From The House of Edward

The Power of No

2012-02-02T23:39:00.000-05:00

The Power of No

“Open your eyes! Open your eyes!

This exhortation has been bellowed at me by every partner I’ve ever had on a ride at the fair as I sat folded in on myself like a clam, eyes shut, white-knuckled hands gripping the cold metal bar that held me in place. Knowing full well that I deplore thrill rides, I have nonetheless allowed myself to be coerced into their little metal death cars more times than I care to admit. School friends talked me into The Scrambler once, with disastrous results that involved the loss of my dinner behind one of the livestock display tents. Several years later, I was talked onto Space Mountain at Disneyland only to have it break down midway through the excursion, leaving me hanging like a side of beef, half upside down in total darkness.

The Songwriter himself has been successful in using his considerable powers of suggestion to place me squarely onto some of these rides, once sending me plummeting thirteen stories in the all too appropriately named Tower Of Terror. As my stomach relocated itself somewhere near the vicinity of my collar bone I made a decision.

Never again.

I didn’t say anything about it. I just calmly stood in line for the next loopdeloop with a smile on my face. But when the roller coaster cars came roaring into the station and everyone climbed aboard, I simply stepped into, and right back out the other side of, my car. I turned to see the startled face of The Songwriter as he flew off into oblivion, seated next to a tow-headed six year old boy. Sighing a peaceful sigh, I purchased a cool drink, took a book out of my straw bag, and sat down under a palm tree to await his return. Thus ended my thrill seeking career.

The power of “no” is a marvelously liberating one, but one most of us seldom employ. We trot off to lunches we’d rather not attend. We join committees we loathe. Now of course we all must do things we’d rather not, perhaps every day of our lives. There are dentist appointments and tax returns. We all have to muck out the stable sometimes. But I speak here of those extracurricular activities that we are no more bound to participate in than we are to fly. Why do we say yes, when we want to say no? I was once invited to a cutlery party by a neighbour. She was a very nice woman but try as I might I simply could not warm to the idea of sitting in a room full of ladies sipping wine and buying knives. So I called her up and told her I could not make it. She asked me why, a question I was unprepared for. So I told her the truth.

“To be perfectly honest”, I said, “it just isn’t something I care to do.”

To my surprise she laughed a hearty laugh and praised me no end for my candor saying, “Good for you! If only I’d been so brave, I wouldn’t be having this damn thing at my house. I just didn’t know how to say no!”

It was my uncle who got me on my first ferris wheel when I was just a toddler. As the car we were in rose higher and higher in the air, swaying malevolently all the while, I became more and more terrified until I was too scared to scream. Then I noticed my father on the ground far below. His expression was grim and highly determined as he faced down the operator of the ride. I could read his lips as they formed the words,

“Get Her Off This Thing. Now”.

Ignoring the line of riders waiting to board, the ride slowly, slowly, lowered until my little feet could touch ground and I ran like a bullet to Daddy.

“You don’t ever have to do that again”, he said.

Such a valuable lesson.

It just took me awhile to learn.

Anniversary

2012-01-29T21:32:00.000-05:00

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

by Raymond Carver

We had no contingency plans for the future. We calculated no risk.

We leapt into a cloudless sky with grins on our faces.

We married for love.

It wasn't intentional, but we married on the birthday of both Lewis Carroll and Wolfgang Mozart, and it seems those two chaps took charge of our days, blessing us with music and wild imagination, a harmony of heart and mind that has gifted us with laughter and a deep, deep joy.

Today is our anniversary.

The sun is shining and the air is crisp.

We are off to the woods with Edward and Apple for a long, long walk.

Holding hands.

Dreaming

2012-01-25T19:42:00.000-05:00

Dreaming

People tend to oversleep in my guest room. The ceiling is painted like a night sky and the tapestry curtains, when closed, shut out even the most gregarious moon. If one chooses to leave the Moroccan star light on up above, its soft blue lightbulb casts evocative shadows perfectly tailored for dreaming. Consequently, I keep a dream journal on the bedside table and have been delighted to read the entries written by those guests whose dreams have taken them across extraordinary thresholds while asleep in that room.

We are extravagant dreamers in this house. We soar, wingless, through palettes of technicolour in reveries guaranteed to confound even the most sagacious of interpreters. Think I’m kidding? For a while, The Songwriter experienced a recurring dream of a traveling evangelist with the strange and wonderful ability to turn himself into a gorilla rug at the close of each tent meeting.

He once dreamed of a cow that transformed into a monster when the moon turned full. Don’t laugh, now. He turned that particular dream into a song called “I’m A Werecow” that remains an annual favourite on the Dr. Demento Halloween radio show.

As for myself, I tend to be a fairly baroque dreamer. My somnolent travels are lavishly decorated with all the lilies gilded and Elizabethan music floating in through glassless windows. For years I have had a recurring dream of a neighborhood covered over by gargantuan, animated trees. The streets are now as familiar to me as my own. They spiral and twist past houses I recognize completely, though I’ve never seen them in my waking hours. And there is one house, large, with windows like the sightless eyes of the blind. It sits behind gates of wrought iron, mysterious and unsettling to my mood, looming silently in the shadows of a late afternoon, unwilling or unable to allow me entry. Strange, no?

My dreams have been easy to interpret of late. Populated with exploding sweet potatoes and suitcases full of water, they tell me I am feeling overwhelmed and behind. I hear their admonishments to slow down and breathe deeply, and I intend to heed them as best as I can. How wonderful that they communicate in such entertaining ways.

How about you?

Any good dreams lately?

Do share.

Silence

2012-01-17T11:57:00.000-05:00

Silence

It is said that the brilliant writer, Edith Wharton, wrote in bed. With her Pekinese on the pillow beside her, she would lie back on the pillows, writing in longhand and throwing the finished pages on the floor beside her for a secretary to gather up and type. Marcel Proust, another famously supine author, had the walls of his bedroom covered in cork and reclined with a fur lined coat draped over his legs as he wrote his beautiful words.

Thackeray wrote in hotel rooms.

Thomas Mann, in a chair by the sea.

J. K. Rowling prefers a noisy cafe and Victor Hugo wrote in the nude.

For all my pecadillos, and I have them to be sure, I have found that I really only require one ingredient for optimum concentration when I’m writing, but it’s a vital one. Quiet. Blissful, peaceful, almost Franciscan, quiet. This past week, my lack of, and need for, a quiet state became apparent and a good friend tossed me the keys to her wonderful house in the marshes of South Carolina, telling me to make my way there in haste. Without being told twice, I threw a few old sweaters into a bag, grabbed my laptop, a book or two, my knitting, and fled. Upon reaching the low country, I stopped off at the market for yogurt, celery, Pellegrino and fruit and arrived at my sanctuary just as dark pulled her curtain across the tops of the pines.

And I noticed it as soon as I stepped cross the threshold.

Blessed silence.

Calling my friend to let her know I had arrived, she proceeded to give me instructions on operating the space age electronic system, but I only heard a few words.

Television, docking station.... iPod... Tony Bennett.

I had not the heart to tell her, but I had no intention of turning the thing on at all. Music dancing through the house would perhaps be perfect for a summertime visit, with the windows and doors thrown open and me with nothing to do, no thoughts to think. But this trip was to be different. This trip, I needed to work and to work I needed silence.

It’s been said by those wiser than me that true silence is a sound unto itself. If that’s true, then it is, I’m afraid, a sound we in the modern age rarely, if ever, hear. So akin as it is to solitude, many of us find true silence unsettling and avoid its company whenever possible, preferring instead to fill our hours with a bombilation of sound so profuse it is often difficult to distinguish any individual component. But just as I occasionally thirst for solitude, I also crave silence at times and this week was to be a quiet one, with only Nature’s calming voice in my ears.

I opened the double doors onto the capacious screened porch, and heard a dusky breeze rifling through the palmettos outside, like the rapid turning of the pages in a book. A waterfall of rain hit the roof one morning, a soundtrack so pure it served to focus my thoughts rather than distract them.

The pops and creaks of a settling house when the temperature drops at midnight.

The cry of a hawk sailing over the trees.

The splash of an alligator as it slides down the bank into the pond cross the road.

Hot water running in the bath.

Bubbles in a glass by my chair.

One tiny blossom cut from the newly blooming tea olive as it lost its grip on the branch in the vase and fell like a cottonball to the table beside me.

These were the sounds I began to notice as the week slipped by, inspiring sounds that seem to bestow, rather than steal, creative thought. And my mind, so cluttered and crowded, befuddled and loud when I arrived, was shiny and sharp on the long drive back home. No longer were my thoughts and ideas undisciplined, each one talking over the other in rowdy bids for my attention. Now they politely sat in my head, orderly and accommodating, waiting for my consideration.

Dear Virginia Woolf once advised that a woman requires “money and a room of her own” in order to write. I would respectfully add a wee bit of silence to that equation.

After this week, I highly recommend it.

“True silence is the rest of the mind.

It is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.”

William Penn

1644 - 1718

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A marvelous book on living with silence was written a couple of years ago by Sara Maitland, entitled Book of Silence. Included in her experiences with silence, she describes a forty day solitary stay on The Isle of Skye that I find both courageous and, occasionally, utterly tempting.

A Quieter Palette Now

2012-01-09T18:15:00.000-05:00

A Quieter Palette Now

The colours of Christmas have gone. The house, so recently lavished with shades of scarlet and new penny copper, an iridescence not unlike song that enabled the rooms to lift up their voices like angels, now yields to a quieter palette.

Debussy and Satie have replaced Mozart and Handel.

Icy blues and greys are drifting down like snow.

The calm colours slowly fall and I feel their presence like a comforting hand on my shoulder.

I take deep breaths.

I sigh.

Despite the happy occurrence of my wedding anniversary at the end of the month, January has always tried to lure me into a melancholy mood. Over the years I have learned to outwit its blue intentions by treating the month as a holiday all its own, sweetly special in spite of itself, and to that end....

I fill the house with white flowers.

Hydrangeas, freesia, lily and rose.

My candles are scented with coffee and fir.

I indulge in pedicures and massages.

I see good movies and read good books.

I build roaring fires in the fireplace and curl up with Edward to re-watch Waking Ned Devine, The Secret of Roan Inish and Babette’s Feast.

From the watery depths of lime scented bubble baths I plan the vegetable garden and window boxes of Spring.

I read poetry.

I write.

In other words, I try, as a friend of mine declared as his resolution for the new year, to be “good to myself”.

I highly recommend the practice.

The icy blues and greys of January, though perhaps bleak colours to some, are now, to me, colours of serenity and repose which provide a restful background for a gathering in of myself - my thoughts, my plans, my wishes for the year. I now jealously crave this month and find that just like the hyacinth bulbs now asleep in the garden, I need the tranquil time it offers to be my best self throughout the rest of the year.

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

If perhaps you have found your spirits a bit sluggish since the departure of the holiday season, here are some colours of January to make you smile.

1. The Return of Downton Abbey

Sunday night!

I cannot wait!

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

2. Owl Cake

I’m making this cake this week for a little friend who’s a bit under the weather.

I think it will make him smile, don’t you?
*************************************

3. Winter Yarn Wreath

And I’m making this to make myself smile.

I’m adding a wee bit of lavender to mine.

Read how to make it HERE.

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

4. Mohawk Hat

No you're right, I’d never wear this.

But you gotta love it.

Find it HERE.

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

5. Hugo

I highly recommend this magical movie.
The perfect antidote to a cynical world, Hugo is sublime.
And sublimely beautiful.

Especially in 3-D.

Also, The Descendants was wonderful.

And I’m counting the days till The Iron Lady!
*****************************************

6. London Shower Curtain.

I love the city of London in winter.

Even on a shower curtain.

Love this.

Find it HERE

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

7. Gretel’s Polar Bears

A lot of you know Gretel Parker, Cotswold toy-maker extraordinaire.

Everything she creates is magical, each creature seems imbued with a wee bit of seriousness that I just find irresistible.

Her polar bears are my favourite.

They remind me, of course, of Edward.

Visit her HERE.

And best wishes for your January!

The Glimpse of a Promise

2012-01-04T13:20:00.000-05:00

The Glimpse of a Promise

They flood my television screen as the hour nears midnight. Variegated hives of revelers swarming the streets of iconic cities - arms pumping the air, faces split open in joyous grins. No one is immune to the palpable excitement that builds as the numbers fall - ten, nine, eight - into a mad frenzy now keeping time to the fireworks popping outside my own window. It is a universal excitement that almost takes form - swelling out, stretching up, reaching back, branching forward - sprouting hope and desire that flower almost before our eyes into goals and ambition; a great rolling tide of optimism that gathers us all up and leads us, singing, into a new year.

Here, we share a quiet kiss.

A dog’s head gets a tousle.

Thus, we pass another waypost on our journey through time.

We turn a corner.

We start off anew.

Prone to contemplation, I am sitting by the window in thought when I hear my name called. The Songwriter has accompanied Edward and Apple on their bedtime ramble out in the back garden and I am being summoned to join them. I wrap a shawl round my shoulders and head outside to the dark.
“Look up”, he says, smiling.

And I do, into a sky of navy blue, speckled over with winking stars.

“Yes, it’s lovely”, I say.

“Keep looking”, comes his reply.

And then I see it.

Skimming across the canvas of night like the spark from a magic wand, a hope made manifest, a visible dream encircling the stars.

A shooting star.

“I saw one, and now you’ve seen one too. Good omens, I should think”.

We wait a while longer, but no more flash above us.

Just two.

Just for us.

We reach down and pat the dogs sitting silently at our feet.

One white, one black. Both dear.

We four follow each other back inside to the warmth, knowing whatever this untested year has up its sleeve we may hold fast to the glimpse of a promise that soared through the sky on its very first night.

Happy New Year indeed.

The Gracious Time

2011-12-28T22:14:00.000-05:00

The Gracious Time

Some say that ever ‘gainst that season comes

Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,

The bird of dawning singeth all night long:

And then, they say, no spirit date stir abroad;

The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,

No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.

William Shakespeare

The presents have all been delivered. They sit under the sparkling trees of our friends and family, waiting to be unwrapped in the cool light of Christmas dawn. Wine is mulling on the stove and carols are softly playing through the cottage. Edward and Apple, tummies as full as their hearts, lay at our feet, breathing in the fragrance of fir trees, star anise, and orange, and no doubt planning what to say when midnight strikes, affording them their once a year gift of magical speech.

Thus begins the gracious time - an unhurried time of peaceful reflection.

A time to celebrate all the quiet joys; my favourite week of the year. If you chance to think of Edward and me during this week of endings and beginnings, think of stacks of books waiting to be read, long walks taken in the the cold afternoon air, soup simmering on the stove.

And please know how much I appreciate each and every one of my readers. Your letters and comments make my world a richer place and I am grateful for your friendship, each and every one of you.

As we enter this special season, I thought you all might enjoy a glimpse into the House, and the Garden, of Edward at Christmastime.

Edward and I wish all of you a most Happy Christmas!

Do They Even Need A Christmas?

2011-12-23T15:53:00.000-05:00

Do They Even Need A Christmas?

Even though the night is clear, and sown with more stars than normally allowed this close to one of man’s more colossal achievements of a city, still, I cannot see it. I stand in the back garden staring up at fistfuls of shimmering diamonds casually tossed over the dark velvet cloak of a sky, looking for another blue ball with swirls of icing white - a sister, a twin, of my own.

But I am disappointed.

Well, I didn’t really expect to find it.

Too far away, after all.

But still.

I had been sitting in the center of Christmas, midst a swirling flurry of red and green - a bit of baking flour on my cheek, a snippet of ribbon stuck to my sleeve - when I first heard the news. Another planet had been found. This one a mirror image of our own, where water flowed and life could presumably flourish.

Information such as this has a profound effect on a dreamer.

It ensnared my thought for days.

So very, very far away .........

do other blue eyes watch the sky, eyes just like my own?

Do other lips sing carols?

Other hands hold other hands?

Do they even need a Christmas?

Is it necessary to remind them not to lie, to hate, to kill?

Would we have to explain war, or illness, or fear?

Would they look at us in horror, or too well recognize our state?

Or was the apple never eaten?

Did they never fall from grace?

The possibilities are amaranthine for this unknown kin wandering round their own blue planet. It floodlights the mind to imagine. I wrap my scarf a bit tighter round my neck as I leave the speckled darkness of the garden, climbing the back stairs with Edward close at my heels. He never worries about such things, I know. Contentment weaves a cocoon around him and he shares it liberally with me. Just sitting beside his quiet soul provides a balm to my own and I am grateful for his sweet example.

But still, I can’t help but look up over my shoulder as I enter the warmth of the house.

So far, far away...

It is always summer, never winter?

Do they even need a Christmas?

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

You can read more about this newly discovered planet,

found in what scientists call the Goldilocks Zone (I love that), HERE.

Santa

2011-12-19T21:54:00.000-05:00

Santa

He was the mysterious figure in red that sat in the shadows of Christmas. Though I’d never seen him face to face, never hid behind the living room door to watch in amazement as his black booted feet descended from the netherworld of chimney darkness to land like raven feathers on the hearth, still I believed without question in his solid reality. He knew what I wanted for Christmas, always. I didn’t need to write him a letter. I didn’t need to share my requests with my parents, something that for some reason I never quite understood, tended to cause them a bit of consternation.

Why did they need to know what I wanted?

Santa knew.

Each year we would make the annual pilgrimage to visit the department store Santas, but being blessed with an imagination that was liberally sprinkled with a healthy dose of suspicion, no one could convince me those fellows were real. There were far too many of them for one thing. And it was a rare occurrence when even one of those chaps remotely resembled the genuine article. Too baby-faced and whiskerless, with beards that tied behind their ears. Or too bombastic and patronizing, lacking even the remotest twinkle in the eye that the real Santa Claus would most certainly have. Oh I still stood shoulder to shoulder with other children my age, as we wound our way through the sugar plum forests and candy cane villages of the toy departments in local stores, waiting my turn to relate to these red-suited impostors the things I most wanted for Christmas. It was a ritual not without amusement and I participated in the festivities quite willingly. But I knew, yes I did, that the actual Santa could only be seen in the silver light of Christmas Eve.

So every year, I would endeavour to stay awake and catch the old elf at his work. I would leave out the cookies and milk for his refreshment and toddle off to bed as usual, never hinting at my plans for a sleepless night.

Snuggled under blankets, eyes wide and heart thumping, I would lie awake in the darkness, my little ears tuned for the sound of sleigh bells, staring, unblinking, at the vertical crack of my bedroom door.

The longer I lay there the more terrified I’d become.

What would I say to him when we met?

Would he catch a glimpse of me and instantaneously evaporate into mist, leaving me stunned and present-less?

Or would he pack me off to the North Pole where I would become a toymaking elf, always wearing green, never to return?

Big thoughts for a little girl.

As the night grew frosty and still as the grave, I would strain to hear the hoof beats of reindeer from up above on my roof, my little body rigid with the increasing terror of my vigil.

Waiting.

Listening.

Waiting.

And then - how suddenly it always seemed- the pale pink light of a winter dawn would nudge me awake. Awake to Christmas morn! And I would run, slipperless, down the hallway to the living room door and throw it open wide. There would be the Christmas tree shining and bright, almost laughing as it presided over a room full of presents.

The cookies were eaten, yes there were the crumbs!

The milk was drained from the glass!

Later on Christmas Day, when I was sitting amongst my new books and dolls, feeling richer than Croesus, it would hit me. I’d missed him again. Drat. Well, there was always next year, I’d say to myself. Always another chance.

But next year came and all the years after that, and still, ever tricksy, he eluded me.

But perhaps..... just perhaps....with Edward’s help....this year...

One never knows.

Now, I ask you.

Do you blame me for wishing myself far, far away

from this obviously spurious department store Santa?

The Aunt

2011-12-14T18:00:00.000-05:00

The Aunt

It was a winter wedding, the very best kind, and I was attending alone because The Songwriter was out of town. Ushered into the splendid reception hall, I spied her, sitting beside my uncle at the round flower-filled table in the middle of the room. There was my seat, I could see it empty and waiting, beside her. This particular aunt had always been a bit of a mystery to me - a mystery still unsolved, for I rarely saw her. Straight-backed and starchy, she seemed to wear her propriety like a well-earned badge of honour on a cloak of unwavering religiousity that appeared, at least to me, to preclude any type of whimsy or fun. But this was a wedding reception, I told myself. Surely she’d be a bit more relaxed in this festive setting.

I squared my velvet-suited shoulders and headed her way.

“Hello, Aunt J”, I said, giving her a hug and sitting down.

We exchanged a few pleasantries about the beauty of the wedding and I picked up the golden-edged menu that lay by my plate.

“Ooh, pink champagne”, I exclaimed.

“We Don’t Drink”, came the instantaneous reply, delivered like an edict from on high, stern and autocratic, each word capitalized and underlined in invisible red.

I decided to have a bit of fun.

“You don’t?”, I asked, in what I hoped was a tone of pure innocence. “Oh, but you should! Now let’s see, you’d probably not like sherry or port. Too strong for your palate if you’re just starting out. Although those can be incredibly delicious on a cold winter’s night. But now, pink champagne! I just know you’d love that! You simply must try some when it’s served!”

Silence.

I could tell by her look of surprise that she thought I had missed her point entirely. It was not simply that she’d never gotten around to having a drink, for Pete’s sake. It was that she did not approve of the practice. How could she make this clear to me?

She began to elaborate her position, just as I noticed the tuxedoed band in the corner, beginning to tune up.

“How wonderful!”, I said with a grin. “There’s going to be dancing!”

“Your uncle and I Do Not Dance”, she sputtered, her face colouring with emotion.

“Oh, but you should!”, I said with a smile, feeling ever so evil but enjoying myself far too much to care. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re good or not, everybody’s just having fun. And I know you’d both love it. What a handsome figure you’d cut on the dance floor! And it’s such excellent exercise. You must try it tonight. No arguments!”

I batted my eyes in her direction and noticed to my great surprise - barely visible, but there nonetheless - an infinitesimal smile beginning to play around the corners of her pursed lips. Apparently, somewhere, deep down deep in her corseted soul, a bit of fun still lurked. She was on to me. And then, my soul, there it was. A grin. A genuine grin. From that moment on we chatted about everything, becoming fast friends before the evening wore down.

We stayed in touch after that wedding, exchanging Christmas cards and visits. She and my uncle even drove miles to hear The Songwriter in concert, my uncle leading the standing ovation at the close of the show.

These days it seems there are chasms that yawn between so many of us. We look across at one another, unsure of the best way to construct a passable, plausible bridge. Far too often I fear we simply retreat, preferring to remain in our more familiar climate where we’re comfortably surrounded by those who applaud our views and beliefs.

I could have easily stiffened at the implied judgment of my aunt that evening we were seated together at the wedding reception. Chilled by her provincial opinions , I could have chosen to maintain a polite, perfunctory silence and the night would have passed by pleasantly enough, I suppose. Instead, as is so often the case, a wee bit of humour was all that was needed to weaken her established defenses and allow us to forge a friendship in the few years remaining before she passed away.

I am grateful I made the effort.

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

I thought I'd better clarify.

The above photograph is certainly not my aunt.

It's Mamie Eisenhower.

However, the countenance is strikingly similar.

Let's Go Christmas Shopping!

2011-12-10T16:35:00.000-05:00

Let's Go Christmas Shopping

While it’s true that all my Christmas gifts for friends and family are already wrapped and under the tree, I still like to pop into my favourite shops on a cold December afternoon, just the feel the excitement of the season. A leisurely lunch with a friend or two, then a wander through the gaily decorated aisles of festive stores... so much fun. And you never know, I just might find a treasure I cannot live without.

Here are a few items, all fanciful and fun, I’ve recently discovered.

You just might find a treasure of your own!

Happy shopping!

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

1. Fanciful Towels

I’m crazy about these pink carpet bath towels!

In sizes from washcloth to beach towel.

Fabulous!

Find Them HERE.

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

2. The Solar Queen

I’m in love with the Queen.

She’s solar powered, and she waves in the sun!

There's even a limited edition wearing her yellow dress from Kate and William's wedding!

I think she’d be perfect sitting on the windowsill beside my desk.

Waving in the sunshine.

Find Her HERE.

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

3. Pendleton Blanket To Go

This roll-up Pendleton blanket would be wonderful to keep in the car for those times
when Edward and I pass by a particularly beautiful spot
and can’t resist an impromptu picnic.

Find It HERE.

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

4. Rickshaw

Finally!

A way for me to transport Edward in the manner he truly deserves!!

Find It HERE.

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

5. iPod Victrola

A speaker for the iPod.

Blending the old with the new.

Love this.

Find It HERE

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

6. The Perfect Playhouse

I bet you know a special child who’d flip over this hideaway.

Or maybe a special adult!

Find It HERE.

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

7. And For The Cat

Yes, we are a dog family.

But for the cat lovers..... this is fabulous!

Find It HERE.

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

8. Gift Tags

To me, wrapping presents is almost as fun as finding them.

And these gift tags are a delight!

Find Them HERE.

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

9. iPhone Case

Love This!

Find It HERE.

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

10. The Perfect Stuffed Animal

And everyone, of every age, needs one!

Find Him HERE.

Books For Christmas

2011-12-07T13:00:00.001-05:00

Books For Christmas

The book store was bustling. I had popped in just to purchase the holiday issue of my favourite magazine, British Country Living, and was now inching my way up to the front of a line full of Christmas shoppers. Having an insatiable curiousity about the reading habits of others, I busied myself in an attempt to appear disinterested and nonchalant all the while sneaking secret glances at their choices.

There was the young fellow in the Apple sweatshirt with his reading glasses perched on his nose, already an eighth of the way through the new biography of Jack Kennedy by Chris Matthews. The tall woman in a camel hair coat whose lipstick matched her nail polish perfectly, her hair piled atop her head and secured with a sharpened pencil, smiling dreamily as she flipped through the massive new book, Entertaining, by Martha Stewart. Directly behind me stood a three foot high little boy, clutching a copy of A Sick Day for Amos McGee by Philip C. Stead. By the look on his face as he held this wonderful story of a zookeeper close, I could tell this book was an early Christmas present for himself alone. He had no intention of giving this one away.

There was a little round lady directly in front of me, paying her bill with a grin on her face. The total rang up to be quite astronomical, but she didn’t bat an eye. Instead she triumphantly said to the clerk, “That’s me done! Every present is in here!”. As I watched her walk away, a heavy sack in each hand, I thought about how much fun she’d no doubt had selecting those presents.

I hope you are planning to give books this holiday.

I can think of no better gift to give, or receive.

Here are some to consider this year!

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

1. Pilgrimage

by Annie Leibovitz

For someone so adept at photographing others, Annie Leibovitz claims to abhor having her own picture taken. I can sympathize, I hate it as well. You won’t find any portraits in her new book, however. In Pilgrimage, just released a couple of weeks ago, Ms. Leibovitz visits some of the most inspiring locations in our world. From the houses of Emily Dickinson and Virginia Woolf to Georgia O’Keefe and Freud. She wanders the trails above the Yosemite Valley, in the footsteps of Ansel Adams. She photographs the site of Thoreau’s cabin on Walden Pond. This is a truly remarkable book and one that’s on my list to give as well as, hopefully, receive.

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

2. The Eye Has To Travel

by Lisa Immordino Vreeland

Let’s face it. We all have need of those steady, solid sorts of people. The ones we depend on to balance our checkbooks when they get out of joint and fill out our tax forms each April. Those who make sure the firewood’s stacked before the snow starts to fall and the cars are filled with gas before before the journey begins. They are the ones who occasionally grab our feet and pull our heads down from the clouds so we can see where we are going and where would all be without them?

But then there is Diana Vreeland. The legendary doyenne of fashion and style who, in her once famous monthly column for Harper’s Bazaar entitled “Why Don’t You” suggested,

“Why don’t you wear violet velvet mittens with everything?.

Other suggestions....Why don’t you....

“put all your dogs in bright yellow collars and leads”

“buy a geranium chiffon toque”

or, my personal favourite,

“paint a map of the world on all four walls of your boys’ nursery so they won’t grow up with a provincial point of view?”

A swirling dervish of creativity and unpredictability, the incomparable Vreeland was a standard bearer for wit and a champion of individuality. This beautiful book, The Eye Has To Travel, chronicles her remarkable fifty year career in fashion and it promises not to disappoint.

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

3. The Art of Eating

by M.F. K. Fisher

Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher is often called a food writer, a label I have always found to be a staggering limitation of her luminous work. MFK Fisher wrote about all the tiny miracles of life, miracles too often disguised as commonplace. Her graceful words seep into one’s psyche like honey on a biscuit, they marinate in the soul and, as evidenced in this glorious collection, just recently re-released, they age like the finest of wines. Fisher can describe the peeling of a tangerine with such natural, sensual passion that one can practically taste their magic orangeness. Five of Fisher’s wonderful books are here in this grand new edition of The Art of Eating, a book that is always within reach in my kitchen.

You simply must read this!

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

4. Charles Dickens Set

“You’ve been burning the candle at both ends”.

These irritating eight words were directed at me by my hairdresser last week as I sat, almost dozing, in his chair.

“How do you know?”, I asked.

“I know you. I can tell”, he replied.

Realizing I had just been informed that I looked tired (something no lady wants to hear), I decided to treat myself to a leisurely lunch out alone and pointed my car towards my favourite cafe where, over a lovely lunch of grilled salmon and salad with blackberries, I pulled a small copy of “A Christmas Carol” out of my hand bag and began to read. Though the words were so familiar I could practically quote them, they were such a joy to read and I remembered how much fun Dickens can be. I was fascinated by the names of his characters when I was a child. It didn’t require a blazing imagination to clearly picture Uriah Heep, or Wackford Squeers. Abel Magwitch and Tiny Tim, Mr. Micawber and Pip. Miss Flite and her attic full of tiny birds. The tragic Little Nell. And of course, the penultimate miser of fiction, Ebenezer Scrooge. Such fun to fall into this aureate writing, to feel the language wash over you. The everyday world evaporates as you are transported back to the age of Victoria. This is the gift of Dickens and one of the many reasons to read him. Penquin has just released a gorgeous new set of Dickens and it would make a wonderful gift, don’t you think?

Particularly for someone who’s been burning the candle at both ends.

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

5. Flush

by Virginia Woolf

There have been lot of dog books on bookstore shelves these past few years. From Good Dog Carl to Marley, they are all charming, I’m sure. But my favourite without doubt will always be Flush. Written by the peerless Virginia Woolf, Flush is the “biography” of the beloved cocker spaniel of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The book follows Flush and his mistress from their confining London rooms to the liberating freedom of Italy. He is even dognapped - a true adventure. This being Woolf, there are deeper waters flowing between the lines as through the brown eyes of this wise cocker spaniel we are invited to consider topics as wide-ranging as feminism and the crushing restrictions of social class structure in Victorian England.

Trust me, you and anyone on your list will love this book.

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

6. Sister Parish - American Style

by Martin Wood

If John Fowler and Nancy Lancaster were responsible for celebrating what became known as English Country Style, then surely Sister Parish did the same for American Country Style. One of the first professional “decorators” here in the states, Sister Parish was known for her beautiful, and especially comfortable, rooms - rooms that were often cluttered and homey, yet all the while utterly elegant. She was fond of fat, comfy chairs and four-poster beds, painted furniture and floral chintz. And she always made certain there was a table beside every chair where one could rest a cup of tea or a glass of champagne.

Sister Parish once said, “I try to instill the lucky part of my life in each house that I do. 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."

I so adore that philosophy.

Martin Wood has written marvelous books on both John Fowler and Nancy Lancaster. I own them both and highly recommend them. He now turns his attention to Sister Parish in the lovely new release and it is sure to be a treasure.

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

7. Children's Books

I always give books to the children in my life, for I remember how much they meant to me as a child. It’s always such a treat to spend an afternoon in the children’s section of the bookstore, turning the pages of all the new wonderful ones from which to choose.

Here are two of my favourites for this year.

Happy Christmas Shopping,

and Reading!

Tradition

2011-11-30T09:49:00.000-05:00

Tradition

The afternoon before Thanksgiving found me sprinting the aisles of the market, on the hunt for cranberry cheese, sparkling wine and a very specific colour of candles. That last item was, I realize, a symptom of the dreaded disease of perfectionism but as I did find the colour I needed ( the precise hue of a ripe blood orange, to be exact) I refuse to waste time thinking about it. I was making my way to the checkout lane when my phone rang. Fishing it out of my pocket and placing it to my ear, I was tickled to hear the voice of an old friend.
“Happy Thanksgiving!”, he said. “I”m on my way to the wine shop. Where are you?”

We proceeded to compare our list of holiday chores and then I asked him if the “green stuff” had been made as yet.
“Oh yes”, he replied. “The green stuff is in the refrigerator”.
And we both laughed.

The green stuff, as it is affectionately called, is part of his family’s holiday tradition. It is a congealed salad - marshmallow filled and lime flavoured - the sort of concoction that is frequently found on the holiday tables down here in the south. I have always found it to be an acquired taste, and one I myself was never quite able to manage, a sad quirk of my personality that caused relatives round the tables of my childhood to shake their heads and wonder at the oddness of my palate. But to my friend, it is a tradition set it stone and it simply would not be Thanksgiving without the green stuff.

Though congealed salads do not grace my holiday tables, I do have a gaggle of traditions I could never part with. I never think of myself as dictatorial about these personal customs of the festive season, but I will admit that The Songwriter often chuckles during the opening scene of the holiday classic movie, Miracle on 34th Street, when Santa is walking down the street and spies a chap decorating a holiday window. Santa stops, gazing in at the man and his work. Then he frowns, finally rapping sharply on the window. “You’re making a mistake”, he says loudly. “You’re making a mistake with the reindeer. You’ve got Cupid where Blitzen should be. And another thing... Donner’s antlers have got four points instead of three.”

When I ask The Songwriter why he finds this particular scene amusing, he looks over at me indulgently and smiles.

Surely I’m not that bad.

Now is the season for traditions and I believe they serve us well, providing a comfortable continuity that allows us to feel all is right with the world. They are the creators of family legend and we jettison them at our peril. Each of us has our own set of traditions, personal and precious, and to alter even one can seem so strange, like wearing someone else’s clothes. For instance, one year The Songwriter and I decided to open a present or two on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas morning, as was our life-long habit.

It felt exceedingly weird and we never did it again.

Each year our main tree is purchased from the same tree lot down the street. It comes home with us the day after Thanksgiving, without fail, and we put it up over the weekend.

The antique nativity scene always goes in the bookcase in front of the Egyptian mural, a blending of historical locales that matters not a bit to us.

The first batch of fudge is always made with Bing Crosby singing in the background, and the first presents are wrapped to Vivaldi.

Fir wreaths are hung on the inside of the windows, tied into place with embroidered bows.

We always watch The Bishop’s Wife at least once, by the light of the Christmas tree, with mugs of hot chocolate warming our hands.

On Christmas Eve we listen to A Child’s Christmas in Wales.

I could never entertain the idea of doing any of these things differently.

Sometimes I think of spending Christmas in London, in a quintessentially English hotel room, with snow falling softly outside my window and a fire roaring in an old stone fireplace. At three 0‘clock On Christmas Day I would walk to evensong at Westminster Abbey, in a red coat with a black velvet collar. I would indulge in the grandest of afternoon teas and I would open one perfect present at midnight.

Could I scrap all my home-grown traditions for such a trip as this?

Believe it or not, I’m not sure I could.

Anyway, Christmas morning without Edward is unthinkable.

Giving Thanks

2011-11-22T21:05:00.000-05:00

Giving Thanks

On Thursday of this week, we here in the states shall celebrate Thanksgiving Day. A marvelous tradition, even if sometimes we do have to burrow down beneath football games and feasts, holiday sales and family friction to find its true purpose, sitting unnoticed, waiting for our eventual consideration as it calmly holds out its soul-cleansing magic of gratitude. Patriarchs will say grace over tables groaning under the weight of sweet potato casseroles and pumpkin pies. In a truly American touch, gargantuan balloons shaped and dressed like Mickey Mouse and Underdog will float down New York streets and we shall thank the Lord for our food, our families, our freedom, our health.

It is a day for remembering the big things with thankfulness and perhaps it serves as a reminder to notice the little things as well. I hope so, for living in the midst of gratitude every day of the year makes for many happy days. There are a myriad of delights for which to be thankful, but they are often disguised as commonplace, so one must learn to look carefully to find them.

I think as I write of maple trees and autumn winds.

The first taste of Christmas fudge.

The way the bottom of Edward’s paw smells just like Fritos.

Shakespeare and Kate Atkinson.

Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver.

The Philadelphia Story and The Wizard of Oz.

Freshly ironed sheets.

and, rain.

Here are just a few more of my special thank you’s for this year.

The Dog Sitter

Ramona is the person who moves in to stay with Edward and Apple whenever we travel without them. She feeds them scrambled eggs. She gives them the fish oil capsules that make their furry coats shine like new money. She never gets her feelings hurt when Edward pouts - he only does this for a day or so. Both dogs adore her and she’ll be joining us for dessert on Thanksgiving Day.

And yes, that is a chimpanzee she’s holding.

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

Weddings

The Songwriter sang at the wedding of a friend this past weekend, and I was reminded once again how much I love those ancient ceremonies. To see two people stand facing one another, their faces lit by the love that they feel, pledging that love to the world, well... it’s incredibly moving.

I absolutely love this photo of the recent wedding of David Lauren and Lauren Bush and I just adore that wedding dress.

And I may be alone in this, but it's so good to see the elegance of sleeves again.

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

Solitude

I am grateful to be someone who enjoys her own company.

I don’t need a crowd to be happy.

I'm comfortable alone with my thoughts.

After all, it is there, in the quiet, when the muses come.

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

Wilf

There is a multitude of amazing blogs today, blogs that I read as often as I possibly can. But the one I never, ever miss is written by Angus, a transplanted Scotsman living a delightful life in a French village with his Polish Lowland Sheepdog, Wilf. Wilf bears a striking resemblance to Edward. Sometimes the pictures Angus posts cause me to do a double-take.

The blog was started to chronicle the travels of both Wilf and his twin brother, Digby, but sadly, Digby passed away in 2010 after a sudden illness. Then several months later, in a quirk of horrible timing, Wilf was diagnosed with cancer and given only three days to live.

That was a year and two months ago!
Each day since a gift, each month a miracle.

One of the best blog writers I’ve found, Angus takes us through the seemingly ordinary days of a life with an old dog, all the while freely handing us jewels of wisdom about friendship, loyalty, humour and love. I am so grateful that Wilf has defied the odds with such heart and grace and I wish for both he and Angus a perfectly wonderful festive season.

If you’ve yet to visit this very special twosome, you are missing a true treat.

Go say hello HERE.

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

An Ivy Covered Cottage

The Songwriter and I have an ongoing battle over the English Ivy that grows over our cottage.

He worries that it will damage the windows and gutters if it gets out of control.

I find it unutterably romantic.

We have reached a ivy truce of sorts.

It may clamber over the brick as much as it likes but must be trimmed when it reaches the windows or roofline.

I can certainly live with that. I love my ivy-covered cottage.

But Songwriter beware, I also love the look of the house above!

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

What about you?

What little thing are you thankful for today?

Birds

2011-11-16T17:30:00.000-05:00

Birds

Hands gripping the steering wheel of my little green car, I sat at the red light, looking around. This hillside must have been magnificent once. Before we humans arrived, with our love and devotion to commerce. Once a great forest, it is now all concrete and steel, a bit of glass, some neon.

I sigh.

My list of the day’s chores lies face up on the seat beside me, each of its many tasks, almost growling in animation earlier in the day, are now mercifully struck through with a red ink pen, silenced at last. Dealing with them all has rendered me tired and depleted, every corpuscle of my being squeezed and dried like a raisin. I think of my fireside, the smiles that await me at my front door - furry and bearded, both - and I long for this traffic to stir.

And it was then, in mid-sigh, that I saw them.

A black lace ruffle densely gathered on the telephone poles and electrical wires that preside over this harsh slice of Americana. A massive flock of birds, their numbers so completely overwhelming we humans encased in our metal cages upon this paved mountain as to suggest our utter insignificance. They stared down at us in pity, turning and nodding to one another, no doubt in comment on our trapped and earthbound existence. I rested my chin on the steering wheel, my eyes fixed upwards to this ebony congregation of freedom.

And then, almost as if they noticed my gaze and wished to give me a gift - they lifted as one up into the waning light of the afternoon. Floating on the autumn air like dancers, clad in the black silk of their ancestors, they twirled and swirled in time to the music I had momentarily forgotten, lost in a choreography I have never known.

Moving in concert with the intricacy of a kaleidoscope, their feathered ballet captured my soul. I felt my spirit rise up into their midst and, for a brief moment, it floated amongst the throng of their wings, backwards and forwards, reaching up to the rising moon, diving back to the tired earth, ransomed and loose.

And then, without a backwards glance, they suddenly turned to go.

Like candle smoke, their dark, joyous cloud disappeared into the heavens leaving me behind on the hillside, clutching a restored spirit, and a promise.

The traffic moved on and I turned for home.

Flying Round My Head.... A List and a Giveaway!

2011-11-09T20:59:00.001-05:00

Flying Round My Head

... A List

November is such an anticipatory month. As if by magic, the calendar fills up with dinners, parties, concerts, lunches. Edward and I sit by the fireside, planning meals and flowers, Christmas presents, Christmas cards.

My head swirls with holiday colour. Will it be gold and silver? Red and green? No, this year I’m planning the very medieval combination of copper and crimson with a touch of fir green.

And then, of course, on the last Thursday of the month comes the most celebratory meal of the American year. Thanksgiving. One perfect meal that requires days and days of happy preparation during which I become a cook and a baker, a florist, a decorator, a hostess. Such happy work for a thankful person. Thanksgiving comes early this year, did you know? A delightful fact that brings us a full extra week of the Christmas season.

Ideas have been crowding my brain, each leap-frogging over the other, each requesting my full attention.

I have caught a few of these thoughts in the net of this blog post to share with you.

And an extra treat sits in the middle of the list.

Surprise!

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

1. Holiday Tables

As much as I love cooking, and I do love it, especially during the holiday season, I also love creating special holiday tables. As an avid collector of unusual china that I squirrel away anywhere I can (don't look underneath the skirted tables!), I love doing something different at each holiday meal, often at each place setting.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw this collection from Hermes.

See it HERE.

2. Goblets

I have a small collection of Weller Pottery’s Woodland Series that I completely adore for it’s fairytale quality and beautiful colour.

Wouldn’t these goblets be the perfect addition?

Perhaps for a glass of mead?

I love these.

You can find them HERE.

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

3. Gloves

When cold weather falls down from the sky I head straight for my glove drawer with a smile on my face.

Velvet gloves, fair isle gloves.

Knitted, leather, cashmere.

I can never have too many.

I recently found these and am besotted.

Find them HERE.

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

4. Learning Something New

When I saw this recent photograph of Emma Watson on her first day at Oxford, it echoed the feeling that always seems to find me every fall. The craving to learn something new. Perhaps it’s a holdover from my own school days, but whenever shiny notebooks and pens show up in the stores and the mornings turn crisp and cool, my brain wakes up from its summer holiday and starts to look around for a challenge.

A couple of autumns ago, I learned to knit.

And last year, I attempted a mastery of Scottish Gaelic, which, I am ashamed to admit, I was completely ill-suited to learn. I would get into the car, pop in my CD of Learn Scottish Gaelic The Easy Way and commence my lesson, only to become tongue-tied and confounded before I’d backed out of the driveway. (Any advice, Angus?)

This year, I’m busy writing something. Believe me, that has my full attention and is exercising my brain thoroughly. Although, I’m also planning to bake my very first plum pudding. Does anyone have a good recipe? I’m considering Delia Smith’s, but do I really have to use suet?

Advice from those who’ve made one is heartily appreciated.

And what about you?

Are you learning something new this autumn?

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

5. Beautiful Shawls

.....and A Giveaway!

Anyone who knows me knows I’m often swaddled in shawls in cold weather. Love them with a passion. Some of my favourites, like the one above, can be found on the wonderful web store, Novica. I’ve featured Novica before - it’s a company I love, both for it’s amazing selection and for it’s fair trade practices.

They recently contacted me and offered to award one of my readers with a gift code of $50 to use any way you like. You may like the shawls, like me, or the jewelry, or a new hat, or.....!

What a treat!

Get an early start on your holiday shopping, or give yourself a special present, your choice.

I often find myself getting lost in Novica’s accessories, either for women, or for men.

And they have recently started a program for in home group shopping parties.

Like the Tupperware parties of old!

Fun!

You can find out more HERE.

And for a chance to win the $50 gift code, just leave a comment on this post.

Simple.

Edward and I will hold the drawing on Friday the 12th at midnight.

Good Luck All!

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

6. Bottle Stoppers

All these holiday parties and dinners mean lots of hostess gifts. Personally speaking, I love it when guests arrive bearing flowers, even though it’s often not recommended due to the supposition that it takes too much time to find a vase, and often the flowers have already been done and your gift may clash with the theme of the evening. Bah, I say. As a hostess, I always have time to grab a vase, and one can never have too many flowers in my estimation. But... here’s a great alternative idea for a hostess gift, or any gift for that matter. These bottle stoppers from Pottery Barn are gorgeous, inexpensive, and come in several gorgeous designs. See them all HERE.

I love decorative bottle stoppers myself, and use a special one atop a cut glass bottle of emerald green dish soap by my kitchen sink.

Isn't she wonderful?

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

7. Taking the Dog Along

The one drawback of our recent trip to Maine was, of course, that Edward and Apple had to stay behind. We are so fortunate to have a lovely and trusted dog sitter that moves in when we move out. Both dogs adore her and we can leave without worrying about their safety. Apple, having terrier blood in her furry veins, rolls with the punches with glee. But I know Edward pouts, and I hate, hate, to leave him. We often arrange our trips to include the dogs. They’ve come along with us on holidays to the beach and the mountains and we’ve all had so much fun. When I saw this pet travel case, I flipped.

What a brilliant way to repurpose old luggage.

There is space for the food underneath the bowls.

Completely ingenious!

Find it HERE.

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

**********

8. Sylvia

The Songwriter insists on calling the GPS lady who lives in our iPhone by her official name of Karen. However, she sounds nothing at all like a Karen to me so I call her Sylvia. Sylvia sounds more obdurate and imperious than Karen and just seems to suit this cool voiced directional know-it-all a bit better. I might manage to convince a Karen to listen to me if I really and truly thought she was leading me down a wrong path. A Sylvia would pay me no mind.

Based on her voice, I imagine her bearing more than a passing resemblance to Agnes Moorehead. I often think of her, grumpily throwing down her magazine, or climbing out of a bubble bath, whenever we call her for assistance.

“Honestly. Can’t those two go anywhere by themselves?”

I confess, I was a total snob about using a GPS. “We’ve managed perfectly fine for years without one”, I haughtily said. “It’s just a toy”.

And then we went to Maine.

We picked up a rental car in Boston so we could dilly-dally through the fall colour of Massachusetts and New Hampshire as we followed the smell of the sea up to Maine.

But darkness fell before we made it up to our friend’s house. Pitch-darkness. Really, really dark. Our friends live by a lake in the deep woods and it was so dark we couldn’t even see street signs, if there were street signs, so The Songwriter thought it prudent to pull Sylvia away from whatever it was she was doing.

And sure enough, she began telling us to “turn left in 30 feet”.... “continue on for 1.4 miles”.... etc.

If we happened to let the phone slip down in the seat, she would discipline us with a sharp, “Please place your iPhone where it can receive a clear satellite signal”.
It was easy to imagine her icy visage as we hurriedly put the phone on the dashboard.

At her insistence, we drove down winding lanes, far, far off the beaten path. I was utterly convinced she was delusional or, even worse, out to get us good, as we sat staring into the forest at a long, long, fir lined path.
“You have arrived at your destination”, she said, smugly.

Imagine the above picture in total darkness.
“She’s having us on”, I told The Songwriter.

“She’s never liked me since I changed her name.”

But I shall never doubt her again, for after bumping along this lane for a while we did indeed arrive at the correct door. Amazing. How does she do it?

Sylvia and I have now become friends.
If you have yet to meet her, you should.

By the way, I had an aunt who was the mirror image of Agnes Moorehead.

And I'm not joking.

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

9. The Secret

Since my engagement anniversary post of a few weeks ago, I’ve had a few people ask me for the “secret” to a happy marriage. Lord, I couldn’t answer that if I tried. I know there are those who say a good marriage is “hard work”, but to me it’s just the opposite. I can’t imagine laboring over my marriage - isn’t that the one place we should be able to relax and just be ourselves?

Oh, I have no advice to give.

Humour, trust, friendship - all those are in there, I know.

When I saw this photograph of Paul and Joanne, I thought to myself... there it is!

All the secrets to a happy marriage are right there in that picture.

Happy November,

And don't forget to enter the giveaway!

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

Congratulations to Deniz Bevan!

The winner of the Novica gift code!

On The Path To Wow

2011-11-06T17:47:00.000-05:00

On the Path to Wow

Leaving the post office after mailing a few Halloween cards, I turned into the roundabout that clasps our city center and spied him. Sitting on a small hill to the right of the library, his goatee twitching as he focused his gaze like a spotlight on the four tall cryptomeria trees that stand sentinel around the town fountain. Bert. The worker bee responsible for the design and execution of our city’s annual metamorphosis out of the ordinary world and into a wonderland of fairy lights, candy canes and Christmas trees. Glancing over my shoulder I could now easily see the two city trucks, full of ladders and lights, sitting on ready to begin the festive work.

Christmas Lights? Really? Well, I suppose, considering that it takes them several weeks to complete this task, and taking into account that the lights will be switched on in less that 30 days.... no doubt this is taking place precisely on schedule.

It seemed that everywhere I went that day people were shaking their heads at the speed in which the calendar pages were turning.

“I can’t believe it’s almost November”, said the lady at the cleaners as she handed me my favourite black blazer, the jam stain now removed from its cuff.

“Where did the summer go?”, asked the grey-haired gentleman who pushed his cart alongside mine as we both stocked up on Halloween candy.

Where indeed?

Later that afternoon, Edward and I were strolling along on our afternoon walk, our pathway strewn with the fallen scarlet maple leaves of autumn. I thought back to this same pathway in April, when the first hopeful tulips stood, new-baby pink and arrow straight, in garden after garden. I remembered our twilight walks of July, when the heady fragrance of honeysuckle and rose seemed virtually woven into the heavy humid air. I recalled our bundled up rambles in January when the colours of the day were charcoal and silver and our breath turned to fog right before us.

Cliche as it sounds, it seemed like only yesterday.

As I followed along behind Edward, I considered the now disappearing year, and it occurred to me, once again, that the natural world gives all we need to know about life - its calendar blending seamlessly with the seasons of our own existence - from carefree springtime to contemplative fall. We are all on a pathway of sorts, one often so crowded and noisy we sometimes find it hard to see all the wonders we are passing by.

There are those who hold their faces up to the sun, their ears tuned to bird song, their eyes trained for beauty.

There are those who rush along, forever looking down.

Uphill. Downhill.

There are times when we all walk alone.

Some of us can only see miles and miles of colour stretching out endlessly before us like a napping rainbow - the grass greens of May, the golds of September. Some of us - squinting perhaps, our hand over our disbelieving eyes to see a bit better in the light of the sun - can almost spot the point where the pathway might end.

Like most of the world, I was sorry to see the departure of the visionary, Steve Jobs. His remarkable journey ended far too soon. Tears pricked my eyes when I read of his last words. Looking past his family, into the space behind them, he was heard to say,

“Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow”.

No matter where we are in the journey, be it winter or spring, those are the words I believe we all will be saying when our pathway runs out. And from Halloween candy to Christmas lights, I mean to enjoy the ride.

Wishing you all a most happy November!

The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time

Any fool can do it

There ain't nothing to it.

Nobody knows how we got to

The top of the hill

But since we're on our way down

Might as well enjoy the ride

Isn't it a lovely ride

Sliding down

Gliding down

Try not to try too hard

It's just a lovely ride

James Taylor

Does No One Else Hear This?

2011-10-31T20:39:00.000-04:00

Does No One Else Hear This?

I heard it again last night.

In those grey gauze moments just before sleep, a distant sound. Or was it just outside my bolted window? A laugh? Or a cackle? I couldn’t be sure. Listening, listening, till the beat of my heart hurt my head. I pulled the covers up over my eyes and lay still as sleep, thinking.

Does no one else hear this?

All week long, just around midnight, strange sounds. Echoes of half forgotten conversations, snippets of laughter from those long disappeared into the mist. Rustlings. Murmurings. A whirling susurrus scratching at the garden gate. From deep in the trees, sounds of feather-soled footfalls cracking old leaves, inching closer and closer, ever nearer, to my door.

As each orange afternoon hands over the day to the night, a long finger of ice traces my spine.

I see faces in the candle flame - hear incantations in the trees.

I jump at the tea kettle’s whistle.

November will come, I tell myself. It will weave the now threadbare veil tightly and these visitors will vanish to mist. No longer will the will-o-the-wisp follow me, footstep by footstep, down the darkened hallway, its light casting unspeakable shadows upon the wall. This robed coven will fly from my rooftop, its shadow melting back to a flock of black crows.

I will open my window at midnight and all will be quiet.

No more will I catch the bleached discordant notes drifting out from the midst of the trees. No longer will I glimpse the swirl of an embroidered hem waltzing underneath the old oaks.

But for now, I wait.

With twisty hands and tapping foot, I sit.

I strain my ears for the step on the walk, for the knock on the door that I know will come.

I wait.

And I listen.

For Halloween.

The Owner of Autumn

2011-10-27T15:35:00.000-04:00

The Owner of Autumn

Down here in the south, the camellias often bloom in February. Like boutonnieres for snowmen, they fill the grey air with remembered colour, heralds of the cold-ending season at the door. In March, the perfume of confederate jasmine is as heady on the cobblestones of Savannah as the open doors of Guerlain on the Champs Elysees. The tulips appear in April, painterly swaths of yellow and pink. And there comes a perfect day in May when the whole of creation declares that the bluebird south surely owns the season of Spring.

But if your soul looks for Autumn - the autumn of legend - full of orange pumpkins and white ghosts, Pendleton blanketed hillsides of colour, red red apples and cold-nosed dogs, chowders, spiced cider and pie, the crash of the sea against a cold rocky coast - then you must set your course for the northeast, for that’s where it certainly lives.

On the way to Maine, I stopped off in Portsmouth, New Hampshire to find twenty foot tall jack-o-lantern men surrounding the town square. They grinned malevolently down at the top of my head, their long black fingers reaching out for my coat as I passed. I sat in a cafe window and watched as one crimson maple leaf caught the hem of a breeze, floating down the orange street in search of the harbour.

In Camden, Maine, after a waterfront cup of clam chowder, I wandered gold leafed streets that glistened like jewelry in a fine mist of rain. I met the smile of a wet Bernese Mountain Dog. As tall as my waist, with velvet ears. I brought back a sack of local apples and made an apple pie that afternoon, rolling out pie crust whilst gazing out at a lake whose face was encircled by the maple leaf scarf of fall.

Just as one day was ending, I drove out to the tip of a fir green peninsula to find Castine just as I’d left her, glowing pink in the last rays of the sun. Grand weathered houses still stand on the headland. Their windows, like the eyes of the sea captains who built them, stare out past the wind-whipped waves to the horizon beyond. As the sun dips under the rose coloured sea, little white lights begin to glow in the windows of the charcoal grey houses and the October wind whistles past my ear like a tea kettle. It isn’t difficult to imagine Hawthorne’s poor Hepzibah Pyncheon drawing a curtain in her seven-gabled house. Or to hear the faraway hoofbeats of the headless horseman as he rides closer and closer to where I stand.

I began to think of home.

I have brought back as much of that fabled autumnal spirit as I could carry.

The Songwriter is now fashioning twenty foot tall pumpkin men for our garden, and I am baking pies.

But I know if I want the genuine article, it does exist.

At the top eastern tip of this country.

In Maine.

Painting above: Village Square, Castine Maine by Tom Nicholas

Find more of his work HERE

An October Engagement

2011-10-19T19:13:00.000-04:00

An October Engagement

He likes to give magic at Christmas. Antique bronze kaleidoscopes, first edition fairy tales, hand painted lockets.

Like most writers, he sees the world uniquely, finding the greatest meaning sitting unnoticed between the lines.

He sees humour in the the prosaic, beauty in the commonplace.

He makes me laugh.

He checks the locks and slays the bugs.

And I feel safe when I’m with him.

He loves The Beatles and Saint-Saens Organ Symphony #3.

He reels me in whenever I drift too far out to sea and cuts me loose when I need to fly.

I once caught him singing to Apple as he brushed her black coat.

If you're going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you're going to San Francisco
You're gonna meet some gentle people there
Apple hates being brushed. She wiggles and squirms, rolls on her back and bats the brush with her paws. But that afternoon, she lay as still and calm as sleep. I’ll never hear that old song in the same way again.

As teenagers, we were best friends. And then when we were older, on a gold October day, we went on a picnic to a mountain lake. He asked me to marry him. For years I had planned, as every girl does, how I would react to this question if it were ever put to me. I intended to respond as I imagined Grace Kelly would ... softly saying, “Let me think about it overnight”. Instead, I grinned like Christmas and said, “Of course”.

That was many years ago, and every year since, on the same day in October, we pack a picnic lunch and head back to the same mountain lake. We've never missed a year.

And I still say “Of Course”.

The Car

2011-10-15T11:23:00.000-04:00

The Car

I learned to drive in a car longer than a big city block. A Pontiac Star Chief - an automobile of such preposterous size that it enabled the driver to appear both ridiculous and courageous simultaneously. My father was my driving instructor and I can still see him, crouched like a wet cat in the passenger seat, wide-eyed and unblinking, ready to spring into action at the first indication that I might slam on the accelerator and head straight for the nearest cliff. Of course, there were no cliffs around the shopping center parking lot where he held our Sunday afternoon lessons. Just asphalt as far as the eye could see, this being in the day when shops closed on Sundays, you see. (Where DO kids learn to drive these days?) I can’t really blame him for approaching this rolling schoolroom with trepidation, as I would imagine the sight of one’s child behind the wheel for the first time would have to chill the blood a bit. He was stalwart, however, and from him I learned to yield to the right at stop signs, to turn into a skid should I ever be unfortunate enough to be in the middle of one, and to never.... and I mean never... pick up a hitchhiker.

But even with Daddy’s devoted teaching, I still failed my first driving test. Oh, I did fine on the driving part. It was in the area of parking where I ran into a spot of trouble. Well, you just try and parallel park the QE2 and see how well you do. Personally, I consider it not a feat, but a miracle, that I managed to pass second time out. But pass I did, receiving a plasticine driver’s license emblazoned with my photograph, wide-eyed and unblinking, in the upper left hand corner.

Along with that long-coveted driving license came the good news that the old Pontiac Star Chief, leaf green and long as the Nile, was now to belong to me and, in an instant, my dream of zipping along city streets with the cool grace of a Charlie’s Angel was rudely replaced with a now more realistic mental picture of Angela Lansbury attempting to steer that big four-poster in Bedknobs and Broomsticks. But the prospect of vehicular independence trumped any vanity I might have possessed at sixteen, so I held my head high, grabbed hold of that hula-hoop sized steering wheel, rolled down those plate glass windows, and hit the road.

No doubt as a result of that first over-elongated auto, I have driven tiny cars ever since. Zippy and close to the road, these are the cars I most love to drive. I am not at home in a SUV. I consider the Hummer to be manufactured chiefly for those wishing to compensate for unhappy childhoods or unsatisfactory appendages. Peugeots, Renaults, Bristol Blenheims. These are the cars that I try to rent whenever I’m across the pond, but it is difficult to find their like back here in the states.

Recently my tiny car, old but beloved, was put in the hospital for a faulty transmission, necessitating a visit to the rental car counter. Just as the salesmen was about to hand over the keys to a rather humdrum Chevrolet, he suddenly cocked his head and fixed me with a questioning stare.

“You know”, he said,

“I think I’ve got something that would suit your personality a bit better.

Come with me.”

He grabbed up another set of keys and we proceeded to the parking lot where I soon found myself standing in front of the car of my dreams - just in, with only 64 miles on the odometer. Tiny and zippy, to be sure, but oh, it was so much more. I could see in an instant, this was not mere transportation.

This was a ticket to another time - a passport to an age of Hermes scarves and white sunglasses.

Canfora sandals, limoncellos, and Nat King Cole.

This was the brand-new Fiat 500.

I kept that rental car for a couple of weeks, the longest test drive ever. I drove it at night and in the rain. On the fast expressway and twisty rural roads. It was comfortable for two furry dogs as well as for a six foot one Songwriter and his two acoustic guitars. I hated to turn it back in when my car was all well.

So.

Reader, I bought one.

Life is short and I could not resist.

Parallel parking is now a breeze!

And I think my driving instructor would love it.

Edward certainly does.

I Will

2011-10-09T18:05:00.000-04:00

"Love you forever and forever

Love you with all my heart

Love you whenever we're together

Love you when we're apart.

And when at last I find you

Your song will fill the air

Sing it loud so I can hear you

Make it easy to be near you

For the things you do endear you to me

Oh, you know, I will

I will."

Congratulations!

So happy.

The Carousel of Time

2011-10-05T12:25:00.000-04:00

The Carousel of Time

The Songwriter belongs to a unique club, one whose membership seems to dwindle with each passing year. You see, he is one of the few people who actually still resides in the neighbourhood into which he was born. On our daily walks with Edward and Apple, he is traversing the same streets he ran down as a boy. He passes by his family home nearly every day. Even the trees are old friends. To the now elderly neighbours who knew him as a youngster, he will always remain precisely that. He will never age a moment from that afternoon in the sixties when he and his best friend blasted Beatle songs from the rooftop of his house for all the world to hear.

To be sure, there are pros and cons for this deeply rooted existence. Sometimes the changes, inevitable though they may be, can be painful. A couple of years ago, Mrs. Pennington’s house was torn down. Hidden for years within an tangled thicket of trees and brush, no doubt few of our neighbours even knew it was there. Mrs. Pennington herself, nudged by her age, had moved out some time ago. But she’d lived there as long as The Songwriter could remember and we hated to see her go. A highly respected artist and historian, Mrs. Pennington could be counted upon to pass by our cottage at sunset each day on her arm-swinging constitutional - braless, and sporting a well-loved Che Guevara t’shirt. An arresting sight I can tell you, and one that I miss even today. It’s sad to see these old characters depart and no doubt we feel it more sharply the longer we’ve known them.

But if Joni Mitchell is correct, and who am I to question Joni, we are all on a carousel ride through time - able to occasionally look back, but never return. And happily, we keep picking up new riders all the time. So, on balance, I would have to recommend a life with such deep connections. They can, after all, provide a sweet comfort.

When it’s Springtime, we know to head over to The Melton’s azalea garden for the Easter Egg Hunt. At Christmas, Wayne and Brian’s house will be the most charming, with the vintage Santa smiling down from the eaves. We look to Cecil for sunflowers in summer and we smile every afternoon at one-year old Walter who sits with his nanny, waving at passersby from atop his newly built garden wall.

And on a cool evening late last week, I baked a cake, tied it up with a lavish pink bow and The Songwriter and I carried it up the familiar driveway of his childhood home, climbing the front stairs, knocking on the familiar white door. For several years now, there has been a new couple living here. The Songwriter stopped by to welcome them on the afternoon they moved in. Warm, charming, and oh-so-young, they have just had their first child - Emily Cait, the very first baby in this house since The Songwriter himself.

“Was yours the bedroom on the back of the house?”, the new mother asked.

“Yes. It was”, came the reply.

“Oh, good! That’s Emily Cait’s!”, she said, grinning wide.

The four of us looked down at the tiny creature, dressed all in pink.

The carousel’s spinning.

And we smile.

It Is October..... A List

2011-10-03T12:41:00.000-04:00

It Is October

It is a gift foretold by a whistle of wind.

Arriving on my doorstep, wrapped up in the velvet of moss.

I loosen its ribbon of sunlight and like Pandora before me, slowly and carefully I open the box. On a wave of woodland laughter, it flies past me like desire - all its apple-scented orangeness, full moon mystery, azure blue - sailing up to the treetops and in through my windows like the breath of new life. And it changes everything. The food that I cook, the clothes that I wear, my music, my outlook, my plans - all now are painted with its technicolour brush.

It is an occurrence as dependable as dawn, and yet, every year, I am always surprised.

It is the answer to all the questions I had not yet asked.

It is October.

Huzzah!

A list for this most luscious of months......

1. Country House Weekends

I have always loved descriptions in literature of the English Country House Weekend. You know what I mean.... friends gather at a sublimely situated house in the bucolic countryside, usually in the autumn, bringing along elegantly weathered suitcases full of tweedy garments, riding boots, and lilac-coloured cashmere shawls. There are always glasses of sherry and appropriately atmospheric books sitting beside the four-poster beds, and oak fires roar under mantels of stone. Dinners are long and lavish, lunch is served in the old stone folly somewhere on the grounds and Jack Russells and Spaniels abound. Of course, in books, someone usually ends up dead in the library, knocked into eternity by a candlestick wielded by the most unlikely suspect. But no matter. In a couple of weeks, The Songwriter and I are heading off to join friends at their sublimely situated house in Maine, and I cannot wait, especially as a murder isn’t expected to be on the menu. I’m thinking these are the perfect accoutrements for such an excursion....

The perfect country weekend bag....

Find it HERE

The perfect country weekend coat....

Find it HERE

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

The perfect bedside book....

I just re-read this for my classics book club. What a treat!

Check it out HERE

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

2. Knitting

Like most knitters, my needles are flashing all year long. Christmas presents are often being knitted in June. But also like most knitters, I really get going when the weather cools. Chilly, windy October nights are simply made for a knitter. A cup of something hot in the perfect mug, and a challenging pattern to keep your interest... heaven.

The Perfect Mug for a Knitter....

Find it HERE

and The Perfect Hat Pattern....

(which just happens to have been written by my very own knitting teacher!)

Find it HERE

And the perfect place to keep those needles....

Aren’t these charming?

You can make a set of your own from the pattern HERE.

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

3. Gourds

Several days ago I ventured into my local farmer’s market to buy some late season peaches and early season apples. I was happily filling my cart when I turned to the left and saw them. Gourds! Like fruit from an alien planet, strange and curious in both shape and colour, they were piled up on tables and boxes, tumbling over one another in a tantalizing display. Potbellied turbans the colour of fire. Ten Commandment gourds, twisted and overgrown, like the beckoning finger of an October witch. I was enchanted. As I began to fill up my basket with as many as it would hold, I became aware of someone standing quite close to my shoulder. Turning around, I spied an immaculately coiffed older lady watching my every move with interest.
“Might I ask”, she ventured, “what exactly are you planning to do with these?”

As I began to tell her that I make a sort of witch’s garden every autumn... wrinkly purple cabbages and orange pansies, gazing balls and pumpkins... her eyes grew wider and wider. “Walkers, runners, and especially children love to pass by it every day”, I said.

She stood there a moment, staring at the gourds in my basket and sighed, “Ah, you’re one of those creative types, aren’t you?”

I hurriedly went on... “But you could also decorate for a dinner party with these. Just imagine them all lined up down the center of the table!”

The penny dropped. You could see it in her eyes, and I left her there loading up a cart of her own with these fabulous autumnal treasures, no doubt planning a dinner party in her head as she did so. Look for these wonders in your farmer’s market now. They really are so much fun.

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

4. Woodland Gardens

For years my back garden has wanted to return to the forest it was before we moved in. The old trees do not want a lawn, they will not accept roses, and they make certain we never attempt such affronts by blanketing all they survey with the shadows of shade. They will, however, tolerate hydrangeas, animals and whimsy.

So at the end of a pathway under the trees sits a frog. Not just any frog, mind you. This chap is made of copper, is as tall as a man and he’s sitting on a stone toadstool, reading a book. He’s a magical sight in any season of the year, but especially when the leaves on those old trees begin to change all around him. For some reason, he looks especially contented just then.

I realize gardens are generally expected to be best appreciated in summer when blooms are at their most riotous. But I dearly love woodland gardens in autumn. Truly enchanted places. Is it any wonder forests and woodlands are so ubiquitous in fairy stories?

I’d love to create something just like this in mine.

You can visit this glorious lady yourself, HERE.

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

5. Chilly Mornings

Better than any meteorologist, Edward can always be relied upon to let us know the very first morning the weather changes. Bounding, jumping, his fur puffed out like a fat, white chrysanthemum - you’ve never seen a happier dog. I share his love of these colder mornings when the air is clear as a goblet of crystal and I have to reach for a warm dressing gown when I climb out of my bed. Coffee smells like perfume on mornings like this. I love to linger over a beautifully set breakfast table, reading papers, writing letters......

I’d love to stumble to the breakfast table in this exquisite dressing gown.

And it even has a hood!

Be still my heart.

Find it HERE.

Aren’t these plates amazing?....

I can just see them on my October breakfast table,

maybe with some of those gourds here and there,

and bouquets of orange mums at every place setting?

Find them HERE.

And, I’d pour my tea from this charming autumnal teapot...

Find it HERE

Yes, I do still write letters by hand.

And I have a childish fascination with stamps.

A little bit of art on an envelope of white.

I’d so love to be in Britain just now to get my hands on these wonderful William Morris stamps!

Aren't they gorgeous?

See more HERE

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

So many more things to list here....

would anyone mind if I perhaps added more favourites mid-month?

Sorrowful Words

2011-09-28T23:00:00.001-04:00

Sorrowful Words

Here in the states it seems as soon as we have slogged through the rank bogs of an election year, feeling battered and bruised, with the mud of the campaign still drying on our cheeks, we are immediately thrown right back into the fray. The rancorous fight continues. There is no longer even a pretense of bi-partisanship for the good of the country. Two years ago, my own state senator, in citing reasons to vote for him for re-election, declared it his mission to go to Washington and work to block the President’s policies, no matter what they were. And it seems he is not alone in this odd definition of his senatorial commission. Consequently, we are saddled with a maladroit congress, one impoverished of the sort of wisdom and intellectual dexterity that has, in the past, allowed our government to move forward, however incrementally, despite our well-defined differences. It is a frustrating time. It is an angry time. It is a sad time.

Even though the presidential election is still fourteen months away, the opposing party has been holding debates for the past several weeks, providing us with a glimpse into their ranks of supporters that has been eye-opening and, quite frankly, disturbing. First there were the audience cries of “let him die” when candidate Ron Paul was asked about those who become ill sans health insurance. Then came the audience cheers and whistles when Texas governor, Rick Perry, was asked about the 234 people his state has put to death during his time in office. Most recently, there was the booing and jeering of a gay soldier whose video taped question from Iraq was put to candidate Rick Santorum.

As chilling as these crowd reactions were, the most disturbing part was the lack of response from the candidates themselves, a silence that led me to conclude either they were in total agreement with those vociferous audience members or, equally unsettling, they lacked the moral courage to dispute them.

In speaking about these crowd reactions this past weekend President Obama said, “This is not reflective of who we are”. I fervently pray he is right. For I am finding it a sorrowful thing to be ashamed of my own countrymen.

“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers to the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.”

W. Shakespeare

The Letter

2011-09-26T16:12:00.000-04:00

The Letter

Lighter than breath, its paper as brittle as the skin of an onion, the letter had been written in pencil, not the wisest choice for an artifact. But no doubt its authoress never dreamt it would one day be placed in the hands of her great niece, a person she never even knew existed.

My great aunt Prudence died long before I was born, leaving it up to her remaining family members to distill and elucidate her personality for future generations of MacDonald women, of which I am one. I have been told she was “difficult”. There have even been strong intimations that hers was the sort of “difficult” that leaned towards “meanness”. But who really knows for certain? Family translations of one’s true essence are often suspect at best.

I stare at the unfamiliar handwriting on this old letter, carefully removing the pages from their faded sheath, curious to catch but a glimpse of this mysterious aunt I never knew, and am immediately startled to see that it was written from Glasgow. Reading further, I find that she and her husband lived in that Scottish city in 1917-18, something of which I was totally unaware. She is writing to her sister, my Aunt Susie - whose fervent wish to be known as Susan was forever denied by her family - and I read of her frustration at the lack of adequate embroidery thread as well as her newly realized need for a raincoat...”everybody has one of them for it rains nearly every day”. She mentions both the cold and the poor soul that died on the boat over, wrapped up in a sheet and thrown overboard in a burial she clearly finds unsettling. She describes the Scottish beds that are so tall she has to climb up on a stool just to get into one saying, “If you ever fell out you would kill yourself!”. Although she writes that “everything here is so different” there is not a hint of homesickness hiding behind her pencilled words. She is on an adventure, far, far away from her Tennessee home, and she appears to be enjoying herself.

Her sister, my great Aunt Susie, is the aunt I remember, for it was her home we frequently visited when I was a little girl. Sadly, she passed away before I could chisel conversations in memory, but I can vividly recall her candy-coloured hyacinth gardens and the ever-present pound cake that sat underneath the glass dome on her kitchen counter. I remember her rooms were shady and smelled of lemons. Having no children of her own, I think she found me a bit fascinating, much in the same way an anthropologist marvels at a creature heretofore seen only in books. I think I made her laugh. Aunt Susie married the local postman and they lived, very happily by all accounts, in the same house for the rest of their lives. I never heard of them taking exotic holidays, in fact I never knew them to leave their little village at all.

When I finished Aunt Prudie’s letter from Scotland, I sat for a long time in thought. Knowing I have the blood of both these women dancing threw my veins makes me wonder if my own dichotomy betwixt wanderlust and nesting comes in part from these two sisters. For even when I am most content amongst my books, my teapots, and my gardens, I still feel a longing to drag my suitcase out from the closet, fill it up with sweaters and shawls, and make a wild dash to the airport, clutching my blue passport in my hot little hand. The homebody rests on one shoulder, the adventurer on the other, and both constantly whisper their wishes into my all too receptive ears. Are these two sisters partly to blame?

Once, when I was feebly attempting to articulate the astonishing connection I have felt to the Highlands of Scotland from the moment I first stepped onto that soil, a friend told me I was experiencing “cellular memory”. I have thought a lot about that ever since, especially since practically all of my ancestors, both maternal and paternal, came from that country.

How much of who we are is immersed in the unfathomable parts of our being, far out of reach of analysis or x-ray?

How many of the songs that my heart loves to sing were once sung by someone centuries ago?

How old am I, really?

Aunt Prudie as a young girl, perhaps wistful for another voyage?

Aunt Susie on her sofa with me.

Painting above: The Letter by Norman Hepple

The Home and Garden Tour

2011-09-19T16:01:00.000-04:00

The Home and Garden Tour

The House of Edward sits within a neighbourhood of old houses. The oldest was built around 1900 and whilst that may seem young as springtime to my friends in other countries, here in the southern states, it’s rather impressive. Our gardens are large, our trees ancient and massive, and every single house has a different design. About ten years ago, during the rapacious property mania here in America, our neighbourhood of old houses and park-like lots attracted the squint-eyed notice of salivating developers hungry to buy up several houses at once in order to carve out little over-stuffed kingdoms of mediocrity. One even tried to purchase one house and replace it with sixteen. Now, I rarely jump squarely in the middle of contention but this hit too close to home, so I girded my loins and opened my front door. The Songwriter and I joined in with other neighbours in a fight to protect our low density zoning, which the developers needed to change in order to achieve their goals of chockablock sameness. During this protracted battle, it occurred to me that perhaps we needed a bit of attention, a spotlight of sorts that would train its glow on our uniqueness and charm and educate the powers that be on all the reasons our neighbourhood deserved legislative protection. So, I organized a home and garden tour.

I will always be incredibly grateful for the homeowners who agreed to put their homes on that first tour. I’m not sure I would have been quite so eager to join in on that novice venture, led by a woman who’d never before attempted such a organizational feat. I well remember the trepidation I felt when I called a local florist to see if she might be willing to do the flowers for one house. As I waited for her to answer the phone I looked down at my list of florists, consoling myself with the thought that, if she refused, at least I had more possibilities. I couldn’t believe it when she said, “Don’t bother asking anyone else. I’ll be happy to do them all.” I designed and printed programs, I lined up volunteers to take tickets at each house, I did interviews with local papers, I tied balloons on mailboxes. The morning of the tour arrived and it hit me that I had assigned all the positions and now had nothing to do. The Songwriter headed out for his volunteer shift at one of the houses and left me sitting at the kitchen table, heart pounding. I wandered from room to room, wringing my hands, certain the day was destined to be a total flop. And then the phone rang. It was The Songwriter... “Hon, you won’t believe it. Cars are lined up and down the street. There are so many people coming!”. Relief, sweet teary-eyed relief.

That was ten years ago and believe it or not, the tour still continues. It’s become a village tradition, one celebrated and looked forward to by those inside our neighbourhood and out. Older people come back from all over to visit the places they once lived and it’s such a thrill to see them led through their former homes by the young folks who now reside there, all with big grins on their faces. And I’m happy to say that we are now recognized and appreciated by our city officials who point to our vintage neighbourhood as one of their crowning jewels, worthy of preservation and pride. The developers have slithered back from whence they came, at least for the present. I’ll be waiting if they return.

Today is tour day and we have some delightful homes this year. I will be hosting a party here at The House of Edward in the evening for all the homeowners, a time for them to relax and swap tour stories. We’ve been fluffing and pluffing all week long, raiding the garden for the last summer flowers, stirring chocolate, chilling wine. Edward, who loves nothing more than a party, knows something is up. I wish you all could join us, but as that’s not possible, here are a few photos to give you a taste of the evening to come!

Memory As Medicine

2011-09-12T16:47:00.000-04:00

Memory As Medicine

It was getting rather late and a fine mist was falling as I zipped along down a famous Southern street on my way home from my knitting group, The Whiskey Knitters. (Never fear, knitting was all I did.) Just ahead on the left, I could see the art museum sitting up on the hill like an ivory treasure chest, silently soaking up the glow of its spotlights, its doors now locked up tight, its great works in repose till morning. Across its wide stone face stretched a banner advertising the new exhibition by artist Radcliffe Bailey, the title of which was “Memory As Medicine”, and though I was not drunk on whiskey, I did find these words intoxicating. They kept my mind buzzing all the way back home.

Memory as medicine. How marvelous. As someone who yammers on about the importance of creating wonderful memories, these three words were like catnip. For when one’s circumstances or surroundings lack the spiritual nourishment necessary for an unfettered mind and a happy heart, sweet memories can be sublime places of mental retreat. Good, good medicine indeed.

Dotted through my home are little reminders of wonderful hours that to a visitor’s eye might seem utterly unremarkable. To me, however, each one serves as a magical talisman capable of whisking me off to other places, other days, by the mere fact of its presence. See that tiny stone? The one the colour of a thundercloud, shaped like the newest moon? It was brought back to me from Tintagel by a delightful friend the year before he died. I keep it lying atop a stack of books on Arthurian legend and each time I hold it in my hand I hear the faint sound of sea wind rushing through Merlin’s cave; I see my friend grinning at me from the hilltop above. The gothic painting over the baby grand? I purchased that with my earnings from the only song The Songwriter and I ever wrote together. If it catches my eye when I enter the room, I am immediately transported to the afternoon we spent throwing lines back and forth, laughing like kids. That tiny conch shell was picked up on Edward’s first trip to the beach. That painted mirror was once hanging in a microscopic antique shop on a Paris side street - I carried it all over Europe in my luggage, wrapped up in sweaters and shawls - years ago.

And the photograph at the top of this post is one I keep hanging in my kitchen. Not the greatest picture ever taken, I realize. The composition is not particularly good. I am caught in mid-sentence, my cheeks flushed from a very long hike up a very long hill. So why is it special? Because if memory is medicine, this photograph is, for me, the healthiest elixir imaginable, for it represents one of the most perfect days of my life. A heavenly blue sky of a day, one in which every single second, from dawn until midnight, was one I could happily stay in forever. Come with me and I’ll show you just a little of what that day was like...

An early morning spent writing, always good....

A walk around a lake....

A hike in the hills....

Approaching a storybook house....

At the gate of a storybook garden....

Is that Peter over there?.....

Seconds after this photo was taken, came a thundering sound over the hill to my left as a black and white sheepdog herded his flock directly across our path, close enough to touch....

And I sat for quite a while drinking in this view from an tiny building where the great poet himself once wrote.

We share the same birthday.

I almost heard him whisper....

I could go on and on, but I know how boring it can be to wander around in the memories of others. That is the most wondrous thing about memory, I suppose. It is good medicine tailored specifically to the patient. My memories are not yours. Yours are not mine. But they all can serve as balms to bad days, antidotes to the disarray of modern life.

Take some time out and visit some of your own best memories.

See how much better you feel.

Oh yes, and if Edward could choose his favourite memory?

No doubt he would pick the day we brought his best friend Apple home to stay.

Just look at that smile on his face!

(We should have realized how big she would get by those paws.)

The Last Days of White Linen

2011-09-06T13:55:00.000-04:00

The Last Days of White Linen

The boat gives a soft shudder as it runs onto the sand. Nudged awake from my reveries I am startled to see its sails rather tattered and torn, its once vibrant stripes of white and blue now faded into a tired grey. I rub my eyes and gaze around. When did the morning light, once so gauzy and pale, become sharp enough to paint the landscape with shadows? When did the pathways, once glittered with beach sand, find themselves strewn with soft yellow leaves?

Sighing, I gather my straw hats and sand buckets, my beach books and espadrilles, and clamber out of the weary summer ship.

These are the last days of white linen.

Any midnight now, the garden will fall silent, its orchestra of cicadas will have packed up and gone.

Soon the trees will tire of their gowns of green, and robe themselves in the fiery garments of fall.

I have begun the short journey into another season and my heart stirs with every step that I take. I pass through faded gardens and smile, knowing they are soon to be filled with purple cabbages and pumpkins. Placing my hands in my pockets, I pull out sharpened pencils, red apples, green gloves. From out of nowhere, a brisk wind begins to tousle my hair. My pace quickens as, from just around a curve in the road, comes the faintest fragrance of wood smoke and hot cocoa - cinnamon and fir.

Where only a few hours ago I sat with my wings folded, drenched in the languidness of August, I now feel the awakening of my imagination like the first day of school.

I want to run straight into the arms of autumn with a grin on my face.

Anyone wish to join me?

"Lord it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they should be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine."

Rainer Maria Rilke

What a President Reads

2011-09-01T08:37:00.000-04:00

What A President Reads

Here in the states it has become a tradition of sorts to publish the list of books our President is planning to read on his summer holiday. This year I was pleased to see President Obama bringing along Cutting For Stone by Abraham Verghese, one of the best books I read last year, and a book I have mulled over many times since. Also included in the President’s book bag was To the End of the Land by David Grossman and The Warmth of Other Suns, a non-fiction work by Isabel Wilkerson. During his first day on Martha’s Vineyard, he stopped off at the Bunch of Grapes bookshop with his two daughters and increased his reading list by purchasing Emma Donoghue’s award winning book, Room, as well as a trilogy by the excellent writer, Daniel Woodrell.

Of course, as to be expected, when these titles were made public some in the press found the President’s book list worthy of strident, and somewhat amusing, criticism. He was taken to task by writer Robin Black for not reading enough women authors. Then, for the National Review, writer Tevi Troy composed a snarky little opinion piece that labeled the President’s list, as well as the Vineyard bookshop he patronized, as “liberal” and included this asinine sentence about the President’s choices:

“ First, five of the six are novels, and the near-absence of nonfiction sends the wrong message for any president," he explains, "because it sets him up for the charge that he is out of touch with reality."

Now, I recognize that there are those determined to deride President Obama on anything and everything possible, and while it would be quite entertaining to take on Mr. Tevi’s article point by irksome point, I’ll leave all that to others. You can read the entire article here and make your own judgments about the validity of his criticism. However, I am prepared to denounce his foolish assertion that to read fiction carries the implication that one is “out of touch with reality”.

To Kill a Mockingbird, The Road, A Tale of Two Cities.

Nineteen Eighty-Four, The Grapes of Wrath.

Readers of these books, out of touch with reality?

Reading fiction, great fiction, requires not only a curious mind, but an open one as well. There is truth to be found in fiction, often inarticulate truth that hides between the lines of simple sentences, waiting to be discovered by a discerning and questioning eye. Fiction allows one to place oneself in the skin of others. It can create an empathy for our shared humanity that continues to unfold for the reader long after the books have closed.

Speaking for myself, I want my President to read fiction. I want his reading list to be deep and far-reaching. I want him to imagine what it’s like to walk around the world in the shoes of the poor and illiterate as well as the educated and powerful.

I want him to understand what motivated Atticus Finch to sit all night outside the jail cell of Tom Robinson.

I want him to consider both the desperation of Tom Joad and the idealism of Don Quixote.

I want him to know what made Septimus Warren Smith throw himself out that window in London and why Shylock demanded his pound of flesh.

I want him to contemplate what the green light meant to Jay Gatsby.

And in the case of one of President Obama’s choices for this year’s holiday, I want him reading To The End of the Land, to encounter a mother who sets off on a walk across the country of Israel while her son is called up for a 28 day military exercise just because she cannot bear being home if and when the authorities try to find her should he perish in combat. Yes, I want him to read that book.

If Mr. Tevi finds readers of fiction to be out of touch with reality, I can only shudder to think how he views those of us who read poetry.

But I’ll leave that to another day.

“Fiction reveals truth reality obscures”.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Edward, Under Pegasus

2011-08-29T21:11:00.002-04:00

Edward, Under Pegasus

Midnight came on the heels of an eerie day when the earth shuddered and quaked, cracking nature’s molds like the thunder of Lear and pushing angels off the roof of the National Cathedral. Pegasus cantered across a moonlit sky to take up his autumnal position to the east of a swan while under the trees of the garden, in a nest of shadows, the big dog sat listening, then suddenly turning in a bolt for the door. Crashing through the mudroom, barreling down the hall, he leapt onto the bed with a thump of white fur. He ignored his usual spot at the lady’s feet and made his way up the blanketed bed to sit squarely in front of her face. She peered up over her book.

“Edward?”, she asked.

The big dog stared.

The lady looked over at the man to see if he was noticing this most unusual behaviour.

He was.

“Maybe he needs to go out?”, he asked.

“He just came back in”, she replied.

And still the big white dog sat staring at the lady, a look of worry in his almond eyes.

“I’ll go out with him”, the man said, and with a barely audible sigh, he put down his book and threw back the covers.

He opened the door to the garden and the big white dog followed him out into the night.

The lady waited.

Soon they both returned, the man shaking his head.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with him, but whatever it is, the owls seem to share it. You should hear them. They’re all out there calling - barred owls, screech owls, great horned. It’s odd.”

The big white dog nodded, wishing not for the first time for the great gift of speech.

He jumped right back up to lie squarely between the man and the lady, eventually falling asleep with his head across the man’s chest.

And the owls called out for hours.

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

Epilogue

Over breakfast the next morning, the lady and man learned that the earthquake of the previous day had produced an aftershock at precisely the same moment of Edward’s strange behaviour.

Though far away from the epicenter of this event, he knew it was happening.

And so did the owls.

Such is the inherent symbiosis shared between animals and nature, a connection that one would assume, with their supposed elevated state, human beings would share.

But do not.