I fit in? When Maureen’s mother tired of Maureen’s tea party activities, I was often drafted to be a recipient of the tea being served. Remember, this tea came right out of the spigot in the nearby bathroom.
But I was not an easy customer to satisfy. When Maureen served me a cup of the imaginary tea, I often would tell her that it was too hot. She would take a sip and say, “It is not too hot.” Then on another occasion when Blondie would serve me a cup of tea, I would announce that it was too cold. By this time, Blondie knew that I was just a trouble maker.
Then there were other occasions when I would sit at Maureen’s table and order a cup of tea and, when it was produced, I would announce that it was “too just right.” At this point, Maureen gave up all hope of my eternal salvation. We both knew that I was just kidding but at Maureen’s tea parties this was a serious business.
Well, time has gone on. At this juncture, Maureen is flirting with her late fifties in terms of age. I would suspect that our good friends Jessie and Chris and our great friend Ann Hincks are probably no longer with us. But before these essays are finished, I wanted to establish that there was a time when the phrase “too just right” was in vogue. In spite of our being moved from Chicago to New York, the years on the farm were happy years.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the farm was located next to a Catholic church. By this time, nearly two years after we arrived in New Jersey, Maureen had a sister known as Spooky Suze. One day there was a knock on our kitchen door and when it was opened, a priest from the church came in. His mission was to tell us that the church had acquired the property that we had been renting. He was a very nice fellow. He played with Maureen and also held her sister. He wanted to make it clear that we were under no pressure to move out of the house and find other quarters.
As it turned out, there was a new development in this town of New Providence which appealed to us and we bought a home there. I shall never forget the decency that the priest of Our Lady of Peace showed to us. It is one of the high points as I recall the events of that time. Good old Blondie did not invite the priest to have one of her cups of tea. I am quite certain that if she had done so, the priest would have announced that it was “too just right.” He would have joined me in that assessment.
But the fact is that gregarious Blondie did not offer the priest a cup of tea. If she had done so, perhaps we would still be living on the farm. So that is the story about “too just right.” I hope that it brings gladness to your heart or to your esophagus or some other vital organ. Always remember that the tea from the tap could be too hot or it could be too cold or probably it may be “too just right.”
These events happened sometime in the 1955 – 1957 time period. I wanted to record my observations in an essay before I grew too old to remember them. If you order a cup of tea somewhere and pronounce it “too just right,” do not expect that the waitress will be pleased with you. And so, on that note, I conclude this essay about Blondie, Ann Hincks, Jessie and Chris Neilsen, and, regrettably, the priest from Our Lady of Peace who did not share in the tea drinking. Maureen lives in New York now and the next time she comes around here, I will remind her that she owes a cup of tea to the priest from Our Lady of Peace church. I suspect that she will be pleased.
E. E. CARR
October 22, 2012
Essay 709
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Kevin’s commentary: Another favorite, easy. First off, the idea of my aunt being anywhere but New York city, much less a farm. I probably could not think of someone less suited to a farm if I tried, but apparently she did it. Beyond that, it brings me some weird happiness to think about Pop playing with his kids who are now in their fifties. Or mid thirties, in the case of my mother, according to her.