Cursed Lederhosen and the mildewed red silk "Badge of Honor"

The Laundress ain't getting the clothes washed lately.

Dirty laundry is piling up in heaps, as she rummages around, stuffing trash bags with moldy garments that once were lovely.

This hurts. It is so wasteful to be tossing out well-tailored garments made of interesting fabrics. If only these things had been properly cared for, perhaps my family would be adorned in a spectacularly eccentric wardrobe -- or have enough curious apparel to stock a wonderful vintage shop -- for YEARS.

Been preoccupied with the archelogical dig known as "cleaning out the basement" -- in an old house, stuffed with moving boxes transferred from an even older house. Among today's interesting discoveries: my husband (and/or other members of his family?) have owned at least four pair of Lederhosen.

Yes. It is weird.

Every time I find a pair, I throw them in the trash -- and yet they keep materializing. I did send one pair, with especially fancy embroidery, to Goodwill, thinking someone else might appreciate them in spite of a light case of mildew. Yet, even after spending so many of my vacation days tidying up, cursed Lederhosen keep popping out of the woodwork. I thought our household was finally rid of this plague of leathery shorts. Nope. Not yet. Maybe this was the last pair?

Admittedly, the kid with the shining, smiling face in the image up above looks adorable in his snappy short pants. If you too have a hankering for Lederhosen, you can purchase them online from Bavaria Lederhosen (the site where I found the cute kid picture). But please take care of them, they cost many euros and are meant to last.

Also discovered today: many wonderful books*, which I have dragged home in spite of their smelly, fragile condition. One, simply labeled "Album" in gold leaf on a black leather cover, was my husband's mother's grandmother's autograph book. The handwritten dedication is dated July 1853. Most of the writings inside are dated from 1853 - 1859.

It was a commercially-produced book, with lots of blank pages, interspersed with assorted romantic and fanciful illustrations. In between the pictures, the "blank" pages have been filled with handwritten silly poems from her friends. Some poems are copied and some are (sweetly, obviously) original compositions. Most inscriptions are in ink, with blotches, some are in very scratchy pencil. The album also includes really scary remains of pressed flowers (magnolia blossoms and lily-of-the-valley, I think). My favorite part, discovered at the end of the book, is a gorgeously-lettered, tattered scrap of red satin ribbon. Spotty with mildew but still legible. Here is what it says:

Laporte Public Schools
---
BADGE OF
HONOR,
PRESENTED FOR
PUNCTUALITY,
The Recipient not having been
Tardy nor Absent during an Entire
Year.
June 25, 1869

What is up with the sixteen-year spread between obtaining the book and gathering the "autographs"/poems and notes and then this most honorable badge? Maybe the badge-winner and the book-owner were not the same people? Just a little puzzle.

Also found a wealth of other curiosities, including several odd 1800s letters from Midwesterners abroad in S. America and Europe, some pre-Civil War militia journals and workbooks and correspondence from a well-known Beat poet. Not to mention three functional typewriters, perhaps the world's first vacuum cleaner (yeah, I know, I thought that was discovered in this same basement 2 years ago. But I was wrong, today's find was much, much older). Surprisingly spectacular: some remarkably strange electronic products (slightly functional but oozing assorted fluids and shedding mysterious chemical powders).

Sadly, in between discoveries, sucked in a few too many lungfuls of mold, coal dust, fiberglass and lord knows what else, so wheezing off to sleep for now -- but more later...

g'night.
*other, decidedly unwonderful books have been sent off to the curb with the Lederhosen.

p.s. MacBlogger issues are back -- will post images and modify this post once I have access to an not-Apple machine.