Every one has a story. Even a cookie jar pig! Do you see her sweet smile, and how her long lashes coyly hide her little piggy eyes? She has sat on the counter for sixty seven years. Not the same counter, although shes has stood on this one for quite a while. She has no cookies in her tummy now. But I remember! Oh, how I remember. All those cookies. Molassess crinkles and snickerdoodles and chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin...just to name a few. And don't forget prune tarts. Always prune tarts at Christmas time. I wonder how many times I had my hand in there, grabbing a cookie?
It was war time in this country. A young man had come home from Europe. He was home with his family in Minnesota, that beautiful land of one thousand lakes. His family is estatic to have him home again. All those months of worry and letters and prayers are behind them now. A sweet young girl comes from Michigan to see him. They have been engaged for a while. How the letters flew. Even her engagement ring comes through the mail. He was stationed in Little Rock, Arkansas. Her brothers tease her about her little rock from Little Rock. He still has a year to serve Uncle Sam. The war is raging in the Pacific. He doesn't know where he will be sent next. They decide to get married right away before he has to go again.
She calls her mother, in Michigan. She tells her they are coming home to get married. Thats all for planning, in that day and time. She comes with all his family. She has a blue wool suit, even though it is July. She shops for a nice white blouse, but every thing is scarce. She finds a white dicky, and is satisfied. Her mother has cleaned and scrubbed the house. The fresh Michigan breeze comes in the windows and the screen doors. The white curtains flutter and sigh. She is the baby of the family. Where did the years fly, that now she can be leaving the nest?
Her mother tales the white dish pan from the pantry and walks across the road where the wild strawberries grow. Oh, sweet wild strawberries, warmed by the Michigan sun and kissed by the Michigan dew. They grow with wild abandon among the old mines and the rock piles that dot the landscape. They are tiny. They grow so close to the ground. Almost, you can't see them unless you get right down and peer beneath the leaves and the starry white blossoms. Only a mothers love could send her searching, crawling and bending, to fill that pan with tiny red jewels. All the long, warm morning she dances a dance. Kneel and reach, bend and sway, find a berry and pluck it so gentle that it will not be bruised. Does she think that it is the same dance that she has danced to raise this lovely daughter? Kneel in prayer, search for wisdom, pluck the tender fruit, but do not bruise and mar it?
Then, weary, she walks back over the stretch of pasture, her pan of berries on her hip. Into the coolness of the house. In to her immaculate kitchen. Into her organised pantry, where she makes flakey delicate pastry and fills the pie tins with the sweetness of that summer day. She plies the kitchen range with kindling and wood. A nice hot fire in that shiny
Westland Giftware Piglet and Eyesore Ceramic Cookie Jar, 11.5-Inch
Kitchen (Westland Giftware)
Reproduction cataloges2009-01-24 20:41:22 by mooonie
You might want to subscribe to publications that companies put out that flog reproductions on an ill informed public.
Everything from glass to "old toys" comes in this country from usually, the Far East.
Unless you're familiar with what the real article looks like, it can be daunting.
Having a little black light would be a good investment for you.
Very collectible pottery...ookie jars and the weight of cookie jar..this is an example..the real one weighs more and has wear on the "feet/hooves"
another example would be cast iron banks-antique stores are rife with them. You look for sloppy seams, modern screws
You need to become an expert in any area to be able to purchase without getting taken.
Old vintage art prints are another big area of fakes....
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Walking into the new Raymond's in Ridgewood, which opened in December and joins the very popular original in Montclair, I felt as though I'd emerged from a time machine and into a 1960s-era luncheonette, the tin ceiling, cookie jars on the white marble ...