Joy

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

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

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

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

46 AD - 120 AD

Ideas on Film

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Enchanted Souvenir

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

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

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

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

from A Psalm of Life, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Orchestra

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

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

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

A Dozen Favourite Things For Summer!

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

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

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

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

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

5. This enchanting bed







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










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

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

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

9. Adorable Luna Lovegood

10. White linen trousers and shell bracelets

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

12. And finally, this quotation by Iris Murdoch:

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


painting by Amber Alexander

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emily Dickinson

The Very Definition of Summer

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

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

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

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

Walking Home On A Night In Midsummer

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

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

Act II, Scene I

A Midsummer Night's Dream

William Shakespeare

I Like Americans
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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

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

I like Americans.
They give the matches free…

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

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

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

Happy 4th of July to All

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

Fireworks

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


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

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

Painting above: Fireworks, by James Lynch

Lions and Supermodels

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

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

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

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


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

Job 12: 7-10

Summer Reading

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Summer

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

Beach Sand
by Raymond A. Foss

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



Painting at top, The Beach by Peder Severin Kroyer

The Influence of Gardenias

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

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

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

Edward ... Inside On A Hot Afternoon

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

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

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

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

He was happy now.

Rydal Mount

Come with me.....

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

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

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

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

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

Painting above: View From Rydal Park, by Francis Towne

Umbrellas and Bumbershoots

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps a bumbershoot??

One Whole Year!

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

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

The Fifth Element

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

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

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

June Is Bustin’ Out All Over

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

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

Lyric by Oscar Hammerstein


“I love my life!”

Sentiment by Edward