The Wonder of December

Magic dwells within every month, from the ruby red of a February heart to the chromium yellow of a sunrise in August. It drifts like wandlight over the gardens of June and flies along with October leaves. But every month holds something back, keeps a petal of unique enchantment in quiet reserve, for each one desires to contribute just a bit of themselves to the most magical month in the circle, and now that time has come. They have gathered together in celestial towers to bestow their gifts upon December. The cool mystery of an April dawn, the bronze glow of an afternoon in November, the stretched-long hours of a carefree July, the playful winds of March that dance amongst the trees - all can be found here. For we have arrived at the zenith of the visionary year, the very place where all the delights of each and every month now gather as one.
Yes, this is the month of true wizardry, when the hillsides dress in silver and fairies wear feathers and sleep in bare trees. Chimerical worlds are sheathed inside a single drop of ice, and an auroral star glitters high in the eastern sky.
The animals speak at midnight.
Goodwill cracks the hardest soul.
All of the wonder of the long wondrous year can be found in the month of December. It fills us up, floods through our spirits until every room is full and we must share our felicity with others. We give gifts, we share smiles, we ring bells. We are beguiled by the blessed beauty of life.
It is all astonishing goodness in thirty one days.
It is now December.

Huzzah!

In The Woodland

Whose woods are these? I think I know. I have been here before, almost one year ago, if my memory serves. Silently standing all together, as a flock of elegant birds with feathers of fir - shoulders touching, wings folded - this woodland, like all woodlands, quietly bids me welcome.
I am Lucy in the wardrobe. Looking this way and that, I gently push aside boughs of green needles, and enter in. All outside sound evaporates to nothingness, and I am alone. Fistfuls of white light, man’s recreation of the stars, drape and swag above me, casting a surreal glow over this most unusual forest. I run my fingers through emerald arms, bury my face in soft branches. I am intoxicated by the overwhelming smell of winter.
One by one, each tree lets me pass, scores of silent beryl eyes marking my movements as I search for the one I came to find.
Soon, far down another long viridian hallway, I see him, off to the side, regal in his perfection. Tall as an ent, pure magic, his branches seem to wave me over. I stand before him, looking up to the place where a star should be, and softly whisper, “are you the one”? Perhaps it was the wind, for it was strong that night, but I am certain the great tree bowed.

We bore him home by moonlight to his place of honor by the grey stone fireplace and he stands there now, wearing his robes of tinsel and ruby, gold teardrops and fairy light. He presides over Christmas with a dignified beauty, a grace afforded but a few of his kind, trees chosen to share a small portion of the wild wood’s mystery with those of us who dwell indoors. He greets us every morning with his lush sparkle, his holiday perfume. He is the crowning jewel of our festivity, the guardian of our tokens of love for one another - those gaily wrapped boxes nestled under his boughs.
Once again, we are charmed by his presence.

Painting above by Sophia Elliott

Thank you for the food we eat,
Thank you for the world so sweet,
Thank you for the birds that sing,
Thank you God for everything.

Happy Thanksgiving
From the House of Edward

A Bit Chaotic

If it were possible to animate my to-do list, to breathe life and colour into each entry for this week and set them all loose on the landscape, no doubt it would resemble the above painting by Hieronymus Bosch. And, if that animation were suddenly to be given a soundtrack, I can bet that the strains of The William Tell Overture would be heard rollicking through the house. Are we busy at The House of Edward? Yes. A bit chaotic? Perhaps. Thanksgiving is on its way - if I squint, I can almost see the infamous sleigh coming over the river and through the woods even as I type. Well worn recipes are scattered amidst cranberries, sweet potatoes, pumpkin... tons of flowers and candles, cinnamon and nutmeg, linen napkins to be ironed, furry dogs to be puffied. There are even Christmas trees propped up in the back garden awaiting their turn in the festivity. They shall be up by the weekend. Needless to say, time is too thin for a thoughtful, thought-out post just now. So... here are some bits and bobs of interest....random thoughts, places to go....people to visit.... things to see... Christmas presents to consider. Have fun and I’ll see you later in the week... oh, and check out the latest poetry giveaway! Just leave a comment here and we’ll draw the name on Thanksgiving Thursday!!

In no particular order....

..... A couple of weeks ago I received a call for help from the delightfully talented designer, Brooke Giannetti. Brooke writes the blog, Velvet and Linen, and if you have ever wanted to visit the quintessential blog on interior design, you should certainly pay a call on Brooke. At present, she is holding a giveaway competition for three Mark Sage cocktail tables and she received 175 entries! Brooke asked some of her fellow interior designers to help in the judging process, and we all did our best to narrow the choices. Now it is time for you to cast your votes. Pop over to Velvet and Linen today and take part!

....Several mornings ago, I awoke bright and early with a fully orchestrated version of “Whatever Lola Wants” playing loudly in my head. The song is from the musical, “Damn Yankees” and I think I might have heard it once in my entire life. I only caught a snippet this time, because of course the orchestra ran for cover the moment my eyes popped open. I hate when this happens. It’s as if there is a party going on in my head that I am not invited to. Worse still, those in attendance seem to conspire to make me forget their festivities rather quickly. That is why I write them down.

....Since the charming Willow of Willow Manor so kindly posted about her recent giveaway win from The House of Edward, I have been receiving emails about The Songwriter’s latest CD, Laugh for a Million Years. For those of you interested, you can order your very own copy HERE.
He is a wonderful writer, and no, I’m not the least bit prejudiced.


.....Ever since the summer afternoon when I saw the delicious movie, Julia and Julia, I have been, shall we say, hungry for a large, glazed cast iron pot. In red. Well, I am happy to say that dear Martha Stewart heard my wish and has invented the perfect one. Not nearly as expensive as Le Creuset, or even Emile Henri, Martha’s cast iron cookware is really wonderful. It is sold at Macy’s.

.....I know I cannot have him, for Edward would simply not approve and I most seriously doubt that his owner would ever consider parting with the fellow. But I do so want this rabbit.
Isn’t he magnificent?
His name is Herman.


.....For those of us who are, like me, in the midst of preparations for Thanksgiving, here’s a wonderful treat. Perhaps one to keep the kiddos busy whilst you are cooking? Pop over to Liberty Post and download her amazing Thanksgiving garland. It’s only $2! Just download, print out, cut out, and string up. Voila! Festive.


.....I think it is beyond wonderful that we now have a First Lady that can actually Hula Hoop. And will do so.


.....And, isn’t it a splendid thing when a child star grows up so beautifully!

Emma Watson of Harry Potter fame.
Photographed in Teen Vogue


....I miss George Harrison.

....How I loved the movie Where The Wild Things Are. Not a movie for children exactly, but a movie about childhood. It’s not always easy to be a child. Magic film.

....Along with many of my fellow Etsy artists, I shall be participating in the free shipping sale event this weekend. From Friday through Monday all Christmas items in Edward’s Shoppe will be shipped free of charge! It’ll be a great weekend to shop Etsy!


....Speaking of Christmas presents, here are a few more of my recent fabulous favourites....

.....The perfect hat for the perfect man...



I am so in love with these handmade journals!
This artist makes them in suede, leather and fabric.







And, these amazing nightlights!
This Etsy artist also makes lamps and suncatchers.
All are gorgeous.





Or, how about this imaginative teapot?? Isn't it great?



Last but not least, as promised, a second seasonal giveaway!
A beautiful little collection of Christmas Poems.


Simply leave a comment here, and Edward and I will draw the winning blog on Thanksgiving!
Good luck and enjoy your busy week!
Edward and I certainly plan to!

******* Congratulations to Ruth! You won the poetry book! *******

The Leaves

Perhaps they were tired of the usual, bored with the mundane annual routine. No doubt they had planned this for weeks, secretly convening beneath lunar light when the rest of the street was sleeping, tucked away in grey dens and brown burrows, twiggy nests and four-posters. The maples had thought of it first, whispering their mischievous idea to the oaks and the poplars whilst the pines and magnolias simply eavesdropped, for this did not concern them.
The plan was ingenious.
It made the old trees laugh.
For years, they had each shed their leaves in a casual fashion. It had always been thus, with the maples stepping off first, scattering their red-orange raiment on the autumn breeze like flaming sparks from a bonfire, and the oak leaves holding out till much later, as though reluctant to relinquish their lofty views up above all the others. A bit more mercurial, the poplars were always difficult to predict, for they adhered to a schedule known only to themselves. With a few leaves here, a bit more there, it had forever been a rather lazy process, almost nonchalant, and one that allowed the ear-muffed humans below ample time to catch up as they scurried around with their wood handled rakes. But not this year.
Meticulously organized, this colourful cabal executed its plan with precision.
On Saturday evening, the trees were full of leaves.
On Sunday morning, they were not.
Sometime in the deepdarkdead of the night - perhaps counting a prelude of three like a rainbow row of giggling children holding hands on the high dive preparing to jump - they all came down at once, leaving the cottage buried deep under crimson and gold. Up street and down, we all silently stood on our porches next morning, our various plans for the day visibly altered before our very eyes and, sighing, one by one, turned back inside to gather up coats and gloves, rakes and leaf blowers, determined to restore a semblance of order to the upturned landscape of our little world.
And later, from somewhere within one of those towering piles of crackling, fading colour, I could almost have sworn I heard an indistinct sound - a thin, strange echo of cheeky laughter.

All That Shopping

It is a commonplace feeling, I suppose. Still, last week, when I mentioned “Christmas” to the shopkeeper who sells Edward’s favourite carrot cake biscuits, his reaction was a bit of a surprise. Always ready with a smile in any sort of weather, he now clouded over, his expression falling somewhere in the range of gloomy to grumpy as he muttered something unintelligible about “nieces, and nephews and all that shopping”. He was relatively easy to tease back into giggles, especially when I brought up the name Scrooge, but I thought as I left what a shame it is that so many people view the holiday season as nothing less than a chore.
I must confess, despite the wonderful opportunity for people watching that they provide, I rarely enter shopping malls. I much prefer those tiny shops with creaky wooden floors, those intriguing haunts with wavy glass windows that look out onto crooked little streets, those cubbyholes with wonders not to be found in the mammoth halls of department stores. And to be truthful, I make most of my Christmas gifts, and even the boxes they are placed inside. I love doing so.
But today, for Edward’s biscuit selling friend who has all those nieces and nephews to think about, I thought I might put together a wee list of finds... just a few of the items that have recently captured my eye. They are mostly from some of those tiny shops, down a few of those crooked pathways....in the land of the internet.
So Edward’s friend can shop in his pajamas.
And, so can we all!!
********************

First of all, the marvelous painting of the Christmas shopping bears above is from a set of Christmas cards by Amber Alexander. You can find them, along with many more wonders in her Etsy shoppe HERE.

Next, is this just the cutest little hat you have ever seen?? I would have worn this everywhere I went when I was little.
You can find this charmer in an Etsy shoppe called Swirly Hats.


Etsy is the most fabulous resource for the unique and the handmade.
Just take a look at these felted slippers...


Or these magical little creations...


Isn't this Owl Mobile just the cutest thing ever?


Or this Owl Pocket Watch


....a perfect fantasy of a skirt from Anthropologie kids...


Or these from the amazing new Stella McCartney line for boys and girls from The Gap.
I'm crazy about these, wish they came in my size!




Or, this toadstool ottoman from Anthropologie!
The perfect accessory for a child's room, don't you think??




And, just look at these adorable dog ornaments!!!
This artist makes these in a variety of dog breeds.
She even creates custom ones!
Can't you just visualize Edward on the Christmas tree!!!?
Visit her shop HERE.




And if you wish to place on of these treasures in an especially wondrous box......
you might like to visit Edward's own Etsy shoppe!

This was so much fun, we might just do it again next week!
Perhaps a list of my new favourite gift books!

After the Dinner Party

The guests have all gone and the dishes are done.
The cottage speaks only in whispers now, in the muffled ticktocktick of the old clock in the bookcase, in the now and then crackle of the diminishing blaze still slightly aglow within the stone fireplace. Edward dozes at my feet as I sit, comfortably curled like a cat, deep in the arms of the orange velvet chair, sipping a toddy that is warm and so sweet. The playful personality of the midnight wind has changed since the arrival of November. It sounds more serious somehow, moving through the black leaves outside with a purpose, sending shadows through the windowpanes, muted grey dancers that silently waltz round the candlelit walls. I watch them move and imagine the music only they can hear.
Surely, this is the essence of contentment.

It had been the best sort of day. One spent chopping and slicing, stirring and tasting; a day decorated with antique china and pink flowers, old-fashioned music and red, red wine, happy dogs napping under the chairs of happy dinner guests. The cottage had been redolent with the cozy fragrances of fresh apple pie, crusty bread, boeuf bourguignon simmering in a fat red pot - the menu I had promised for the first truly cold weekend of autumn.
There had been spirited talk of books and of movies, music and Christmas, of Italian landscapes, bagpipes, and Renaissance art.

Cooking for friends, making them welcome, is such a satisfying occupation at any season of the year, but especially just now. When the nights become longer and the temperature drops it seems that a spirit of merriment knocks at the door, a woodland sorcerer clad in robes of crimson leaves and cardinal feathers whose talent is pure hospitality. I am happy to serve as his apprentice. An elegant soul, he is a bit more formal than his counterparts of summer, those alfresco fairies of barefoot spontaneity and pink champagne. No, he seems to prefer dressier occasions - richer colours, richer foods. He is all red roses and tapestry, mulled wine and dark chocolate - his candles are scented with chestnuts and pomegranate, and he hides the recordings of Debussy, preferring to fill the house with Mozart instead. A most convivial fellow, I highly recommend giving him free rein in your household all season long. I promise you shall have even more fun than your guests.

"Frame thy mind to mirth and merriment,
which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life"
William Shakespeare

This Little Blog

I was the child who sat at her school desk and day-dreamed. My parents were the ones often told by the teacher that their daughter paid little attention in class. Especially in math class. Despite sincere efforts from rows of well-starched figures of authority, the vibrant scenes that unfolded inside my little head remained infinitely more interesting to me than all the isosceles triangles, square roots, and algorithms combined. All the mathematical theorems in the world could have been dancing in a line atop the teacher’s head - it would have made no difference.

Throughout the years, I can honestly say, not very much has changed. I am still the dreamer and funnily enough, have spent my life getting paid for remaining so. After all, the ability to dream, to clearly see the possible quietly shining just beyond the pedestrian, is an invaluable asset in the field of interior design.
But just when I think that surprises are rare, I am amazed to find myself with the most delicious indulgence for all of my dreams.... right here, in this little blog. Here I have been allowed to cut my thoughts loose, to let them roam free. It has been so much fun and has sometimes tempted me to consider a change of career. Perhaps a fork in the road is just around the leafy bend.

I am now stunned to see that this is my 200th posting! With each post I just know I will never be able to think of another, but the muses keep raising their hands to be heard, so I guess I’ll continue as long as they do. To think that people actually follow along on this journey by consistently reading these writings and ramblings, is astonishing to me. I am incredibly grateful for all the wonderful, thoughtful, and interesting comments and emails you kind people send my way. They are a delight, and such an encouragement. I thank you all and on this, my 200th posting, I am holding a small giveaway to express my appreciation. One of my favourite books of Dog poetry, along with The Songwriter’s latest CD, will be awarded to one lucky reader at midnight on Friday the 13th. What a fabulous night to be lucky!
All you have to do is leave a comment on this posting and Edward will help me draw the winner!!
Good Luck and Thank You Every One!


Painting above by Honor Appleton


*****Congratulations to Life at Willow Manor!! Your blog was drawn out of the hat for the giveaway!****
Thanks to all who entered. So much fun! We'll be doing this again soon!

Scarecrows

There is an old man who tends a large garden not very far from my house. I pass by often and see him there, just sitting alone in the midst of his vegetables, quiet, still. I always presume he is contemplating the world and its mysteries, but maybe he’s just escaping a chattering wife.
He has placed a homemade scarecrow in the center of the bounty, a scarecrow well crafted, who dons a new outfit each Spring. By the apparent dearth of crows over the garden, the fellow does his job quite well.
I have always loved the idea of scarecrows. How marvelous if we ourselves could but station a figure outside our front door, a chap perfectly crafted to fit our uniqueness, whose only mission in life was to ward away that which would bring us trouble. We could tailor his garments to suit our own needs, each snippet of clothing holding significance for us alone. A magic red scarf to banish depression, an enchanted blue waistcoat to turn away grief. Illness would spot the striped bowtie and flee, anger would see the tweed trousers and fly.
What a smooth life we could fashion for ourselves.

-----------------------------------------

The Scarecrow

All winter through I bow my head
beneath the driving rain;
the North Wind powders me with snow
and blows me black again;
at midnight 'neath a maze of stars
I flame with glittering rime,
and stand above the stubble, stiff
as mail at morning-prime.
But when that child called Spring, and all
his host of children come,
scattering their buds and dew upon
these acres of my home,
some rapture in my rags awakes;
I lift void eyes and scan
the sky for crows, those ravening foes,
of my strange master, Man.
I watch him striding lank behind
his clashing team, and know
soon will the wheat swish body high
where once lay a sterile snow;
soon I shall gaze across a sea
of sun-begotten grain,
which my unflinching watch hath sealed
for harvest once again.

by Walter de la Mare

Sister and the Dogs

It is the fortunate person who discovers his passion early on in life. So many temptations are spread on the table, so many colours spin by. To travel deep within the grand mountain of possibility and bring out that one bright thing which possesses the power to absorb and enchant for the rest of your life is a blessing indeed.

In the heady nascent days of any new passion, one often finds a hero of sorts, someone to look up to, a person who has sailed the waters before you, smoothly and with great finesse. Such was the case for me when I discovered my love for the creation of beautiful rooms.
I discovered Sister Parish.
Sister Parish, or Mrs. Henry Parish II as she liked to be known, was an American decorator before such creatures were actually known to exist. Her talent was innate, and timeless, and she held tight to a philosophy of design that resonated deeply with me. Though she decorated for Rockefellers and Gettys, Astors and Kennedys, and was known to be more than a trifle imperious, her rooms were infinitely approachable, with a comfort and graciousness that could only be called charming. I would study her furniture placement for hours and I learned a great deal from doing so.

One of Sister's glowing designs

Sister was also a dog lover who held a neighborhood dog show every summer on the lawn of her home in Dark Harbor, Maine. I always adored that idea, of course, so some years back I decided to hold a dog show here in my lovely old Southern neighborhood. Ours is a neighborhood of dog lovers, and the show has been a popular event from day one. This past weekend was our 9th annual show! Awards are given in five categories, with a trophy, medallion and gift basket presented to the “Top Dog” of the neighborhood. Quite appropriately, Edward won “Most Devoted” this year, whilst a bouncy Jack Russell named Ellie Mae took home the award for Top Dog. I wonder what Sister Parish would think if she knew how far her influence had reached!

Edward himself won Top Dog a couple of years ago! Doesn’t he look proud?

Oh and by the way, there is absolutely no age limit posted at the entrance to that mountain of possibility that I mentioned above. I have continued to visit it quite often throughout my life, hauling out new passions with each adventurous trek inside.

“As a child I discovered the happy feelings that familiar things can bring -- an old apple tree, a favorite garden, the smell of a fresh-clipped hedge.... Some think a decorator should change a house. I try to give permanence to a house, to bring out the experiences, the memories, the feelings that make it a home.''
Sister Parish

1910-1994

For those of you interested in interior designer, Sister Parish, I would highly recommend the book Sister, by Apple Bartlett Parish and Susan Bartlett Crater. There is also a brand new book on Mrs. Parish called Sister Parish Design: On Decorating, which promises to delight.
Oh, and it is no coincidence that Mrs. Parish’s daughter and my furry black dog, Apple, share the same delicious name! I told you I was a fan.

Portrait of Sister Parish by Ned Murray

Welcome November

Scarlet leaves are falling on the once green grass, a strand of perfect rubies broken and loosened by time, they tumble down one after the other, holding veined hands with the wind. They shall rest on the dappled floor of the garden, to fade into nothingness, turn into memory, leaving behind sweet bits of their spirits to nourish the green that will bloom in their wake.
We turned all the clocks back late last night, once again granting the darkness greater dominion over all the long hours that make up our day.
November is unpacking his cases and settling in.
And so begins the conclusion of the year.

So often the poet writes about death when he considers the month of November. William Morris spoke of this month as the “Bright sign of loneliness too great for me, Strange image of the dread eternity”, whilst Baudelaire wrote of the upcoming winter as the season of “derision, hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice” a time when he would be “exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison, My soul will harden into a block of red ice.”
A bleak picture indeed.
I do clearly see the illustration painted by nature, I just suppose I read it differently than some. To me November is a frankly delightful time, a thirty day gift all wrapped up in gold and kindly offered for introspection and preparation. My mind fairly glows with ideas that seem to sparkle best in the early, frost rimmed darkness - jigsaws of notions that now find the time to coalesce into colourful blueprints for the days to come.... intricate tapestries of Thanksgiving ambrosias, Christmas adornments, abundant new spring gardens. If, on a cold, windy night, you have ever curled up in a nest of a chair by the fire, with a mug of hot tea, and an enticing seed catalog or an opulent travel brochure, well you will know what I mean. Of all the months in the kaleidoscopic year, November offers the coziest atmosphere for plotting the most adventurous schemes and strategies.

In the metaphorical searchlight of deeper meaning, I can only hope that my affection for this season remains as I continue my journey through this, the great year of my life. I should like to think when all those days that are mine dwindle down, I shall still be found in my chair by the fire, absorbed in a pleasant contemplation of the grand odyssey to come.
Welcome, November.

Painting by Atkinson Grimshaw

Halloween

Shutter the windows tightly and bolt the heavy door. Wrap your shawl snug round you and watch the skies with a sharpened eye.
It is time for the danse macabre. The spirits are out on the wing.
Loosed for one night only, they shall flit through the dark like bats - green eyes aglow in the orange of the maple trees, waxy fingers tap-tapping upon the wavy glass.
Eyes wide open tonight my friends.
Circling round the cold stone chimney, or slipping beneath the wooden door - perhaps wafting through the keyhole like a icy vapour - they are searching, searching for a way inside. Hoping to hide in the wardrobe or under the innocent bed, longing to lie in wait for that one perfect moment at midnight, to appear in the mirror, just behind your left shoulder, silently smiling in the shadowy corner, close enough to touch. You may feel them brush past you in the quiet of the hallway as you make your way off to your bed - a faint cold laugh, a chilled breath on the back of your neck.
Hurry. Set your gargoyles at their posts - that happy bastion of grinning pumpkins, warm candlelight, and bowls of candy corn.
Don the ruby slippers and bring the dogs inside.
Open your door only to the little ones, those tiny ghosts and princesses, wee ghouls and little monsters, bravely out navigating the foggy streets tonight. For they know the secret already. The one that adults so often forget.....
Laughter is the only defense on this dark night of nights. So arm yourselves well, with plenty of giggles, plenty of smiles, and a light and happy heart.
And the best of luck to everyone!!
Edward and I wish you all a Happy Halloween!

Painting by Charles Altamont Doyle

Upon Stars

All through the dusty, deckle-cut pages of time, the stars have fascinated those who wander over the earth. Man stares at them in wonderment, pondering his own insignificance. Stars light the great stag’s pathway, are reflected in the eyes of the snowy owl - they kindly acknowledge the wishes of children. Whether shooting or falling or hanging suspended up far, far above us in a sky of dark velvet, they are effortless and unknowable, belonging to the beautiful realm of grand mystery. But theirs is a circumspect beauty; they do not impose themselves where man has declared them irrelevant, rarely competing with the false glow of his cities. I found this out for myself one cold, still night on a hillside in England.

Having flown all the long night before, locked inside the musty air of a plane, we were bone tired, with muddled brains and eyes that were stinging from the lack of sleep. The bed we were snuggled inside ranked at the tiptop on our list of pure comfort - a fat, old four-poster, draped to perfection, it was a sublime confection of linen, feathers and down and we were sleeping the deep sleep of the grateful.
But, the moon woke me up.
Draping his light across my face like a grin, he obviously had a sight his wished to share, so insistent was he that I rise to greet him. How could I possibly refuse? Sliding out from my cocoon, padding across the patterned floor, I climbed up in the old window seat, wrenched open the casement window, and popped my sleepy head out into the chilly night air. In doing so, I entered a fairy-land I had supposed existed only within books.
Stars. Upon stars. Upon stars.
The midnight blue sky was totally covered in stars, as if the snowflakes had decided to defy the age old commandments of gravity itself and had defiantly blanketed the firmament. I held my breath, wondering if this indeed was but a dream. My soul, I could see the Milky Way! Crawling back inside momentarily, I whispered to The Songwriter to join me at the window, but he understandably muttered something about being more comfortable than he had ever been in his entire life and slipped back inside the soft arms of sleep. But, I remained at the window for ages and my imagination continues to happily feast upon that magical image, drawing the most delicious nourishment from the sight. I suppose it will do so forever.

It is a thing that my friends in the country know well, but I realized that night just but a taste of what man has obscured with his cities. As I sit in my garden and gaze up at the dark autumn sky, I now know what remains hidden, what wonder lies out there just beyond the artificial light of man.
It makes me smile.

Costumes

Edward refuses to wear a costume on Halloween. He has witnessed, what he feels to be, the appalling menagerie that prances down his street once a year on the last night of October - that traveling band of his own kind, canines of every shape and stripe, dressed in the most ridiculous getups he could ever imagine. A spaniel Darth Vader, a beagle Harry Potter, a poodle masquerading as pink fairy princess. What could their people be thinking? He sees them, he shakes his furry head, he sighs. His dignity is so manifest I would never dream of asking him to participate and really, I think I understand his feelings. No doubt his thoughts are akin to my own when I happen to spy some poor chap dressed as the Statue of Liberty in front of a tax office in April. Human stature slips a rung.

Costumes are tricky. If you have ever found yourself clad an ensemble that caused you to feel dreadfully out of place - a walking oxymoron of sorts - then you will know what I mean. I well remember the one time I was seduced by a jacket in the Anthropologie store. I generally shop there for unusual bits of kitchenware, perhaps a bar of soap that smells like mimosa, or a candlestick the colour of dawn. But I give the clothes a wide berth, knowing they are meant for others. So perhaps I had a fever that day, or maybe my inner compass momentarily slid from its moorings, but I spotted a colourfully embroidered jacket and I was intrigued. I decided to try it on. Once in the dressing room I held the garment out in front of me trying to decipher exactly who it reminded me of. (I now think it was Heidi, but that name didn’t come to me then. It should have.) I slipped on the jacket with my back to the mirror, turning around to assess my reflection. I stood there, shocked into silence. And then I began to laugh. Long and hard. The kind of laughter that can make your eyes water. Imagine if you will, spotting Jackie Onassis in a drill team uniform, or perhaps The Queen in a pair of skinny jeans. I looked that silly, in an article of clothing so unlike myself I seemed to be in costume.

So yes, I know how Edward feels, and once again, he shall not be participating in the Halloween festivities like some of his counterparts, no matter how cute I happen to think they are. He will however, be assisting me with my duties at the front door - handing out candy and homemade cupcakes, making everyone welcome - tasks much more suited to both his noble temperament and exalted station.
I applaud him for remaining true blue to his well-honed sense of self.



Painting above by Thierry Poncelet

Sincerely, L. Cohen

Stars waltz beneath my feet and twinkle in an enchanted sky as I sit inside the Moorish cathedral of song. Owl-feather clouds float lazily above. With my hand to my heart I listen as the fedora clad prophet tosses peerless gemstones out into the crowd, lyrical words that brush past our faces like angel wings, words at once enigmatic and revelatory, blessed with a wizardry that can bare the innermost workings of the soul. With a kindly air, he gazes out over the sea of faces gathered at his feet, as if bemused at the power of his own thoughts. We are entranced. And when the warm spotlight hits him - hat cocked to one side, time weathered and wise - as he stands alone on the wooden stage of history beneath that enchanted sky, we feel the recipients of a rare and most wondrous gift.
His like shall not pass this way again.

“Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”


Leonard Cohen is currently on tour after a long absence.
If he visits your town, take it from me, he is not to be missed.
This was the third time I have seen him. He does not disappoint.

Sightings

Her image cannot be captured on the glossy surface of a photograph. It will only appear as a pale, shifting shadow and within the blink of an eye, all the blacks and blue greys simply slide off the paper and float away on the air. Some intrepid souls have enjoyed a modicum of success with a sketch, hiding within dark thickets of pine with their thumbs pricking, charcoal poised over tablet, squinting in the mist, waiting....waiting..... but the majority only find themselves so stunned at her sighting that they are unable to breathe, let alone to attempt a rendering of her countenance upon paper. Abhorring crowds, she will only appear to the solitary witness, therefore making the paltry accounts of her presence unsupported and suspect, and altering that witness till the end of his days. Mercurial and wayward, she is thought to show herself only in the last two weeks of October, sailing along through a chilled moonlit night, but as mentioned, few have owned the certain type of bravery required to wait all alone for her appearance as she soars past, high above, on the mane of the wind.
The sound of her laughter, high-pitched and hair-raising, has been said to raise from the dead those bent on mischief and mayhem in the cities of men, and her visage, admittedly extreme, has long been thought malevolent, but who can say for certain. Her antipathy for canines is well documented, but she does seem to be charmed by the felines amongst us, making them comfortable in her uncharted stone castle, hidden deep inside the thunderclouds.
The time is nigh for her sightings to occur.
Watch for her if you must, but far better I think, to sit by the fire and read of her exploits, words written by others no longer able to write, their thoughts forever doomed to wander one lone memory of a cold autumn night.

Gratitude

It is difficult to imagine a more sublime collection of hours than the twenty-four that constitute a Saturday in autumn. I wait for them all week, all year - and they never disappoint.
Those maple-syrup mornings, when we throw open the windows to a crisp and cheerful greeting from the wind. Those pumpkin-orange afternoons spent planting red chrysanthemums and purple cabbages, pink pansies and lemon thyme, while the dogs chase each other through the garden, surprised once again by October. Those warm and cozy nights when the only place on earth I want to be is in my kitchen, stirring a cauldron of homemade soup, peeking in on an oven full of rising bread, with Edward and Apple dozing on the floor.

On these delicious Saturday evenings I am always joined by the sounds of A Prairie Home Companion on National Public Radio. A long time staple in our house, Prairie Home Companion is a wonderfully entertaining two hour variety show created and hosted by writer, Garrison Keillor. The show is funny and smart, with marvelous stories and eclectic music - everything from Jean Redpath to Randy Newman, Emmylou Harris to Yo-Yo Ma. We love it. I am convinced if Edward met Mr. Keillor, he would know him instantly, so well acquainted is he with the man’s voice.

The Songwriter and I were fortunate to talk with Mr. Keillor ourselves the other evening after he spoke at a local college here in town. A charming man, affable and witty, with just a soupcon of crankiness - just as I knew he would be. I was especially struck by the words he spoke on the subject of gratitude. In response to a question from the audience about God, he replied that the only way he knew to live, and the only way he knew to relate to God, was in gratitude. I sighed a happy sigh of recognition, for I so agree. Indeed, I have long felt that if we spent our hours feeling thankful for the gifts we’ve been given, gifts that are never more evident than in the month of October, what contentment we would find.
Glowing stars in a velvet sky.... a blue-green Cinderella pumpkin resting solemnly under the leaves of a foxglove.... a perfect Honeycrisp apple.... a dog’s cold nose and smiling face.... drifting off to sleep under goose down while an autumn rain peppers the fallen leaves outside.
Once you begin to notice, the simple beauty, the grand mystery, that lies just waiting to be found in the natural world this time of year is endless. So much to be grateful for. I was warmed to the bones to hear Mr. Keillor express the importance of gratitude so clearly. He is a wise man. And his radio show makes the best autumnal Saturday even better.

**************************

Welcome Morning

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

~ Anne Sexton ~

Window Shopping

A most unwelcome fact came crashing into my consciousness on a sunny afternoon last week. Engrossed in my twice yearly chore of packing away my summer garments and replacing them with winter ones, I was happily rediscovering pieces I had forgotten over the past six months and modeling them all for Edward, who seemed to be having a grand old time in his role as audience. All of a sudden, somewhere between a black cashmere sweater and a green tartan jacket, it hit me. I had enough. There was not one single article of clothing I needed. I was completely, totally, without question, sartorially well-suited for any endeavour. From a luncheon with a bearded duke in a ivy- covered gazebo, to an afternoon spent mucking out a stable. A trip to the zoo in the rain or an cold afternoon walk to the library. A matinee, a dinner date, a business meeting or a carnival. Christmas shopping in London, a snowy wedding in Maine, a hike in Glencoe in the most frigid of weather.
I was well prepared for anything.
Now, this thought certainly should have pleased me no end. But to be painfully honest, I was just a bit disappointed. After all, shopping for winter clothes and all their associated accoutrements is one of the more enjoyable of shopping excursions for me. But, like so many thinking people in this particular season, I am attempting to follow the time-honoured philosophy of “make do and mend”, so welcoming more garments into my already crowded closet is not high on my list of priorities. I shall be window shopping instead.


But.... if I were to be on the hunt for new clothes just now, here is a bit of what catches my eye.....



I would love to step out in some of the beautiful choices offered up by Sonia Rykiel for fall....

And I adore this particular
shade of red at Ferragamo....

Or, perhaps these delicious outfits in winter white
by Ralph Lauren.....

.... this coat by Alexander McQueen would have to come home with me...

And this Prada boot would be a must....
Ah, well.
I must confess that I did succumb to this one lone pair of shoes.
I know. It was a moment of weakness.
But in my defense, they were on sale!

The Help

Growing up the South is not for the faint of heart. An enigmatic place at the best of times, it is paradoxical to its core. Finding your way through the varied switchbacks and roundabouts than make up the overgrown maze of its personality can be a bewildering experience, and one that often takes a lifetime, at least. Just when you think you have it solidly in your sights, it slips around a corner leaving only the faint fragrance of a fading magnolia hanging in the muggy air. At the very moment you feel confident with its definition, it can, without warning, fashion itself into a creature of myth, sending you back to huddle over your history books and crystal balls, once again in search of the truth about this place you call home. It is a land where heart-stopping beauty and heart-rending ugliness flourish in tandem - a land of kindness and hate, of ignorance and wit, of integrity, blindness, and pride.

Here in the South we often feel we are the only ones remotely qualified to comment on our strange and haunted part of the planet. Be it on film, stage or between the covers of a book, we can spot a fake Southern accent in an flash, finding it rather more humorous than offensive. For how can those who were not raised with this mystery ever hope to interpret it with an authentic voice? Indeed, those who have gotten it right, who have held the bright prism up high, reflecting the myriad of colours - all the primaries and secondaries, the darks, the lights, the shaded greys - that paint the true picture of the South, well, those few were mostly born here. They know of what they speak. Harper Lee nailed it to the wall with To Kill A Mockingbird, and there have been others. Faulkner, Capote, Welty, O’Connor, Clyde Edgerton, Pat Conroy, all writers who knew their homeland well and managed to share some of her secrets with the outside world.

I have recently finished reading a brand-new book that I am so pleased to add to my shelf of Southern writers. This author has accomplished the task of rolling back the stones and illuminating the hidden South most admirably. The author is Kathryn Stockett, and the book is entitled, The Help. Mississippi born and raised, Ms. Stockett has indeed written what she knows and her truth shines with a glowing light on every page of this marvelous first novel. Literate and heart-felt, it is warm and funny, painful and tragic, a story in which wisdom burns in the midst of ignorance, courage walks hand in hand with fear.
Much like the South itself.

We have come so far here in this part of the country, with miles, no doubt, to go. The shame of our past can never be erased, or even understood, but we cannot move forward if that past goes unacknowledged. The Help reminds us not only of where we have been and how far we have come, but also how very much we all share, how much we are alike. It is an amazing achievement, populated with unforgettable characters, and it was a pure pleasure to read.



Painting above: The Magnolia Flower by Martin Johnson Heade

The Light in the Window

There is a lamp in my window that is kept on most of the time. A wonderful antique that I found one dreary afternoon in one of those eccentric old shops that decorators just seem to always know about; tucked away on a crooked street and crammed cheek to jowl with treasure. Drawn in a straight line to this lamp like the proverbial moth to flame, I fell immediately, completely, in love. Unfortunately, not only was it wearing the dreaded “Hold” tag around its exquisite marble base, but the name upon that tag belonged to of one of the most famous decorators in the city. But no matter. It could have been Aladdin’s own, for I was undaunted - and did I mention I was in love? - so I squared my shoulders and approached the proprietor flashing was I sincerely hoped was a smile of convincing charm. Shifting his weight from one wingtip-clad foot to the other, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand, the poor man was the picture of discomfort.
But, as I said at the beginning....there is a lamp in my window.

Whenever I return home, from long journey or mere errand, pulling up my drive, I see it standing sentry, its lovely golden glow washing out over the little fir trees in the windowbox - a silent greeting of the warmest kind.
It plays an important role in the stage I endeavour to set each time I leave my house. In preparation for a comforting welcome home, the beds are always made, the dishes put away, rugs are vacuumed, soft music left playing. When the Songwriter returns from a trip out of town, there is usually something delicious sitting atop the kitchen counter, candles are burning and that marvelous lamp is always aglow.

Home provides us with such comfort, be it cottage or castle. It is our sanctuary - our cozy nest in winter, our cool oasis from the heat of the summer. Like a beloved member of the family, it keeps our secrets close, knows our sorrows, is witness to our joys. We care for it and it, in turn, cares for us. Like that light in the window, it welcomes us back each time we leave.
But of course, the most extravagant welcome always comes from Edward!

October

Ever so carefully, he works his paw in around the edge of the old wooden door and, ever so slowly, pulls it open. With a long, low creak, it moves aside to reveal the midnight landscape. The big white dog peers out with no small amount of trepidation. He sniffs the air, looks up to see an ebony shadow pass over the low-hanging moon. The owls are out tonight. He listens. Yes, he hears them now, calling to each other out there in the mist in that ethereal language he cannot understand, ancient words that make him shiver. They are celebrating tonight, he knows, for this is the dawn of their favourite month.
For in just a few moments it will be October.
The big dog has heard the stories. Of ghosts that drift through the woods, barely seen - of witches on broomsticks in a sky with no stars. He has heard of the voices that ride on the gust of a wind, conveying their warnings with a shriek or a sigh. Of spectres that wait behind oak trees in shadow, singing strange songs in a minor key, reaching out bony fingers to touch his fur as he passes by.
Vigorously, he shakes his head to clear his thoughts, white fur dancing in the moonlit night. He should not let his mind run away with him. After all, he thinks, he has never actually seen a ghost, and October is really quite nice in his house.
There are always delicious smells that come from the kitchen, he loves to nap there when the lady is cooking. The windows are always open, letting in lots of cool fresh air...perfect for his naps. There are fires in the fireplace at night and he just loves fires in the fireplace; he can nap on the lady’s feet as she knits. There is always music playing, always laughter, always long afternoon walks in the brisk windy weather followed by extra long afternoon naps in his favourite red chair. Always hugs. And more naps. Yes it’s true, he loves October.
There is nothing whatsoever to fear.
He cocks his head. Was that the owl again?
In a flash, the big white dog disappears back inside.

A Lovely Dream

There are nights when my dreams become crowded. A fairly extravagant dreamer in quiet times, when I am under too much stress, or a bit overworked, my dreams can resemble a painting by Breugel, one in which all his tiny characters not only have dramatic back stories but a multitude of voices with which to share them. Clamouring to be heard, they chatter away in a myriad of accents, each story as imperative as the next, a rowdy, chaotic cacophony. They scurry and scatter, up trees and down avenues, working, cleaning, cooking, running, walking - never sleeping.
I wake up exhausted.
On the other hand, when my days are placid and my mind is calm, my dreams are a serene reflection. They are airier, breezier, more like a Monet. I lazily float on a glassy pond with my fingers brushing past water lilies. I drift like a rose petal along a sweetly scented garden pathway. I wander Westminster in a soft London rain.
I wake up refreshed.
I used to have a recurring dream. It was during a period of time when I was extremely busy, working with several clients at once, all in addition to a variety of other extracurricular activities, time-eaters all. In this dream I was dozing in a bower bed draped with white flowers. Warm zephyrs gently blew the curtains and sounds of the sea could be heard through the open windows. In another part of the house I heard a knock on the door. The door was then answered by director, Steven Spielberg. Outside there was a line of people stretching down the drive and off into the distance; clients, friends, family, neighbors....as far as the eye could see, all wishing to speak with me. Mr. Spielberg (who for some reason was wearing a heather grey fisherman’s sweater) simply said to them all, “I am very sorry, but Mrs. Terry is seeing no one at present.”. Then he closed the door.
Ah, now that was a lovely dream.

Following Lucy

I realize it would be understandable to accuse me of prejudice, but Edward is a most intelligent dog. When he is dozing by my chair, he never fails to snap to attention when an animal comes on the television. (Grizzly bears seem to be his favourites.) When we watch the Westminster Dog Show he sits right in front of the screen like a child from the fifties watching the Lone Ranger in his footy pajamas. I am convinced that he knows when the UPS man is coming to the house long before the man even knows himself. And if I point at something, he looks where I point. Now that one is a rare talent for a dog - try it, you’ll see what I mean. I do have to admit however, that as an only child who grew up with very close dog companions all my life, I tend to credit them most highly in pretty much every area...intelligence, kindness, wisdom.
But to be fair, this has only once caused me any problem.
Only once.....

Years ago, the Songwriter and I were staying at a lovely little inn in a particularly bucolic setting. Tucked away high in the mountains, far removed from the hoi polloi, this was a charming place with verdant mountain trails singing out for exploration. The inn had, as all good inns do, a resident dog. A large, elderly girl named Lucy, she was usually to be found lounging on the front porch, ears half-cocked, keeping a drowsy eye on things. Her one well publicized occupation was that of trail guide. Whenever anyone would start out on a hike, the innkeeper would encourage them to, “Take Lucy along! You’ll have no need of a map, she knows the way perfectly, and she loves nothing better”. This sincere admonition was even included in the inn’s brochure and of course the idea naturally appealed to me. And sure enough, when we headed out, Lucy jumped up, eager to lead the way.

We hit a gorgeous trail, following her at a brisk pace until the inn was out of sight and we were beginning to wonder exactly which route she had selected for us. Having been told that each trail formed a long, wide loop that would eventually lead us back to the inn, we were a wee bit disconcerted to see that we seemed to be travelling, not in a loop exactly, but rather in sort of a hexagon. (At one point we found ourselves in the back garden of singer Perry Como’s holiday cabin. Yes, really. Seems this particular property featured a small, and fairly fetid, duck pond which was an irresistible feature for our exalted four-footed leader who wasted no time in diving in and retrieving a duck who was, sadly, in one of the latter stages of malodorous decomposition.) I kept faith with old Lucy, up hill and down valley, continuing on for another hour or so. But soon, it became painfully apparent that the skills of the dear girl had waned a bit over the years. Either that, or her sense of humour was more highly developed than her owners had ever realized. We were lost. Well, two of us were. I was still reluctant to give up on Lucy’s heralded abilities completely, so when she suddenly turned and headed straight up a densely wooded hill almost as if she was thinking...”Oh yes, by Jove, I have it now!”.... I turned to follow.
The Songwriter, who to be honest, had voiced sincere misgivings about the head of our hiking party all along, could finally stand it no longer. “You are not going to follow that dog into the wilderness! You are not! There is a road here somewhere and we are going to get on it and find our way back!”...
“What about Lucy??”, I wailed.
Suffice it to say, I was informed, in so many colourful words, that Lucy was, well, on her own.

So. After a winding, and fairly arduous, trek up a mountain highway, we eventually made it back to our inn. Tired, filthy, and seriously bramble scratched, with muddy boots and cloudy moods, we climbed the steps to find our dear Lucy sound asleep in her comfortable spot on the porch.
I swear I heard a chuckle as we passed.

The Older Sister

Spring is a girl clad in pink flounces. She skips, she flirts - shares secrets, tells lies. Her thoughts are like air and with barefoot steps she treads on the wildflowers. She misplaces her warm hours and never wonders where they’ve gone. She sings herself to sleep.

Autumn is her older sister, wearing heathered tweed. Her colours, like her dreams, are richer, more intense, and although she knows they will fade to ice and silver in the season yet to come, she serenely paints her masterpiece in furbelows of orange, burnt by the September sun, with an arabesque of scarlet, and a bagatelle of forest green.
She gathers her joys round her like the handsome woolen shawls her own two hands have made. With memory in the warp and hope in the weft, they feel soft against her skin, they gift her with a secret smile. She pulls her chair up hearthside and reads tall tales by the flickering flame - tales of legend and of myth, of ancient pathways through the mountains, of castles floating on the sea.
She drinks in delicious perfumes that are hers, and hers alone - the scent of apples, of cinnamon, of rain. Her hours are set aglow with a celebratory fire made from all the many sunny days now past; it is a fire stoked with gratitude and tended with anticipation, for she knows it provides all the warmth she will need for the colder days to come.

How sad a year would be without her visit - how colourless, how pale.
In a gust of wind, amid swirling leaves, she will arrive at my gate this afternoon.
My door is open to welcome her.

"No Spring nor Summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnal face."
John Donne

The Ignominious Coach

Here in the States it has been a rather cringe-worthy couple of weeks. Stunning outbursts of petulance and ego have spewed from several different corners; vitriol hurled forth from individuals in the public eye who apparently possess neither the spirit nor the capacity for civility and respect. In one arena after the other, like a bumper crop of fruit from a poisonous plant, rudeness has abounded, and shockingly so. From the music awards stage to the tennis court, and sadly, even to the floor of the United States Senate, where a congressman had the unprecedented audacity to yell out a boorish rebuke to his own President during a joint session of congress. Yes, there were apologies, and I will not doubt the sincerity of those here. But I will say, although I do not hold with the spanking of children, tanning the backside of a few adults seems like an excellent notion to me.

When I was younger, it was a belief widely held that this type of conduct was contemptible. It certainly lent no weight to a person’s opinions, nor to his arguments, indeed it rendered them dubious at best. However, in our current talk radio era, it seems that some feel entitled to express themselves whenever, and in whatever form, they choose. Forget about dignity or consideration; those were jettisoned a while ago. We are now on to abuse and denigration as the favoured methods of debate.

Years ago, upon landing in London for the very first time, I was soon on an early morning train into the city from Gatwick airport. Wide-eyed, and clutching my train ticket tightly, I was astonished to witness an argument between a rather wildly bohemian young woman who happened to be sharing my compartment and the gentlemen who was taking tickets enroute. Seems the lady was, quite knowingly, in the wrong train car. What followed was the most delightful example of a witty debate that I had ever heard. Although the lady had no leg whatsoever on which to stand, both people made their points with respect, civility and a good bit of humour. After she trundled off to the appropriate seating and I was left alone gazing out the window at the unfamiliar countryside, I could not help but think that this was the best first impression of a new country I could possibly have had.
My heart goes out to the tourists who landed here in the States for the first time last week, and I am ashamed of the introduction they received.

It is well past time for us as Americans to grab the reins of the ignominious coach of rudeness in which some of us have been traveling - shaking our fists out the windows, heedless of those in our path. I fear it is dangerously close to a precipice of shuddering depth, from which our words, spoken with such graceless arrogance, shall not just go unheard, but shall become ridiculous.

"Rudeness is the weak man's imitation of strength"
Eric Hoffer

Here In My Cottage

The top of Edward’s head smells just like the sea. I have no idea why that is, but as there is often a tiny plum-coloured smudge of lipstick there, resulting from the kisses I cannot resist bestowing upon him, I speak empirically. I stoop to plant a kiss atop that furry head and suddenly...... sea winds, sand beneath my toes, the sun glowing pink behind my closed eyelids.
Apple’s head, on the other hand, smells like clover. A sunny meadow picnic, honeybees, butterflies, breezes. Again, don’t ask me why.

These are but two of the small pleasures that, for me, make life here in my cottage extraordinary. If one takes the time to notice, slows down but a fraction, these pleasures are everywhere and it seems they are especially abundant this time of year.....

The lavender scent of clean laundry - the feel of freshly starched sheets when I slip between them on a cool night.......

A house full of open windows that welcome in the caramel light of September, curtains blowing in and out with the winds that race through the summer weary rooms....

Tomato soup and cheese toast.......

Rolling out the dough for the first apple pie of the season, while Vivaldi tickles the kitchen walls with melody........

Donning that first snuggly sweater. The green one. Pulling on the first pair of newly polished boots. The brown ones.......

Drinking in the elixir of clean, crisp air on long afternoon walks with Edward when the sunlight sets the trees aglow.....

Fat orange pumpkins waiting to be carved into scary, spooky Jack o’Lanterns.....

The woodsy smell of firewood......

An old chintzware pitcher filled with newly sharpened pencils.....

That tiny, enticing crack of a new book when you open it for the very first time. And the delicious fragrance of the new, unread pages........

The painterly colours of cabbages ........

The morning crossword puzzle......

The warm feel of cool fur when the dogs come in from a early morning romp. And the way that fur smells faintly of wood smoke when they have been outside on a night when a fire blazes in the fireplace.......

Watching The Wizard of Oz on television on a dark windy night. This is especially pleasurable when I realize that Billie Burke, who played the Good Witch, was fifty-three years old when she did so!!

Sleeping Poets

My mother still talks of the time we saw John Wayne. Perched like royalty atop a block-long convertible rolling slowly down the street under a hot July sky. He was the Grand Marshall of our city’s Independence Day parade. And he was shockingly three-dimensional. Having him close enough to touch was a bit unnerving for a little girl who had only seen the man on the movie screen. So, these people are real, I thought. Hmmm. Another mystery to decipher.

They are the names as familiar as those of our own family. Names like Elizabeth and Mary - Shakespeare, Bronte, Keats. We know them only through their writings and their deeds, and rarely do we see them as corporeal beings. And honestly, how could we, ensnared as they are in the two-dimensional world of the painting and the page?

But recently, a good friend sent me a remarkable image. By using digital techniques, Edinburgh photographer, Joanna Kane, has created a series of enigmatic portraits from a famous collection of phrenological heads. She has published a book of this work entitled The Somnambulists. Through her artistry, Kane has managed to bring to “life” the faces behind the famous words of Blake, Wordsworth, and Keats in a work that is both beautiful and revelatory. We seem to see sleeping poets.

I read a good bit of the poetry of John Keats on my recent trip to the beach. Here is one of my favourites. It seems even more lyrical now as I gaze upon the face of the man himself.


On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heap’d up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
’Tis not content so soon to be alone.

Painting above: Keats' Grave in the Old Protestant Cemetery in Rome, 1873
by William Bell Scott

Far Too Clear

There are pumpkins in the fields awaiting faces. Patient, sedentary, they sit in their orangeness neath a low hanging moon.....

The acorns have begun to fall. Tiny and green, in tophats, they patter the roof like buckshot, giggling as they hurtle down - rolling, rolling, to a final stop under the purple cabbage leaves.....

Equal in size to the paw prints of wolfhounds, the horrid spiders traipse across their webs of silver lace, while overnight, a neighborhood of downy white toadstools has appeared under the magnolia tree - ample seating for any future prince who ventures up from the stream at the bottom of the hill in search of a life-altering kiss....

Late in the cool afternoon we hear the geese approaching. A feathered boomerang offering up baroque chants, in its unknown tongue of the season....

And the mezzo-soprano of the old silver teakettle sings much more frequently now....

Man’s calendar wants to wait for one more week but we know better.
The signs are far too clear.

Summer has at last departed and Autumn is now here.

Watercolour by Charles Russell Loomis

The Arrangement of Words

In English class, when I was young, I learned to diagram sentences. A rudimentary activity, and not one known to coax magic out from the fibers of the page. More akin to the study of skeletons, for one sees how the bones connect all the while acutely aware that no breath of feeling is present. But just as the fibia gives us what we need to run through a meadow, and the humerus provides us the strength required to paint the Mona Lisa or to lift a giggling baby in the air, the arrangement of letters and words, sentence and verse, gives us the ability to see beneath the surface of our lives - to uncover, and communicate, truth.

How wondrous is language. And how wonderful to encounter those who use it well. Who among us has not read a passage in a book so beautifully written, so compelling, that we read it over and over, perhaps even copying it down to squirrel away for future reference? Who has not heard a speech from an orator so inspiring, so enlightening, that we have been moved to take a stand for something in which we truly believe, rather than remain encased in our timidity? Or conversely, who among us has not read a book, or heard a speech, so dreadfully written, with words galumphing along to such a calamitous finish that they invite groans of frustration.
Yes, the arrangement of words is a powerful thing.

The older I get, the more I love poetry. True poets communicate in feelings. Their well-arranged words allow me to actually feel what is on the page; all my senses are in play. Their verse can brush my face with a warm sea breeze, or sting me with an icy needled blast. I can see the pathway through the forest, smell the damp blackness of the mysterious earth, hear the papered leaves crackle under my feet as I walk.
I touch the mane of a lion, I hear the call of a loon. I taste the bright red plum.
A poet’s words may enter through the brain, but they speak to the soul, invoking a recognition of one’s true self that is often impossible to articulate. “What does that poem mean?”, we are asked. How does one explain what the heart understands.

Today is the birthday of my favourite poet, Mary Oliver. Her poems speak to me like no others. The words she employs are simple ones, but in her hands, their arrangement is profound. I wish her a most happy day.

Painting above by Alan Banks

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A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.

Who ever made music of a mild day?

by Mary Oliver
born September 10th, 1935
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The Perfect Nap

We all know the benefits of a good night’s sleep. Sleep is necessary, not only for robust health and comely countenance, but for a pleasant mood as well. Most grouchy people don’t get enough sleep. But too few of us, I fear, just don’t appreciate the many salubrious effects of a nap. Too often considered a characteristic of sloth, the nap is unfairly burdened with comparisons to losers, bums, and those afflicted with a particularly unpleasant quality of apathetic inertia.
Au Contraire, I say! Done correctly, a nap is a beautiful thing - sort of a cosmic rebooting - that refreshes the outlook, invigorates the mind and uncorks a bit of extra energy to rejuvenate the remaining hours of the day. For those who perhaps look upon the nap as merely a symptom of laziness, let me offer some hopefully helpful guidelines, for I have been a champion of the nourishing effects of a nap for years.

1. Naps should be fairly short. Anything from twenty minutes to one hour is preferable. A shorter nap will make you disoriented, a longer one will make you sluggish.

2. Never take a nap in bed. One should only go to bed in the middle of the day when one has a bad cold, or the flu. Or a tummy ache. Taking a nap in bed is simply, “going back to bed” and that is only desirable on a stormy day when one feels rather blue, and only permissible before noon. Going back to bed in the afternoon is just not recommended, for even if you are not sick, you will feel as if you should be. It is, however, quite permissible to lie atop the bed, under a quilt or throw. Just do not get back in it. Look for a large chair that is capacious enough to curl up inside, or a chaise lounge with a perfectly placed neck pillow. These are better choices by far.

3. Pay close attention to the weather. This is very important. Do not even attempt a nap on a beautiful cloudless day in autumn. Your mother was right, you should be outside on a day like that. A stormy afternoon is ideal however, and a straight-down winter rain is sublime. If possible, nap with the windows open, and it goes without saying, if you have a ceiling fan, by all means turn it on. A soft breeze blowing, and you’re half way there. Also, listening to the faint outside sounds of nature only adds to the beauty of the nap. A chirp here, the sparkle of a wind-chime there, a blustery wind rustling the leaves in the trees? Perfect.
Of course, this will not work if you live in the city. Car horns and slamming doors do not a good nap make.

4. If you are fortunate enough to share your life with a large furry dog - or two - as I am, then you are incredibly well-suited for a successful nap experience. Large furry dogs love to nap. It is one of their favourite things and they are experts at it. They will study you closely to determine if you are comfortable then they will lie down next to you, sigh a heavy sigh of contentment and begin to doze. The ideal companionship. I am fairly certain smaller dogs and cats would behave the same way, so feel free to include them as well.

5. Some people like to listen to music when they nap, though personally I prefer the quiet natural sounds from outside. Music tends to keep me awake and effect my mood in various ways that are not condusive to the consummate nap. If this is not the case with you and you would prefer musical accompaniment, then I would suggest you chose your selections most carefully. Chopin over Springsteen, Debussy over Bjork.

6. Now this may be controversial, but I speak from experience. It is best to nap when your house is clean, there are fresh flowers in the vases and dinner is cooking. This is the ideal time. Otherwise, I fear one is prone to simply lie there and fret about what needs to be done and that is just no fun at all. It totally undermines the whole thing.

7. Do not worry that you might miss something. Nothing is so important that it cannot wait an hour. Trust me on this.

So fill your vases with flowers, find a big chair, and take a nap!!

You can thank me later.

The Little Stranger

The mind can play dastardly tricks on the unsuspecting soul who lies wide awake in the middle of a dark night. Given just a few minutes deep within the silence that lurks after the clock strikes midnight, it can easily turn the most innocuous molehill into quite the unscaleable mountain, change a simple sore throat into a lethal case of lockjaw; a pin-sized mosquito bite into an exotic fever rarely seen outside the realm of voodoo. With a modicum of encouragement it can bewitch the coat rack into a knife-wielding fiend, the squirrel on the roof to Beelzebub, or the friendly shadow of the oak tree into the Wicked Witch of the West.
It can even make a woman firmly in the grasp of adulthood lean over the side of the bed and attempt to awaken her sleeping dog for company. And yes, I speak from experience, for last week, on the first dark night of September, I was scared silly. And I blame Sarah Waters.

It was well past midnight and I was up way too late with my nose in a book, an occurrence which is hardly unusual. The book was The Little Stranger by the aforementioned Ms. Waters, and I was about halfway along. Having heard from several quarters that this was a delightfully ghostly story - comparisons to Henry James and Poe were being bandied about - I naturally saved it for a night just like this one....chilly enough for blankets, the black sky enshrouded with clouds, without the faintest twinkle of starlight able to pierce the inky gloom. “Ooh, perfect”, I thought as I snuggled down and began to read. Like the slow winding of a clock, the story kept tightening. I did not even notice it at first. A few strange happenings here, a bit of foreboding there. I kept turning the pages, faster and faster, until all of a sudden I found myself as spooked as the child who is certain something unspeakable dwells in his closet, something that whispers his name in the dark. I closed the book with a snap. I listened. No sound but the sleep of the innocent.

I tried to wake Edward, asleep down below me. I called to him softly and he lifted his head to stare at me - a little unfocused, the white fur on his head mussed and shaggy from sleep. I patted the bed - in what I hoped was a most inviting and nonchalant way - silently praying he would jump up and lie on my feet as he does on the cold nights of winter. But no such luck tonight for he simply nodded at me and fell back asleep as I watched. So I lay there, with the covers up under my chin, wide-eyed and listening and most determined in future to only open this book on the sunniest part of the cheeriest day.

I do highly recommend it however. For the old-fashioned chills one rarely gets from a book these days. Just be careful when and where you read it. And remember, you have been warned.

Painting by Gustave Dore


September 9th Update.... The Little Stranger as been shortlisted for the Booker Prize!!

Godspeed

I said goodbye to an old friend this past week. He had fought illness for many years, always with great humour and unflagging bravery. But finally his strength simply dwindled and he left us. He was the jester who gifted The Songwriter and myself with an indelible wedding day memory as he hid inside our car when we left our reception, honeymoon bound. His intention was to accompany us on the journey, but his giggles gave him away and he found himself rather unceremoniously deposited in the middle of the road, not far from the church.
He is forever cemented in our wedding day memories, and happily so.

As human beings, I suppose we are hardwired for life. We fight on, even when retreat has been sounded. But I often wonder what our perspective is from the other side of the veil. Once we land upon those storied shores and survey our surroundings, do we shake our heads in bafflement at our previous struggle to remain stuck to the earth? Is the life to come so superior we shall marvel at our ignorance? I rather think that might be the case.
As we are now... gravity-glued humans, blinkered by our boundaries... we can really only suppose what awaits us. Our faith gives us clues for which there are many interpretations. Though we all hold tickets for our passage, none of us has yet taken that journey so none can say for certain what it holds. But I have always felt that the opposite of faith has never been doubt, but certainty.
And I am content with the mystery.
I think I shall see my friend again in a different land and I hope, from his new found dwelling place, he occasionally peers down and laughs at the limits of my knowledge of wonderment.
I wish him Godspeed.

Up-Hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

by Christina Rossetti

Painting by Sir John Everett Millais

Whispers From the Tartan

I wear a lot of linen in the summertime. Yes, it wrinkles, but that is just part of its charm in my eyes. Linen seems to possess a personality of sorts, a certain devil may care quality, that feels perfectly in sync with summer days. A white linen shirt with a strand of pearls and my hair worn up is pure midsummer comfort for me. When I don that first pair of linen trousers on the first day of June....for here in the Old South it is practically a sin to do so earlier....they feel as though the essence of summer is woven into the very fabric itself. The walks on the beach - the picnics, the rose gardens - all are best experienced in linen.
But now things have changed, for no self-respecting linen wishes to be worn past the last day of August. For several days now I have noticed that my favourite linen shirt appears almost a bit embarrassed if I reach for it in the morning. The white linen blazer positively hides from my view in the closet, no doubt fervently hoping my hand will reach for a garment more in tune with the calendar. And it may just be my imagination of course, but lately I could swear I have heard strange sounds coming from the wardrobe where all the winter clothing is stored. Whispers from the tartan, laughter from the wool. Could it be that the gloves are flexing their long fingers at the thought of forming snowballs or gripping Edward’s lead? The shawls, the hats, the boots....they all seem to have awoken en masse, already anticipating their outings... the walks in brisk air, the dinners by the fireside.
It is now September and I have to admit...the crisp white linen does look a bit tired.
Strange how that happens.

By The Sea

I sit by the sea. Under a royal blue umbrella, one of twelve in a row worthy of Cannes. It is dusk and through my half closed eyes I am watching a blonde chihuahua. Like the baby in a herd of maternal elephants, he darts in and out through the legs of his companions, three plump and brightly dressed ladies as much like Sleeping Beauty’s good fairies as it is possible to be. The little fellow is happy, splashing through the surf, carrying his tiny tail high like a yellow parenthesis waving behind him, punctuating the salty air with wags of joy. Far out to sea, another storm rages. I see the rain falling, a grey trunk on a tree with black leaves. I watch it as one would watch a play, far removed from the drama in my seat on the shore.
Far removed from the drama.
I doze.
One by one they scattered behind me, small worries, great plans, insignificant trivialities - they flew out the open windows like spent roses loosed from a summertime bouquet, the last paperthin petal floating away on the breeze as I crossed the old bridge to the island. The ancient salt marshes waved down below me, lime coloured puzzle pieces strewn over glass, whispering the way to the sea.
I followed them here with relief.
The old inn is as I remembered, cheerful bedside flowers, curtains reaching their hems out to greet me, blowing into the room, heralds of the roaring sea just outside.
Rushing in, rushing out, cleansing, restoring.
Eternally beckoning.
The afternoon storms depart after painting the skies with the colours of Easter. Sand like a lilac mirror - clouds above, a celestial neighborhood of peach castles. The sea is golden and I am the only soul on the beach. I walk out in the surf until all I see is water. I could be a million miles at sea, on another continent, in another time. All has already happened, all is yet to be. I think of the great lion just now crossing the threshold, his journey completed, his laurels to come. He, too, loved the sea. All that I don’t know, he knows now. All that I can’t see, he sees.
I say goodbye to him. I say goodbye to Summer.
The sea has done its work. I feel cleansed, restored.
I am ready to go home.

Until it beckons again.

"The commitment I seek is not to outworn views but to old values that will never wear out. Programs may sometimes become obsolete, but the ideal of fairness always endures. Circumstances may change, but the work of compassion must continue."

Senator Ted Kennedy

1932-2009
Farewell.

SEA JOY

When I go down by the sandy shore
I can think of nothing I want more
Than to live by the booming sea
As the seagulls flutter round about me

I can run about--when the tide is out
With the wind and the sand and the sea all about
And the seagulls are swirling and diving for fish
Oh-to live by the sea is my only wish.

This little poem was written by Jacqueline Bouvier when she was ten years old.
I know just how she felt.
I leave for the seaside at daybreak.
Be back soon!

The Wonder Remains

When I was little a trip to the beach could be totally wrecked by a storm. We frolicked in palpable dread of grey, gathering clouds, knowing how easily they could signal the awful piercing trill of the lifeguard’s whistle, slicing through the salty winds like a carving knife, cutting all our fun to ribbons. One crack of thunder and we would be herded inside like a pack of sad puppies - our lips red from cherry snow cones, our fingertips wrinkled from seawater - back into our chilled hotel rooms to sit forlornly at the windows and lament the gross unfairness of our fate. The risk of being zapped into oblivion by a lightning strike seemed far preferable to the dismal reality of peeling off of a clingy wet bathing suit in an air-conditioned room, doomed to a beachless afternoon. For a child who had dreamed of the sea for eleven long months, being at the beach, but not on the beach, was hideously hard to endure.

Naturally, adulthood brings many changes. Retreating to bed early is no longer a punishment, vegetables are not the suspicious oddities they once were. Unlike my childhood self, I now appreciate the benefits of sunblock, I do not mind wearing a hat, and I long for a storm at the beach.
Comfortably situated on a wide covered porch with my eyes fixed upon that mysterious line where leaden sky meets turbulent sea, I have so often found a histrionic thunderstorm to be the perfect author of magical thought. Colours sprout and spawn with every crash of a storm-tossed sea, ideas bloom like wildflowers and twine like ivy, all through the hallways of my mind - rainbows swirling, dervishes awhirl - more so with every roaring wave, every howling wind. The sea is a masterpiece when calm, but an astonishment during a storm. It is simple to understand why so many words have been written beside the sea - so many paintings painted, so many souls examined.

Yes, I head to the beach with quite different intentions than I did in my little girl years. I read, I nap, I think, I write, I stare out to sea and dream. The snow cones may be gone, but the wonder remains. I am heading to the beach next week and am putting in my humble request now for a big, fat, thunderstorm!

Thunderstorms

My mind has thunderstorms,
That brood for heavy hours:
Until they rain me words,
My thoughts are drooping flowers
And sulking, silent birds.

Yet come, dark thunderstorms,
And brood your heavy hours;
For when you rain me words,
My thoughts are dancing flowers
And joyful singing birds.

by William Henry Davies

Bundle Up

If anyone required further proof that I am no stranger to eccentricity, they need but look to the hottest day in August. For I have a little personal tradition that I try to follow on that day each year, and admittedly, some might find it a just wee bit odd. On the hottest day of the hottest month, I go shopping. For coats. The most beautiful of the new coats for next season will just be hitting the stores then and, you see, I have a absolute passion for coats.
Some women adore shoes, some dream at night of jewelry. But for me, it has always been coats. As a little girl, if ever I wandered away from my parents during a shopping excursion, they always knew they could find me in the coat department. Perhaps it is due to my ardent affinity for cold weather, but I have almost never met a winter coat I did not love. Throw in a hood or a cape and I am over the moon with joy.
Of course I do not buy a new coat every single year. And I am not fickle; I wear coats I have had for years. Such as the long black coat with the velvet collar that remains my favourite to wear when I travel. It is the ideal weight; wonderfully warm, but light. Unfortunately, since I prefer to travel in cooler months, in just about every photograph taken of me in the last ten years, just about everywhere, I am wearing that coat. Rather like a character out of Dorian Gray, I am aging, but the coat never does.
There is also the fabulous grey cape I found on sale at Bloomingdale’s a couple of years ago, complete with a scrumptious hood - and the long, black, hooded wonder that looks as though I snitched it straight off the set of Dr. Zhivago...it makes me feel a shiver of mystery each time I put it on. There is my Ellen Tracy cashmere coat, puppy fur soft, the colour of a perfectly toasted almond.... and of course, I cannot forget my vintage, traditional camel hair jacket - every blonde should own one.
But the one I love most happens to be a coat that I found at Jenner’s in Edinburgh. I was wandering through that venerable old store one chilly afternoon, thinking more of Christmas presents than of coats, when I rounded the corner and spied it. Hanging quietly by itself, a truly magical creation, obviously designed by a wizard of rare sartorial talent. Long black velvet, with amazing, yet discreet, embroidery all down the back, an extravagant red faux fur collar and shell buttons. My heart almost stopped and well, reader, I bought it! Such joy! I happily lugged it all over Scotland and back home again, and each time I wear it, I feel like a princess.
I look for the hottest day to bubble up this very week, and I cannot wait to see what I find.
Oh, and don’t even get me started on muffs!!

In Edinburgh, moments after purchasing my favourite coat!
It's inside the big bag!

The Ennui of Edward

His is a fortunate disposition, for he was born a happy dog.
Despite a precarious and rather lonely start in life, he never lost his joie de vivre, and now, ensconced as he is in the center of love itself, each day is merely another another opportunity for sharing his joy with everyone he sees.
And then comes August.
He tries, he really does, to face it bravely, to stare down his melancholy and force back his dread. But some days, it is just too much. Each morning he bounds to the door, filled with new hope.... oh, for a brisk wind, perhaps a cooler day.... but he is greeted again with the mossy air of late summer that makes his fur feel cumbersome and turns his dancing paws to lead. And so, once again, like a disappointed turtle, he pulls his head back inside the cooler house and stomps off to his fat tartan bed where he waits. And he waits. For Autumn.
But not today.
Invited into the car for an outing, he had to confess that his expectations were low, and when he sensed the car was on the expressway - the dullest road imaginable - he simply fell asleep. Upon awakening a couple of hours later, he noticed all the car windows were down, the sunroof was open, and the air through the windows had been miraculously refreshed into a cool autumnal breeze. Tentatively, he stuck his nose out the window. He could see up above him, across skies the colour of robin’s eggs, big white clouds were gamboling - their lamb-like faces shifting happy expression with every gust of cool wind. The holiday scent of the fir trees told him. He was deep in the mountains!
Who knew his people could travel from Summer to Autumn in two short hours? He did not stop to ponder this new wizardry, but bounded from the car with glee. He hiked to mountain waterfalls, graciously pulling the lady back up the steep trails like a ski rope. He ate lunch by a clear, duck-dotted lake, and ran across still green fields where the grass felt deliciously cool beneath his summer weary paws. He had his picture taken; strangers patted his furry white head. His August ennui was gone.
He slept the way home and now is not quite certain if the day really happened or was simply a dream. But no matter, he can clearly remember how good it felt to be once again in cool weather. He shall think of the day when he naps, his belief now restored.
Autumn shall indeed return to grace the wilted land!

With his sincere apologies to the Bard of Avon, Edward would like to say,
“Now was the summer of my discontent, made glorious autumn by a trip to the mountains”.

Summer Days

They have joyfully scattered their hours like dandelion snow over the landscape of summer - a rosy afternoon here, a sun-dappled morning there - but now they are quietly preparing for their upcoming journey to other hemispheres, other lands - packing up their breezy green minutes a little bit more each day. Already the children are back in school. Already the light is changing.

If you ask them, they will tell you that their time here is as it has always been, but I am doubtful, for the Days of Summer stretched on and on to an invisible end when I was a child. Limitless, meandering days with dreamy picture-book hours, they casually unfurled under cloudless skies and firefly nights. I know they must move at a faster pace today. Or perhaps childhood simply spins atop a different axis, perhaps those days really were longer, those months as a lifetime. Perhaps this is part of the remarkable gift of youth; we are given more time to soak up the wonder of life, drinking in a myriad of magic hours to hold like a heartbeat inside us until we are older and long for the sort of inspiration adulthood cannot provide.

Since my father passed away, I have worn his watch. It is an old Hamilton, with a rectangular face and chocolate leather band, no doubt a bit too big for my wrist. A sweet reminder, this watch speaks to me of days at the beach with Daddy, of all the blessed summer hours from a carefree childhood that now and forever enrich my own well-spring of inspiration. With every slow movement of the second hand, it is as if my father is softly saying....
enjoy it all, enjoy it all.

The Painting above: The Fates - Past, Present and Future
by Egron Sellif Lundgren

I wonder

It is no secret that the current turbulence in the international economy has bumped and bounced its way into every facet of life. Those of us in interior design have not escaped being jostled along with everyone else. Indeed, with the downturn in the housing market, we are perhaps more seasick than some within this rickety economic boat. Perhaps we were all in need of being pulled up a little - in need of cooling off, slowing down, reassessing our values. I prefer to think that we will all emerge from this fluctuation a kinder people with more emphasis being placed on the things that truly matter. And that can only be good.

All that being said, as I opened the mail last week and saw my invitation to the closing of a venerable furniture showroom, one I had relied upon for my clients for years, my heart sank, and I wondered .... with all the discount and DIY places sprouting up like nettles, what is to become of the true craftsmen, those men and women who spend the time it takes to create true works of art in furniture; pieces of heirloom quality that are destined to be handed down through generations. Will these artists be forced to lay down their rare and considerable talents in search of alternative means of support, thereby depleting this cadre of artisans, bit by bit, until it evaporates completely? And more depressing still, will anyone notice?

I am a consistent champion of individuality and I cheer when someone interprets their own personality within their home, at any price point. But at present, I look around at what seems to me to be rather trivial, disposable design offerings and I wonder if any of these will be around in a hundred years. Or worse, will our eyes become so accustomed to the pedestrian that we will no longer be able to appreciate the extraordinary? Will there still be those who see the value in the handmade over the mass produced? In the future, will anyone remember Fortuny fabrics or George Smith sofas? - a Henredon four-poster or a Zuber papered dining room? Or will all this beauty disappear into the land of once upon a time.
Will cost finally win the battle over worth?
I wonder.

The image above is from the Zuber wallpaper mural,

Mer Glaciale (The Sea of Ice) 1854

The Spider

Is it because of Charlotte that I think she is female? Or is it because she weaves her web with such a delicate hand? Unseen in the sunlight, she appears like a fancy out there in the darkness, sitting alone in the center of her labyrinth every evening; an artist enthroned on her canvas of gossamer. Reaching from Oak tree to Annabelle, this intricate Rorschach of silk, woven in patterns more complex than a snowflake, seems quite impossible. How on earth does she do it? Night after night? I am humbled completely - I who was so chuffed at my newly acquired ability to knit from patterns that were hieroglyphic only months ago. From her diaphanous nighttime villa, has she studied me at the window, as I sat perched on my tuffet of hubris with knitting needles in hand? Has she perhaps stifled a lilting giggle at my myriad of deficiencies and the flimsy curiosities they produce? Or does she simply pity me kindly, secure in her knowledge that, try as I might, I can never hope to attain her eminent stratum of artistry with such meager human tools at my disposal.
Two hands? Only two?
She possesses eight, after all.


My favourite model wears a newly completed cabled scarf, one the spider watched me knit.
Wonderful yarn... Araucania Azapa in Lilac.

Dame Agatha

Years ago I had the rather daunting good fortune to meet Sherlock Holmes.
Well actually, to be honest, it was the late British actor, Jeremy Brett, whose portrayal of Mr. Holmes is considered to be both brilliant and definitive. I recall being a bit shocked to discover that Mr. Brett was wearing a turtleneck sweater. What, no houndstooth coat? No deerstalker hat? So completely did he inhabit the great detective, it was a bit jarring to find him to be a regular 20th century person.

I have often wondered how I would feel if I ever had the equal luck of an encounter with David Suchet, the actor who currently defines Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot - he of the egg-shaped head, flamboyantly tended moustache and multitudes of razor sharp “little gray cells”. Would I expect him to be fussy and imperious, nattily attired, with a strong dislike for the country? Like Jeremy Brett before him as Holmes, Mr. Suchet is the quintessential Poirot, and never more so than in the two new versions just out on DVD. I have sorely missed Poirot in recent years and these new, just released interpretations are beautifully done , chock full of wonderful actors....Zoe Wanamaker as mystery writer Ariadne is especially divine....and photographed with painterly detail. Watching them in high definition is truly delicious eye candy. And David Suchet has never been better. His Poirot is never silly, never comic... he is ingenious and eccentric, just as he should be.

And happily, the Christie canon continues with a brand new Miss Marple. Like Brett and Suchet before her, Joan Hickson has always been considered the gold standard Miss Marple, but I always found her a bit chilly. I could never imagine giving up my secrets to someone with such a dour expression. However, Julia McKenzie, as the new Miss Marple, is quite another story altogether. Her Miss Marple is warm, pleasant, and empathetic, all the while maintaining that familiar cat-like focus on the clues others are overlooking. And yes, she knits, she drinks tea and she wears tweed suits.... just like she should.

There are four new Miss Marple stories just out and they are a sure recipe for a wonderfully cozy night in front of the television. Pocketful of Rye was especially enjoyable, in part because it adheres closer to the book, while the other three retain little more than the names of the original characters. While I enjoyed them as well, I had to wonder at the need for the wholesale alteration of their plot lines. For those Christie purists among us, this can be a bit disconcerting. Rather like having Ratty and Mole poking around Oz. Or perhaps, summoning Othello over to Denmark to advise Hamlet on his grand dilemma. While Dame Agatha may not look down on the literary world from as lofty a perch as Sir William, one still has to be amazed at the cheek it takes to cuisinart her plotlines so thoroughly. I had to chuckle when Mrs. Marple made her appearance in Why Didn’t They Ask Evans, a book from which she is totally absent, but then I thought, ah well, perhaps she just wandered over from her cottage in St. Mary Mead or from her holiday at Bertram’s Hotel. Rather like the characters in the paintings that hang on the wall at Hogwarts, perhaps the Christie characters visit each other occasionally. Although I must say, given that Mrs. Christie is the best selling mystery writer in history, one could reasonably assume the plots of her stories would be quite satisfactory on their own, so these indiscriminate changes seem unnecessary at best, hubristic at worst.

But a little Christie is better than no Christie at all, and these productions are ones I know I shall watch again and again, for they have all the essential elements for a perfect night.... old English country houses, murders in the conservatory, mysterious characters, deliciously lavish sets and copious amounts of tea and knitting.

It Is August

The sun melts. In rays of pure honey, it slips and slides down over the trees, dripping molten gold onto green clover and slowly spreading out over the sleepy garden - a hypnotic, blonde veil. It oozes underneath the cottage door, pooling up by the windows where just outside, a robin sits in the rose bush longing for a bath. She hops to the stone edge and gazes down at her sherbet-hued twin staring back from inside the clear water. Her tiny toe dips up and down, testing the coolness in careful anticipation. The big white dog watches from the windowseat, eyes half mast, lost in the memory and the dream of a day in autumn. Breezes like cauldron steam seethe and swirl round the cottage; torpid jailers, holding the big dog hostage within the shaded walls where gentle music plays - cellos, flutes and chimes - ancient tunes that know their way through lassitude. Like a misty haze, the heat muddles the mind, gradually erasing every idea but those fleeting rose-hued notions of seasides, iced drinks, and bare feet.
On the colour wheel of months, bright yellow has rolled into view -
it is the high noon of the year.
It is hot.
We are lazy.

It is August.

Joy

There is a video currently making its way through the ether, perhaps you have seen it. It features a wedding party’s merry entrance down the aisle at the start of the ceremony. One hears the beginning of an upbeat, fairly raucous, piece of music.... the doors fly open and one by one - or pair by pair - bridesmaids and groomsmen, dancing in exuberant free style, make their way into the church, followed eventually by a somersaulting groom and a frolicking bride. The longer I watched this, the broader my grin became, until naturally... I was crying.
Such joy!
Such felicity!
This is what marriage should be.
I thought about that video again today when I realized it was the anniversary of the 1981 royal wedding of Prince Charles and the former Lady Diana. The Wedding of the Century. Like multitudes of people around the world, I watched on that early morning 28 long years ago, enraptured by the intoxicating pageantry that seemed to radiate through the streets of London all the way to the altar of St. Paul’s. It was the very manifestation of a fairy tale. Or so we all thought at the time. Knowing what we know now, it is difficult to watch that ceremony without feeling a bitter lump of sadness tightening the throat.

So many weddings every single year. How does one know it will last? I have been fortunate beyond measure in my life, for the joy I felt on my wedding day remains even now after so many years. The Songwriter is still my favourite person on the planet. He makes me coffee every morning, makes me laugh everyday and rubs my feet every night. He is wonderful. I know I am one of the lucky ones, and I am grateful. I offer no advice however. I simply pray for everyone who chooses someone with whom to share their life till the end of their days, may the merriment so visible in this new wedding video remain with you always.
For, I know that it can.

If you haven’t seen the video, you can watch it HERE.

“The whole life of man is but a point of time; let us enjoy it.”
Plutarch

46 AD - 120 AD

Ideas on Film

Over the past few months, I have had several visitors tell me that my bedroom reminds them of Hogwart’s Gryffindor house from the Harry Potter movies. I suppose I can see the resemblance..... dark wood canopied bed, aged honey colour walls, scarlet velvet upholstery, antique leather chairs, large oil paintings, and floral linen everywhere. No doubt Master Potter would indeed feel at home. I know I do.
Although I created my bedroom with no thought in my head about Harry Potter, there have been many rooms from film that have influenced me greatly over the years. In fact, I often go to the movies just to see the sets.
Here are ten of my most inspirational films.
See if you agree, and please share some of your favourites!

1. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, 1947
With or without a ghost, Mrs. Muir’s, Gull Cottage, has to be the most wonderful seaside dwelling imaginable. I remember seeing this movie for the first time when I was a little girl and, even then, I was totally captivated with the thoughts of how I would decorate this amazing place if only it were mine. That bedroom of Lucy’s, upstairs with the landing that opened out to the sea! That sitting room with the large window! Even the big utilitarian kitchen was charming... the perfect place to heat the water for your hot water bottle whilst a ghost peers over your shoulder. I’ve always thought she should have kept the the Captain’s monkey puzzle tree, however.

2. The Philadephia Story, 1940
Who wouldn’t want to spend a lazy afternoon in Tracy Lord’s south parlor? That gracious floral upholstery, the gargantuan vases of flowers, the sparkling windows overlooking the gardens. I can almost smell the fragrance of old roses wafting in on the breeze. Even in black and white, or maybe especially in black and white, this movie captured the idealized image of the perfect American house in the 1930’s.
And Cary Grant was pretty ideal himself.

3. Practical Magic, 1998
Oh, you can just give me this whole house. What a place! Perched on a ocean bluff, this Victorian gem is like something out of a dream. And that kitchen! Be still my heart. All in creams and warm woods, with a big, fat Aga and high trussed ceilings. I am not sure how Practical it would be, but I have no quarrel with the Magic part.

4. Out of Africa, 1985
“I had a farm in Africa”, said Karen Blixen.... and boy, did she. This African farmhouse should have been credited as one of the stars of this grand movie. I adored it. In fact, so besotted was I with the floral upholstery in the sitting room that several years later, when I began decorating professionally, I was given the delightful task of totally doing over a charming house for an older lady who had just come into a generous inheritance. She wanted a “pretty” house, and I knew just which fabric to use! I tracked down the very linen floral that was used in the movie and did her entire bedroom in it. She was thrilled, and so was I.

5. The Uninvited, 1944
From the moment Ruth Hussey and Ray Milland, playing sister and brother, stumble on the mysterious, abandoned Windward House perched high on a rocky Cornish bluff in this delightfully spooky ghost story, I was hooked. To have the opportunity to bring this wonderful house back to life would have been worth facing down its rather malevolent ghost. Maybe.

6. Bringing Up Baby, 1938
There is a charming inn on an estate in Essex, Massachusetts, sumptuously decorated and surrounded by lilac bushes. I stayed there one May when those lilacs were in bloom and there was still a nip in the New England air. When I walked in, I recognized the design of the front lobby immediately. With an book-lined alcove around the fireplace, it was almost identical to Aunt Elizabeth’s country cottage in Bringing Up Baby. A fabulous movie house, preferably sans leopard.

7. Sense and Sensibility, 1995
The Dashwood sisters feel quite deprived having to leave their grand family estate of Norland Park and relocate to their donated cottage in Devonshire, but to me, this was the better abode by far. Perched on a bucolic hill, this lovely cottage had a heart-stopping view and interiors almost Swedish in style, with faded blues and greys. Charming.

8. Gigi, 1958
When I was very little I remember watching this movie on television and being swept away by Gigi’s dramatic red apartment. I thought it was the most extravagant place I’d ever seen. With large windows opening out onto turn of the century Paris, and those scarlet walls! It seems Gigi’s grandmother, (played by the equally extravagant Hermione Gingold....who better?) was forever in the kitchen creating cassoulets. I was entranced.

9. Swiss Family Robinson, 1960
How the Robinson’s treehouse captured my little girl dreams and shook them till all sorts of colour flew round my head! It taught me that the most vital ingredient in any good design is imagination. Just imagine having a multi-storied home in the trees, complete with an organ!

10. Holiday, 1938
Upstairs in the great mansion of the Seton family, there is a room untouched by time. It was the children’s playroom, with a roaring fireplace, cushy upholstery, faded rugs and books everywhere. It is the room where the characters played by Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant find comfort and solace and I have always understood why.

What houses from the movies have inspired you? Do share!

An Enchanted Souvenir

In my part of the world, this was a day rarer than pigs in flight.
Here, the month of July is more likely to be found draping itself over our shoulders in gelatinous fashion, rendering those brave enough to venture outdoors regretful of that decision within mere moments in the gummy air. Normally, a July afternoon swills up all our vim and verve with the lazy, blank-faced greed of a pudgy uncle parked by the punch bowl at a wedding reception.
But Someone waved a wand over this July day.
One of several in a salubrious row, this day stretched out its hours like shady garden stepping stones, enticing us along with feather-fan breezes and morning air as cool as the center seed of a honeydew. It was a day when Edward wore a Prussian blue kerchief round his furry neck and was petted and hugged by strangers. A day with fruit for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A day for linen shirts and plum coloured lipstick - for checking out crisp new library books and for sitting cross-legged in green grass within a grove of pear trees, reading Longfellow aloud to Edward as he dozed beside me.
Like an enchanted souvenir of autumn, this jewel of a day was dropped into our clammy hands as we sat fever-addled by summer - we turned it over and over, feeling its coolness against our skin. We held it up to the light in admiration, marveled at our spectacular luck, and knew all the while that it could not last.
But that only made it more dear.

a bit of what Edward heard beneath the pear trees....

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

from A Psalm of Life, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Orchestra

They are our artists in residence each summer, miniature virtuosos returning every year to serenade us in the darkness. One hears them tuning up at twilight, a discordant note here, a sawtoothed rasp there, as if they are arriving - some early, some late - from all parts of the woodland - flitting, flying, hopping, with tiny black-cased instruments held securely under their powdery arms. I imagine them getting comfortably situated in the elbows of the trees, atop the chalk white toadstools, or under the chartreuse hydrangea blossoms, readying themselves for their nightly performance in the velvet swelter of the black July air.

With a yellow moon as its maestro, this raucous orchestra plays at decibels disproportionate to its size, each greenly invisible cricket, cicada and tree-frog adding his own unique talent to the sonorous soundtrack performed with gusto from dusk till dawn. For the nut-brown chipmunk tucked up safe in his burrow, or the solemn row of grey flannel doves asleep on the crooked poplar branch, this cacophony is but a lullaby.
The whole of the silver garden hums along.

I open the window and lie back in my cool bed, listening - to Summer, to Memory, to the bewitching omnipresence of Nature - and not for the first time, I feel delightfully small, remarkably young; just a girl with so much yet to learn.

A Dozen Favourite Things For Summer!

1. The beautiful, whimsical artwork of Amber Alexander, shown above.
Visit her and see what I mean.

2. The Secret of Roan Inish - a completely magical film,
and the perfect summertime escape.

You can almost smell the salt air through your open windows.

3. Yoplait Thick and Creamy Key Lime Pie Yogurt, only 100 calories and tastes totally like the real thing!

4. Milkmoon - blogger Ciara Brehony takes the most charming photographs of her family’s life in Ireland. She really has an eye for beauty.

5. This enchanting bed







6. These autumnal outfits....in fact this entire Fall Collection
I cannot wait to wear these kinds of clothes again.










7. This holiday rental.....oh, to spend August here.

And Edward could come too... Pets are allowed.

8. Cheese souffle and watermelon for lunch while Sinatra sings Summer Wind in the background

9. Adorable Luna Lovegood

10. White linen trousers and shell bracelets

11. Knitting Christmas presents....it’s only five months away you know

12. And finally, this quotation by Iris Murdoch:

"Happiness is a matter of one's most ordinary everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self. To be damned is for one's ordinary everyday mode of consciousness to be unremitting agonizing preoccupation with self."


painting by Amber Alexander

There Is No Frigate Like A Book.....

“The past is a cupboard full of light and all you have to do is find the key that opens the door.”

These sagacious words spring from the voice of Ruby Lennox, in the closing chapter of the most wonderful novel to come my way in ages, Behind the Scenes at the Museum, by Kate Atkinson. This incandescent tale of a young girl growing up in the northern British city of York is ostensibly the wry and charming record of several generations of her family, warts and all, but it is also a shining three-way mirror that reflects much more than it pretends as, over and over, it gifts the reader with poignant, piercing examples of those universal moments we all recognize from our own families. Moments of tragedy, hope, disappointment and grace.

From the very first line of the book when our wise and witty heroine finds herself conceived and celebrates that fact by announcing proudly, “I’m alive!”, I knew I was in for something special. So many books are published every month, with tantalizing covers and enticing press releases. But it seems a rare thing when, in the midst of this sardined sea of words, a truly original voice bobs to the surface, with a unique way of bending the language to relate a story that no one else could tell. Such is the voice of Kate Atkinson in this marvelous book, which remarkably, was her first.

I realize I prattle on about books quite a bit, and this time I am more than a trifle late to the party, for Behind the Scenes at the Museum won the Whitbread award in 1995. Nonetheless, if there are any other latecomers like myself out there unfamiliar with this book, take it from me.... you owe it to yourself to read it.
It is the perfect entertainment for a summer afternoon, witty, funny and oh, so wise.

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us lands away,
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry -
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll;
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul!

Emily Dickinson

The Very Definition of Summer

If summer could be defined without words, if its very essence could be gathered up enmasse - from a Provencal orchard in August, a Corfu seaside in June ... a bit of a taste of strawberries and cream in St. James Park, or one perfect peach eaten on a screened porch in Georgia - and if that essence could be crystalized into one single all encompassing moment, then this must certainly be it.
For surely, this is the very definition of summer.......

I am wading, chin deep, in a saffron sea, with the drone of honeybees filling the air, a multitude of tiny violinists tuning up for their daily noontime symphony. Beneath a cloudless ocean of sky, I stand at the heart of ten acres of sunflowers, a mere dot of white linen on a canvas of gold. True to their nature, for they are always the friendliest of flowers, they have made me most welcome, nodding and waving as I have passed deeper and deeper into their midst until now they are all that I see. I feel almost one of them, a living, breathing representative of summer.

To choose which ones to take home to my vases is a task more difficult than I had imagined, for each is unique in its beauty and grace and each seems to wish for an adventure, a journey away to places unknown. Feeling richer than Midas, I fill my green bucket with gold and marvel at my bounty. Eventually, I make my way back through the smiling rows, back to where Edward and Apple wait with the Songwriter under the cool damp shade of an oak tree.

And now....
there are vases and vases of butter-yellow faces wherever I choose to look.
My rooms are filled with summer.

Walking Home On A Night In Midsummer

A firefly followed me home last night.
Bobbing and bouncing like a fairy’s torch, it appeared at my shoulder and remained there all the way to my door, a tiny glowing escort, perhaps sent to guide me through the mystery of the twilight. Past the tall poppies holding court in the garden on the corner.... was it my imagination, or did they cease conversation at our approach? On down the side lane where the precocious nicotiana breaches her borders and lolls about in the pathway, scenting the warm air with a heavy perfume that makes it quite difficult to think of a serious thought. I wonder, did I hear a hint of a throaty giggle just as we passed? And behind the weeping willow tree, or beneath the white gardenias.... could those have been scores of green eyes, widening and narrowing as we went by?
It was not yet dark, but not quite light, as if the daytime had lingered a bit to flirt with the night before traipsing off to sleep in her silent bed of violets. The magical hour of an ordinary day when cabbage leaves turn to velvet and the glow of a rose paints the air all around us with the pink gauze of a dream.
We made our way, all alone in the lane, Edward and I, with our own blithe spirit aglow just beside us - our very own Peaseblossom, Mustardseed, Cobweb or Moth - and as we opened our gate, the firefly nodded and wove his way off in the dream of a midsummer’s night.

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough briar,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats, spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In their freckles live our savours.
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I'll be gone;
My queen and all her elves come here anon!

Act II, Scene I

A Midsummer Night's Dream

William Shakespeare

I Like Americans
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I like Americans.
You may say what you will, they are the nicest people in the world.
They sleep with their windows open.
Their bathtubs are never dry.
They are not grown up yet. They still believe in Santa Claus.

They are terribly in earnest.
But they laugh at everything…

I like Americans.
They give the matches free…

I like Americans.
They are the only men in the world, the sight of whom in their shirt-sleeves is not rumpled, embryonic and agonizing…

I like Americans.
They carry such pretty umbrellas.
The Avenue de l’Opera on a rainy day is just an avenue on a rainy day.
But Fifth Avenue on a rainy day is an old-fashioned garden under a shower…

They are always rocking the boat.
I like Americans.
They either shoot the whole nickel, or give up the bones.
You may say what you will, they are the nicest people in the world.

Happy 4th of July to All

Photograph of Jacqueline and Caroline Kennedy
Hyannisport, Mass.
By Mark Shaw

Fireworks

This is the week I think of the owls, for this is the week when the fireworks come.
On a night very soon, on the heels of a faintly heard march by Sousa, the black sky shall split under salvos of colour, the heavens recast as bomb shattered stained glass. Umbrellas of red, blue and green, opening and closing, then opening again, each jewel tone joined by concussions of sound that tromp through the woodlands like the footfalls of giants.
I have always wondered. What must the owls think? Those silent night gliders with their secretive lives, who normally have the darkness all to themselves. Do they lose their way with reliable Orion now obliterated by this strange detonation of rainbows? Do their orange eyes widen in fear of this technicolour end of the world?
Or perhaps, given their wisdom, do they have this night circled on their woody kitchen calendars, to remind themselves that this is the way the people below express their patriotism every Fourth of July?


"The day will be the most memorable in America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival...it ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade...bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other, from this day forward, forevermore."

John Adams, in a letter to his wife, Abigail,
after the Continental Congress decided to proclaim the American colonies
independent from Britain.

Painting above: Fireworks, by James Lynch

Lions and Supermodels

Like the bright golden ring on a carousel, fame is a most attractive thing to a lot of people; they stretch out their arms, grasping for it if ever it comes round their way. They never seem to consider that this elusive goal, once attained, can never be returned. For myself, immense fame has always seemed like a nightmare of sickening proportions; the worst sort of situation in which to be stuck. I feel this way for many reasons, the chief of which is that fame would snatch away one of the more delightful activities I know of: the observation of other humans. For when you are the one constantly being watched, it is impossible to indulge in the study of others.

While sitting with a mug of tea at a sidewalk cafe, peering over a magazine in a crowded airport lounge, or from behind dark glasses on a north-bound train, I am often happily fascinated just considering the people around me. There are few more interesting ways to past the time than contemplating the behaviour of one’s fellow humans when they are unaware they are being watched. I imagine them standing in their closets deciding on the clothes they are wearing, I mark the books they are reading, I study the way they interact with one another. It is so entertaining to conjure up their fictional backstories in my head, often populating entire Agatha Christie novels with the unsuspecting souls around me.

Sometimes, after an afternoon of this sort of observation, I begin to think that being human in this day and age just seems like so much work, especially when compared with those creatures residing in the animal kingdom. Let’s face it, forget the latest cellphone or laptop, disregard the hairstyle or the shoes - whether fat or thin, short or tall, no one is ever going to be as impressive as a Lion no matter what one does. A Polar Bear will always trump a supermodel for sheer beauty and magnificence. Animals just are. They have no need of embroidered clothing or bejeweled stilettos, they require no make-up, wish for no ornament - they could care less about twittering, and no amount of air-brushing or photoshop could ever improve on the purity of their splendid, individual beauty.
Perhaps animals are on earth for more that the whims of man.
Perhaps they have much to teach us.

I must go now and attempt to pretty myself for the day.
Edward, of course, woke up pretty.


"But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds of the air, and they will teach you: or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish of the sea inform you. Which of these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In His hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind."

Job 12: 7-10

Summer Reading

Whenever I find a cartoon particularly funny, it is usually because I recognize a bit of myself within it. For instance, I have always loved an old New Yorker magazine cartoon of a fellow reading at the beach. Clad in the requisite attire of shorts and flip-flops, he is squinting up at a stern policeman standing over him who says, “I’m sorry, sir, but Dostoyevsky is not considered summer reading. I’ll have to ask you to come with me.” This in turn reminds me of the afternoon I was approached by an overly gregarious chap as I myself sat seaside, reading Edith Wharton. “Whatcha readin’?”, he inquired, displaying a rather alarmingly white smile aimed in my direction. “The House of Mirth”, I replied. With a crestfallen change in expression he said, “Oh. A real book”.

Both of these examples, one imaginary and one quite real, pretty much sum up my difficulty with what is often called,“summer reading”. Time spent with those books generally considered to sit squarely in that category is, to me, rather like being stranded in the shallow end of the pool, with no waves and no challenges. Pleasant enough, but rather uninspiring.

Books are like people in a way. You spend time with them - sometimes an afternoon, sometimes a week - and some even accompany you on your summer holiday. Occasionally, some books become so beloved, they are invited to reside in your library or on your bedside table, never far from reach, a veritable part of the family. Not unlike people, books have definite personalities. Some are secretive, as if reluctant to reveal their deeper meanings until one gets to know them a bit better - some are witty, some are strange, some whisk the reader away to another country, another world. Some change your mood. Some change your mind.

Every year, I greedily await the summer reading suggestions published in newspapers and magazines. I listen eagerly for every summertime book review broadcast on NPR. While I may not be reading textbooks in summertime, I still long to be dazzled by unique imaginations and to occasionally paddle around in the deep end of the pool. From under my sun hat, I still look for stimulating conversations with the books I chose to read, even if those conversations take place in a hammock in the garden, or on a beach chair with the sound of the surf in my ears.

Here is my list, a baker’s dozen of my favourite summer books, each one read during the summertime of a year past and each one more than worthy to be tucked in with the Vogues and Verandas on the way to the beach.
Oh, and don’t be shy....please share one of yours!!

1. My Family And Other Animals by Gerald Durrell
2. How To Make An American Quilt by Whitney Otto
3. Moon Tiger by Penelope Lively
4. A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving
5. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
6. A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
7. Harry Potter by JK Rowling
.... every summer, by tradition, I would leave for the beach on the very day the latest HP was released, just to sit by the sea and escape all alone to Hogwarts. I do so miss those new Potter books!
8. To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
9. Jonathan Strange And Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke
10. The Shipping News by Annie Proulx
11. The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffennegger
12. The Prince Of Tides by Pat Conroy
13. And, I am currently reading Behind The Scenes At The Museum by Kate Atkinson.
How about you?

Another Summer

Darkness came late last night, as though the entire hemisphere was too excited to sleep. The skies stayed awake in celebration of another infant summer, with its happy row of terracotta days stretched out as far as the eye could see. Morning’s pink and glistening dawns, lemonade dew shimmering on the garden floor and towhees splashing in the warm stone baths. Noontimes of warm breezes, long hours spent beside an open window with a beguiling book, hopelessly lost in the words on the page. Chinese lantern evenings, honeydew melons on tuberose tables and strains of Gilberto on the honeysuckle air. And the beach. Forever the beach, with its tropical zephyrs known to whisk away all serious thought leaving only the sweet repetition of wave after wave of smiling joy.
May we all make it to the beach this summer.

Beach Sand
by Raymond A. Foss

Maybe it is the memories
the change of pace that brings us there
the sense of vacation
maybe the smell of the place
the sights of the gulls, the dunes, the grasses
but oh it is the feel of it,
the crunch and slide of it
the feeling of beach sand
so different from dirt, soil, loam
no, not earthy, moist, rich,
but oh so granular and gritty
even when wet,
moveable paper spreading under toes
sliding beneath the soles
smoothing my skin
clearing my mind
unburdening me of the rest
drawing me to the tactile, the feel
of beach sand



Painting at top, The Beach by Peder Severin Kroyer

The Influence of Gardenias

They are the creamy conjurers of memory, summoning lazy walks in white linen dresses beneath trees hung heavy with moss. They call forth the night gardens of childhood, all dark velvet and sprinkled with the winking orange of fireflies. They lead back to the sound of cicadas, nature’s discordant orchestra, on hot evenings in June. Their fragrance, sweeter than the other flowers, so sweet it is almost gothic, fills the room, floods the senses and brings with it the extravagance of dreams. They are imbued with mystery, they are beautiful, they are the most enchanting of all the summer flowers.
They are Gardenias.
I have kept bowls of Gardenias on my bedside table all this week and my dreams have echoed the influence of their sorcery.

If you wish to escape to air castles far above the clouds or visit empyrean forests made of moonbeams and sand, then sleep with Gardenias beside your bed. If you desire to remember who you once were or to observe your future self, clad in feathers and white roses in a weathered cottage by the sea, then sleep with Gardenias beside your bed. If you have ever wondered how it would feel to follow a silver bear down a pathway of emeralds, or converse with a impeccably dressed tiger on a rooftop in Greece; if you want to know where the butterflies go when the wind is high...then by all means, sleep with Gardenias beside your bed.

Cut Gardenias only last a couple of days so their effect will be limited, which is probably best.
If they lasted any longer one might be tempted to live in one’s dreams.

Edward ... Inside On A Hot Afternoon

Toadlike, almost sinister, the hot day squatted atop the ivy-covered cottage, claiming the afternoon for its own and bringing with it a muggy June air thick enough to grab up by the fistfuls. The blue flowers bowed their heads low, in prayer for a cooler hour. The old trees napped. Like the singing steam from a tea kettle, the sultry heat pressed in against the windowpanes and inprisioned the big white dog in the coolness of the sleepy shady rooms of the house.

All during the many crisp delights of the other seasons, the big dog knew this day would come. Summer days like this one made his fur feel heavy. He glanced over at his people, still placidly reading in their favourite chairs. He sighed, louder this time, but all he got in return was a smile. Well after all, he thought, what could they do?

Turning back to the window, the dog noticed the long-fingered shadow of the fir tree in the garden had now disappeared. Looking up, he saw charcoal skies beginning to gather overhead, advancing from the west, as though a cavalry of windgusts had been sent from on high to blow this still unpleasantness to the sweltering hinterlands. He listened. Yes, he could just hear it, far off in the distance - the booming sound of their hoofbeats of thunder. It was time to take cover. He hopped up next to the lady, circled a few times and lay down with a satisfied plop. She patted his head absentmindedly. The rain began to fall, weighty wet drops that hit the ground with a sizzle, slowly at first, then in a torrent of silver streamers that washed away even the memory of the oppressive afternoon.

The big white dog laid his head on the lady’s knee.

He was happy now.

Rydal Mount

Come with me.....

It is an enthusiastic Virginia Creeper that encircles the house like a necklace of fire, its royal gemstones of flaming leaves set aglow by the crystal clear September sun. Though inside all is still, and hushed, one can yet sense the vivacity of ideas that once played through these rooms. Was it not just yesterday? It seems as though the great poet himself has only just retreated to the garden, jealous of his privacy.

Shadows waltz at the peak of the house, where his study shimmers in the gold of the afternoon. A gathering of bluebottles convenes on the wide windowsill, arranging and rearranging themselves like floating calligraphy; mere ghosts of the letters he once captured to paint his exalted stanzas of light. They beat against the glass in their desire to be released - to fly past the garden, over the lake and out into the world once more.

Peace floats on the very breeze that wends its way through his garden - one follows it down shaded pathways, past romantic vistas of green and blue, to the tiny stone Summer House where an ever open window frames an unequaled view of Eden. One can only imagine the courage it took to create verses of beauty in the presence of such abounding competition from Nature herself. Artists both, perhaps they chose to work in tandem, Nature’s splendour inspiring the words that served to describe Nature’s splendour, each one magnifying the magnificence of the other, each one enriching the bounty of the known world.

“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings:
it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility”
William Wordsworth

My late afternoon view from the Summer House window
at Rydal Mount, Cumbria
Home of poet William Wordsworth

Painting above: View From Rydal Park, by Francis Towne

Umbrellas and Bumbershoots

To walk down the street, under an umbrella, in the rain, is a decidedly pleasant activity for a human being. There are few more satisfying sounds than the pop and the patter of raindrops on a sheltering umbrella. Of course the choice of umbrella is vital to the enjoyment of a such a walk. No puny popup thing will do. A capacious, old-fashioned creation is required for the ultimate experience and I am indeed fortunate to have the most perfect one imaginable. A gift from the Songwriter years ago, it is big, black and British-crafted, with a carved wooden rabbit head for a handle. Mary Poppins’ talking parrot umbrella would be my sole competition. The only trouble is, I nearly always leave it at home, sedentary and dry, in the umbrella stand in my entry hall. For much like Marianne Dashwood, I always think it won’t rain, and then it always does.

So as usual, I left the house one day last week without my rabbit head umbrella. And, as usual, it rained. All day. Not a deluge, but a soft and constant shower, warm wet silky drops that seemed to melt into the pavement with nary a splatter. It was actually quite refreshing and on more than one occasion as I made my way to and from various shop doors, I lifted my face to the grey sky above just to feel a touch of the falling elixir on my skin.

It is always amusing to watch Americans in the rain, and that day was no exception. There they were, huddled in ovine fashion under store awnings, peering up with furrowed brows, anxious for any sign that this wicked substance descending from the unfriendly sky was subsiding. Women held their handbags over their heads and ran squealing for their cars, while men simply hunched their shoulders, lowered their heads and quick-marched along with a martyred air. One would think battery acid was falling from the sky instead of innocent droplets of water.

One of the many reasons I love to travel in Scotland is the mercurial nature of the weather. While a sunny day is lovely, I do not in the least mind the rain, and I adore the wind, which is ideal because in Scotland one often experiences all of these conditions in the short span of an afternoon. I once sat in my car on Portree square taking in the scene around me as a gentle rain began to fall. There was a fellow perched on a nearby bench reading the newspaper. Hatless, and with no umbrella or raincoat, he calmly continued to read as the rain gathered strength, the wind blew and the skies darkened . Only when his newspaper became so wet that the pages began to shred did he fold it up under his arm and saunter off at a casual pace through the storm.

Of course I once visited Glenfinnan during rain that was akin to being shot full in the face with a fire hose. I was laughing so hard at my predicament that I wasn’t able to run properly for shelter, and of course I had left my umbrella, once again, at home. Which was just as well, for no umbrella would have been up to the task that day.

Perhaps a bumbershoot??

One Whole Year!

I can hardly believe it, but the calendar does not lie. Today is the one year anniversary
of From the House of Edward! Amazing. I actually planned this blog to focus more on my design work, but instead found it to be a welcome diversion from my design work. So much so in fact, that I have come to relish my writing here on an equal level. Life is certainly not a straight line. It curves and spirals and surprises.
I send my most sincere thanks to all of you who visit here. I am constantly grateful for your sweet comments and e-mails of encouragement. You are most generous and I am tickled beyond measure to know you enjoy your little holidays here.

So, I invite you to join Edward and I in our celebration of one whole year! Raise a glass or pick up a favourite book, eat some ice cream or fill a vase with flowers, listen to - or sing - your favourite song. Or just give a dog a hug!
And Happy Anniversary!!

The Fifth Element

It was a linen shirt, long sleeved and whisper pink, and I stood in Macy’s considering it on a quiet Thursday afternoon. Gradually, almost unconsciously, I became aware that I was swaying ever so slightly to music. Then I heard, pouring from the store speakers like rivulets of honey, the familiar strains of Aretha Franklin’s, Baby I Love You. I looked around me and observed the delightful spell being cast from this marvelous sound. A flawlessly coiffed elderly lady in a St. John suit was strolling through the handbag department, her steps in perfect time with the song. The young woman behind the counter was casually bobbing her head back and forth to the rhythm, while a delivery man entered from outside and immediately fell into leisurely step with the seductive beat as he made his way up the store aisle. It was incredibly entertaining to watch, as everyone in sight was reacting to this infectious old classic without even being aware of it. Such is the power of music.

Music is as much a part of our lives as breathing, even though we hardly know it most of the time. Every one of us has a personal soundtrack that has accompanied our days; a musical fingerprint of our lives, unique and specific. Like magic, whenever I hear Dionne Warwick’s, Do You Know The Way To San Jose, I am once again in the back seat of my family’s leaf green Pontiac during a sunny morning on my way to school. Joni Mitchell’s, Carey, always sends me to the beach and I am a little girl desirous of my very own Mary Quant lipstick every time I hear Donovan sing Jennifer, Juniper. Coldplay’s, Speed of Sound, whisks me off to Regent Street in London. Astrid Gilberto means summer and, of course, Christmas just doesn’t exist without Perry Como or Nat King Cole. For me, James Taylor is high school afternoons and Leonard Cohen’s, Sisters of Mercy, is newlywed bliss. And incidentally, if you ever wished to know what a childhood summer felt like in the southern United States, then pour a glass of sweet tea and listen to the soundtrack of To Kill A Mockingbird by Elmer Bernstein. You couldn’t get closer with a time machine.

There can be no denying the remarkable ability of music to communicate more profoundly, and often with more clarity, than words could ever hope to do. Music seems divinely capable of reaching that inarticulate part of the soul where only the deepest feelings and most heartfelt memories are found. The unscaleable majesty in Saint-Saens Organ Symphony #3, or the near visible beauty of Debussy’s Clair de Lune. The visceral grief in Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings or the sheer happiness of The Beatles I Wanna Hold Your Hand.
It is almost as if God himself intended music to be the fifth element, -surely as basic as air or water, fire or earth- for after all, did the angels not announce the birth of Christ with song?

June Is Bustin’ Out All Over

March went out like a lion
Awakin' up the water in the bay;
Then April cried and stepped aside,
And along came pretty little May!
May was full of promises
But she didn't keep 'em quick enough for some.
And the crowd of doubtin' Thomases
Was predictin' that the summer'd never come

But it's comin' by dawn,
We can feel it come,
You can feel it in your heart
You can see it in the ground
You can see it in the trees
You can smell it in the breeze
Look around! Look around! Look around!

Lyric by Oscar Hammerstein


“I love my life!”

Sentiment by Edward

Apple and the Rose

Coming home from an late evening walk, a neighbour called to me from his garden.
He had snipped a fat orange rose from the cloud of blowsy blossoms that dangled like ripe tangerines from his wrought iron arbor, and he handed it to me over the fence as I passed. Such a lovely gift, I thought as I placed it in a vase by my bed. By midnight, the ambrosial fragrance from this lone flower had drifted into every corner of the room as if entire bouquets of roses had fallen from the sky.

When I slipped between the crisp sheets to sleep, both Edward and Apple jumped up to say goodnight, as is their habit. As I patted their furry heads, I lifted the vase to my nose again to drink in the delicious smell of the rose and I noticed Apple watching me with interest, no doubt wondering if I had sneaked a “treat” to bed with me. So I held the flower to her face and she bent close to investigate. As the sweet perfume of the orange rose reached her, her dark eyes grew wide and she backed up to look at me. “Smells good, doesn’t it”, I asked. She got the funniest little look on her face and bent down once again to sniff.
And then, I swear, she smiled.
Ah, every girl loves roses.

Apple wearing her favourite outfit during a neighbourhood festival.
Like any girly girl, she would wear this every single day if she could, whilst Edward will not tolerate it for two seconds.

A Happy Mistake

For the past two Sunday nights, I have been lost in Sweden. Not serenely strolling through the softly sunwashed colours of artist Carl Larsson, but stranded amidst the harsh landscape of writer Henning Mankell, as his Wallander detective series has now come to television via the new BBC production starring Kenneth Branagh. Set in Ystad, it is a Sweden unfamiliar to me, with a midnight sun that pierces the summer night like the half closed eye of Apollo, never resting, always watching, and a noonday sun that enflames the colours of the landscape - all school bus yellow and chlorine blue - with such vividness they almost sting the eye. These bleakly haunting stories match the intensity of their setting with starkness and weblike intricacy. They are completely engrossing.

So engrossing in fact, that last Sunday after knitting my way through the second episode, I looked down and observed ...yikes.... a mistake. I had changed skeins right after the show had begun and neglected to notice an infinitesimal difference in dyelot. Now here I was, eight inches knitted, and the colours were off course a bit. The yarn I am using is a variegated cotton, sublime in texture and delicious in shades of watery greens, blues and lavenders, but now, about a third of the way into the scarf the colours were a tiny bit more blue than green. I sat stock still as I pondered my next move. As it was a fairly intricate pattern, the thought of ripping out my work was distasteful to say the least. But amazingly, the longer I looked, the more I liked what I saw.... the more I really, really liked what I saw. I am now completely thrilled with this new creation; one I never would have imagined myself. When the scarf is wound around my neck, the subtle change in colour is divine, and looks expertly planned. A happy mistake. The Songwriter says they happen in recording all the time.

It is amusing to think how we humans so often rigidly map out our lives, schedule our days, presuming we know best how things should proceed. Sometimes, if we can manage to let go of the reins a bit, it seems that circumstances may just hand us a better way, present us with a more wondrous idea than we ever could have imagined on our own. The holiday that was planned, the school that was counted on, the career always hoped for, the pattern so dilligently followed. When kismet laughingly shuts the door, that open window across the room just might lead to Neverland.

Or at the very least, there might be a fabulous scarf sitting on the windowsill.


Painting above by Carl Larsson

A Quiet Day

I was presented with a quiet day.
A freshly wrapped candy box of calm and peaceful hours, each one nothing less than a divine morsel of indulgence. For it is rare to partake of an entire box of hours such as these all in one day, rather more likely to sneak a taste every now and then.... a bite of a nap here, a nibble of a garden stroll there. To have an entire day to myself, a glistening pathway of time stretched out before me, with no roadblocks, no detours, was practically an engraved invitation to happiness. Every unplanned hour, a confection, and I intended to feast on the complete collection.

So I savored a butter creme morning festooning the house with freshly cut oakleaf hydrangeas and lemon scented magnolia blossoms. A truffle of an hour was spent finishing a book and then another lazily perusing my library shelves as I considered my next literary destination, with a newly manicured finger running along the colourful spines as if they were travel brochures to exotic locales, which indeed they are. Then, a caramel of an hour baking a coconut cake and licking the beaters myself. I whiled away a totally decadent chocolate bonbon of time dozing in the big red chair as a rainy breeze blew through the cottage windows and ruffled the fur of the white dog beside me. A butterscotch stroll down the lane with Edward and Apple followed by high tea in my favourite cup. A toffee of a hot bath with jasmine bubbles galore.

No phone, no radio, no television.
Just bird song and breezes, wind chimes and sighs.


"Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you."
Nathaniel Hawthorne

Fun

A couple of nights ago I found myself in a car with three world class wits as we all returned home from a rather extravagantly overacted play. While we had managed to exhibit impeccable adult decorum during the performance, our facade cracked, then shattered, inside that car as we each offered up our increasingly hilarious reviews of the night. I laughed so hard that my sides literally ached; the kind of ache I remember from the belly laughs of childhood fun. As I reflected on the evening later that night, I had to admit that even while I find so much in this world to be amusing - even downright funny - real side-splitting laughter, real fun, is a bit of a rare thing.

To be certain, being an adult has its undeniable advantages. I can stay up as late as I want, and frequently do so. I can eat dessert first if I choose, even though I rarely do. However, along with the grand freedoms that come with all the costumes of adulthood, there is also the somber coloured, conservatively cut cloak of responsibility that we all must wear. An often itchy and uncomfortable garment, it is a cloak tailored for each of us individually, and sometimes, it seems, unfairly. Its powers are such that, strangely, it seems that if one never takes it off.... for a weekend, or even just an hour.... the more cumbersome it becomes, the scratchier its fabric, the heavier its weight, until it begins to alter the very posture of the spirit - the very lightness of the heart.

I can remember being a little girl and going outside every day, “to play”. It seems as if we adults could benefit from such an activity today. To run through a field, or bicycle through an afternoon, for reasons having more to do with joy than with exercise. To take a turn on the swingset, or a swing on the dance floor. To ride the carousel, sing along with the radio, play on the seesaw..... or just take the long way home.
To remember how to play and how to laugh till your sides ache.

So if you will excuse me, I think I shall go and play hide and seek with Edward. It is his favourite game.
And perhaps, I shall eat my dessert first tonight.


"What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul."
Yiddish Proverb

Eat, Drink and Be Merry

So many times, whenever a friend is embarking on a first trip to Britain, the inevitable question arises...”what about the food??”. It seems to be an untruth universally acknowledged that all British food is somehow lacking - in taste, nutrition and style. Perhaps that thought held some validity in decades past, but I can certainly argue empirically against it now. Some of the most deliciously satisfying meals of my memory were enjoyed in the UK.

Walking into Loch Bay Seafood, an unassuming whitewashed building by the sea on the Isle of Skye one windy day, I sat down to the best fish soup I had ever tasted. The incredibly delicious breakfast at Holbeck Ghyll high in the Lake District, which was served with a side of achingly beautiful view from my sunlit table. Lunch at The Witchery in Edinburgh, where I do have to admit I paid much more attention to the wickedly creative decor than to the dining, but which remains a indelible and most charming luncheon memory.

One of the best meals of my whole life was created by the proprietress of Ladyburn, an idyllic Bed and Breakfast on a greenly picturesque estate outside Maybole, Scotland. In a candlelit dining room of graceful proportions, with playful strains of Mozart coming from the kitchen, I sat beside a flickering fire and enjoyed the most delicate cheese souffle ever conceived - cooked to perfection, freshly caught Scottish salmon, sweet seasonal vegetables straight from the house garden, and a blissfully decadent chocolate torte. True culinary bliss. Afterwards we sat by a roaring library fire, with Bertie, the family’s warmth seeking Jack Russell, and slowly sipped a warm brandy before making our way to bed, where a piping hot water bottle had been thoughtfully tucked between our crisp cotton sheets. No hobbit could have been more fat and happy.

The bracing tea we had after a windblown hike around Buttermere, the savory dinner brought to our room at The Torridon, the inviting little Italian cafe we found one misty night near Harrods, the opulent dinner at Inverlochy Castle, the luscious grilled salmon at a friendly restaurant beside Loch Linnhe, even the quintessential fish and chips we enjoyed near Covent Garden.... all mouth-watering memories to treasure, and not a fried Mars Bar or blood pudding to be found! If you’re planning a trip across the pond, feel free to look forward to the food, you’re sure to enjoy it.

However, um...well...you will perhaps notice I did not mention Haggis!

John Romain Changed My Life

There are people who dwell in the rooms of my memory and I try to visit them often. Strangely, some begin to disappear after a year or so, fading slowly into shadow. No doubt, a malady due to lack of attention on my part. But the others who remain, colourful and complete, are all there for the very same reason - they have helped to create, in bits and in bobs, the person that is me.

See the elderly lady in the shirtwaist dress, watering the ferns at the window? She has lived here for decades for she long ago gave me my love of flowers. And the smiling chap sitting at the piano? A fairly new arrival, he taught me that happiness is a choice one makes every day. No doubt some in this crowd are recognizable to you. The two ladies in the library? Yes, that is indeed Virginia Woolf discussing Bloomsbury’s Charleston farmhouse with Sister Parish. I also have it on quite good authority that Walt Disney walks my childhood dogs every afternoon at four. But, look. See the gentleman over there in the tufted leather chair by the fire? The one flipping through an old copy of Country Life? That is John Romain. He was a handbag designer and he has dwelt here for ages. For you see, when I was eight years old, John Romain changed my life.

When I entered third grade, it seemed every girl I knew was longing for a John Romain handbag. Nut brown, tweedy creations, with butter soft leather trim, they were the ultimate acquisition and a sure symbol of fashionable acceptance. Although an admittedly unnecessary accessory, parents soon began to acquiesce to the pleas and the whines of their daughters, and one by one, these objects of pre-teen desire began to show up on the little arms of my saddle-shoed classmates. As a happily only child, I was always amused by competition. It seemed such a quizzical activity to me. Keeping up with other people was an alien notion to a little girl whose favourite confidant was her dog. But oh, how I wanted one of those bags. It came over me like the flu and I was introduced to my first chilled feeling of envy.

Then, on a cold Christmas morning, I opened an elaborately wrapped present and... there it lay. My very own John Romain bag. And wonder of wonders, my parents had ordered one with a horsehead clasp! The Ultimate. I was beside myself with joy and could hardly wait for the holidays to be over when I would join the ranks of those sartorially in vogue. But a funny thing happened when I walked into class, proudly carrying my celebrated bag like the trophy it was.
I was now just like everyone else.
And, I hated it.
Oh, I loved the handbag. But I hated being part of the herd.

So yes, John Romain remains anchored in my memory for having taught me a priceless lesson about myself; a lesson I am most grateful to have learned early: I am happiest following my own path. Utterly skeptical of trends, I much prefer to trust my own eye. Preserving my individuality is vital to me and through the years I have found such joy in aiding my clients in the discovery of their own unique voices and enabling them to express those personal voices in the design and decoration of their homes.

So if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll just sit here with Mr. Romain for a bit. I am curious for his opinion on a couple of articles I have just read in the latest Elle Decor.
I am sure you can find your way out.
Just don’t let Mr. Disney con you into walking those dogs.
That’s his job.

The Flower Moon

In icy fullness he sits aloft, enthroned in the blue-black January sky, a lambent wizard whose incantation of frozen light is cast down over snow covered hills for the wolves to find their way home. He does his best throughout the year to live up to the names he’s been given and the first month knows him, by legend and lore, as the Wolf Moon.

He’s christened Pink in the month of April, as he gently drapes the glow of a rose petal over the luminous newness of a Spring night, while the chill of October finds him clad in the orange robes of a Harvest Moon, illuminating the autumnal gold that is sprinkled across the dark fields of the world.

But as all lovers of his magical light can easily agree, he achieves the full height of his powers in May. For this month, this very night in fact, he becomes the Flower Moon, when the spirits of beauty flock to the gardens to drink in the sight of May flowers aglow. They stroll down moss pathways in clear star-strewn dresses, beneath radiant rose arbors he has lit so divinely, they look as though all the world’s fireflies have come there to pose. Indeed every flower, from the aristocratic white orchid on the manor house windowsill to the happy brotherhood of bluebells that holds court on the forest floor - like gemstones from Heaven, all shall bedazzle tonight.

So, look to the flowers when the warm sun sets. For no candle, no kleig, no footlight or floodlight could ever compare to the pure, perennial splendour
that is the Flower Moon of May.


FLY NOT YET

Fly not yet; 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing
Oh ! stay, oh ! stay,
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
To break it's links so soon.

by Thomas Moore

The Ghost in Love

Every Friday , the New York Times publishes a special section in their newspaper entitled Escapes. Different from the Travel section, Escapes showcases second home locales or places just perfect for the perfect, well..... escape. I both look forward to, and slightly dread, dipping into these weekly pages, for I know I shall find myself sorely tempted by the words I read and the pictures I see. Faded seaside towns with steep cobbled streets where I might just find the weathered beach cottage I keep in my treasure chest of secret longings. Or green mountain villages where people of a lilting language could point me in the direction of that stone cottage with the diamond paned windows that often haunts my daydreams. Every Friday morning with paper and coffee, I pore over this section and my mind begins to roam. Soon I am perusing real estate websites and visualizing paint colours. By no means am I disenchanted with my current place in the world, but there is something that, to me at least, is so deliciously tempting about the idea of escape.

Fortunately for me, there are all sorts of definitions for escape. And one of the best, and certainly most cost efficient, is within the pages of a book. I have just returned from such an escape and am still unpacking all my shiny souvenirs. What a time I had! Generally, when I pick up a new book, I have some sort of hint as to what to expect. Either I have read a review, been given a recommendation, or perhaps I am already acquainted with the author and have returned to sample more delights from their literary table.

But I had no idea where I was headed when I cracked open The Ghost In Love by Jonathan Carroll and began my journey through its pages late one stormy evening last week. I settled back into my pillow and just held on for dear life. All the dependable touchstones and signposts were thrown out the window pretty soon after page one and I was left as giddy as a buttoned-up passenger on a runaway train of ideas.

With talking dogs, reincarnations, and angels of death, not to mention time travels, picnics in the rain with all one’s former selves...and yes, even a ghost in love, this surreal book may not be for everyone. Frankly, I wasn’t sure if it was for me. But I soon discovered it felt quite refreshing to read something that stretched out my mind like a difficult yoga pose. I was entranced by the sheer scope of the writing and I relished my escape into this author’s expansive imagination.
True, The Ghost in Love may not equal that stone cottage in the faraway trees, but it will more than suffice as my escape for this week.

Painting above: On Top Of The World by James Hill

A Dozen of My Favourite Things for May

1.
The Imaginative Art of Gretel Parker
Illustrator and Toy Maker Extraordinaire
Her painting featured above, and below are a few of her latest toy creations:



2.
Charles Dickens on PBS

3.
The resurgence of wonderful wallpapers, as evidenced by
Grow, House, Grow...
a most creative company after my own heart...glorious wallpaper designs - each with its very own narrative!
I can just see a elegant entry hall... with this on the wall above glossy white panelling...


and dark antique furniture, sunburst mirrors, cut crystal vases of orange parrot tulips and a West Highland Terrier sitting on a black and white marble floor waiting patiently for the postman to put today’s mail through the bronze slot in the forest green front door.

4.
Listening to Astrid Gilberto with the windows open while I make a pie and the dogs sleep on the floor at my feet.

5.
This blog that I discovered just as its writer was on holiday in London.
It has now become a regular morning coffee stop for me.

6.
Sharp cheddar cheese melted on toasted sourdough bread

7.
Planting flowers, flowers, flowers!

8.
Lemon Ice Cream

9.
My collection of cotton pajamas from The Cat’s Pajamas

10.
SPF 90 and sun hats by Kokin

11.
This wonderful, wonderful rug:


I can just see it, lying on a polished wood floor in a room painted the palest shade of citron, with a magnificent stone fireplace, weathered leather chairs with tapestry cushions, the complete works of Simenon and Conan Doyle bound in red leather in French Deco bookcases, and leaded glass casement windows that open out onto a peony garden where a vaguely surly bulldog is waiting to be let back inside before it rains.

12.
And finally, this poem by Mary Oliver.
If only you could read it with your eyes closed.

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts,her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

Green Gardens

The recent airing of the remarkable production of HBO's Grey Gardens has precipitated quite a lot of conversation in my circles on the subject of eccentricity. Is it a singular characteristic; one to be celebrated and encouraged? Or is it simply the more fanciful relative of insanity? In regards to the ladies from Grey Gardens, one might certainly argue that eccentricity veers solidly into madness when squalor, stench and raccoon roommates enter the picture.
I do feel qualified to say that I can recognize the difference, for I am from the South.
Though our gardens may be green, we are well acquainted with eccentricity here.

There are those who have read John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and believed it to be a wonderfully imaginative tale. For us, it was totally non-fiction. The colourful characters that populate the works of Eudora Welty, Flannery O’Connor and Pat Conroy...not to mention Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote? I could introduce you to their prototypes any day of the week. In fact, more that a few of them are nesting quite comfortably in my family tree.

We have swimmers in our gene pool who have broken limbs as the result of ill-considered efforts to fly. While a few of these painfully hopeful attempts employed the aid of umbrellas, at least one depended solely on the flapping of arms. There is the uncle who named his truck, painted that moniker on the side of the door, bought a police radio and spent his days waiting to hear of any and all disturbances at which point he would jump in the christened vehicle and head to the scene. Needless to say, he was a bit famous in law enforcement circles. There is the neighbor who swears he witnessed a group of houseguests levitate in another neighbor’s back garden and of course, there is the gentlemen who frequently strolls out to get the morning newspaper in a short baby blue negligee.

Maybe it’s the heat. Or the humidity. Perhaps the moss that hangs from the trees somehow finds its way inside our heads. But here in the South we dwell within a veritable petri dish of eccentricity. It permeates our literature, our music, our humour, and it is often the prism through which we view the world. To be sure, it does make life interesting and, I suppose, as long as the raccoons remain on the other side of the doors, we’re safe.

“We are all mad here”
The Cheshire Cat,
from Alice in Wonderland


For those of you interested in reading the definitive post on the house that was, and remains, Grey Gardens, do check out Joni Webb's exhaustive entry on her blog Cote de Texas!

Ever Smiling

Her beauty, while intoxicating, never overpowers as does that of her summertime sisters. She has never been as reserved, nor as wise, as her brothers of autumn. Ever smiling, she drifts in the doorway as a fragrance, trailing lilacs all over the floor, and a bit of her lingers, in the secret corners of the soul, long after her departure.

She flirts, she entices, she weaves flowers in my hair and puts ideas in my head. She turns my chair towards the window and makes me think of picnics. She lays out my linen blazer and finds a gardenia for my lapel. She wants me to wear white shoes.

She recites poetry at the oddest times, stanzas awash with chimerical gardens and follies of stone. Pale rooms with tall windows and blue nights full of stars.
She erases years and fills my plate with strawberries. She dances a waltz in an arbor at midnight and begs me to follow her down to the sea.
I am helpless in her presence.

She is May.
Open the windows.
She is almost here.


"The month of May was come,
when every lusty heart beginneth to blossom,
and to bring forth fruit;
for like as herbs and trees bring forth fruit and flourish in May,
in likewise every lusty heart that is in any manner a lover,
springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds.
For it giveth unto all lovers courage, that lusty month of May."

Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d'Arthur

The First Few Notes of a Song

In recent days I, like so many others, have struggled to hold back tears as I sat in front of my computer screen mesmerized by the video of Scotland’s Susan Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent. An ordinary woman with an extraordinary gift, she accomplished a feat I would not have dreamed possible. In the first few notes of a song, her lovely voice effectively silenced the snarky, arrogant attitude that seems to permeate the culture of fame. In the first few notes of a song, she drew a technicolour line between talent and celebrity, placing both in sharp contrast and illustrating clearly how rarely the two intersect. Just why was everyone in that audience so certain this woman was incapable of such a performance?
Simple answer, really. She didn’t look the part.

So often these days it seems appearance trumps everything else. In Hollywood, apparently, there is such a sparse folder of acceptable definitions for beauty that people are willing to do just about anything to make certain their visage falls within the corporately validated range. True individuality, and the courage to retain it, seems rather thin on the ground at the moment. A naturally aging face or a bit of a crooked nose, both of which I happily own, are often difficult to find in the halls of celebrity.

Perhaps this is part of the reason that dear Susan Boyle has so transfixed the world. She has challenged the current, paperthin definition of beauty and has, just perhaps, made us wonder how many others just like her are out there in the crowd. How many talented, brilliant, remarkable souls are casually dismissed for appearance sake, and just how much wonder has our culture been denied as a result? I have often heard it said that Abraham Lincoln could never have been elected president in this media driven day. He just would not look the part.
A shudder worthy thought, to be sure.

It is quite impossible to fathom the white hot glare of the lights now focused on Ms. Boyle or what effect that glare will have. Indeed, I have recently read that she has undergone a makeover of sorts.
I do hope those blazing lights do her no harm.
And I hope she gets to sing for the Queen.


Painting above: The Mirror of Venus by Edward Burne-Jones