Advanced Style

Advanced Style

There are some  mornings when I awake with a bounce usually reserved for eight year olds.  My energy level is high as the clouds and the mirror is my friend, throwing back to me a reflection of bright eyes and happy outlook.  Then there are mornings when I crawl from my sheets with all the rapidity of an aged sloth.  I stare into the bathroom mirror and see a vision of myself that is less than all I would wish for.  My minds tries to name the person gazing prophetically back at me.  Margaret Rutherford?  Hermione Gingold?  Quentin Crisp? I splash cold water on my face.  I bend over and touch my toes.  But when I look back in the glass, there she still is, the foreshadowing of my future self.  How much longer do I have before Edward and I more accurately resemble the painting above instead of the photograph in the right corner?

What me?  Getting older? 

 Surely not.

Whilst I certainly do not consider myself old, one has to face facts.  I am no longer, shall we say, young.  It’s an odd place to be.  Rather like that time of transition from girl to woman when we weren’t quite sure how our appearances would shake out.  Our legs were too long for the rest of our bodies.  Our eyes were too big for our faces.  And then, like magic, the butterfly broke free of the chrysalis and everything coalesced into our own individual version of womanhood, a version we have retained, and relied upon, for years.  Not perfect perhaps, but pleasantly steady, for barring any poison ivy rash or bee sting, we pretty much knew what to expect when we looked in the mirror.

But now, just as we did in our early teen years, we are beginning to change.  Anyone over forty must feel it, surely.  A wee bit of ... um, slippage, here.  A few laugh lines there. And just like those early years, we still don’t know what this new version of ourselves will look like when this old age puberty is finally complete.  We spread out old photographs of grandmothers and aunts like tarot cards in a feeble attempt to divine the inevitable.  We become inordinately fond of older actresses who’ve managed the transition with grace, cherishing that now famous photo of a sixty-three year old Helen Mirren in her red bikini on an Italian beach.  We have been heard recently to remark how “amazing” Queen Elizabeth looks these days.  For myself, I can only hope there doesn’t come a morning when Dame Edna takes up permanent residence in my bathroom mirror.  But who knows?  I’m not quite there yet, so the jury’s still out.  

When viewed as a whole, the picture of old age style available to us when we were little girls was fairly bleak.  Times were different then.  Still considered a bit suspect, individuality was rarely celebrated.  The sartorial style of our schoolteachers was fairly uniform and succeeded chiefly in making them seem older than they actually were.  They fell pretty neatly into two or three categories. There were the matronly ones, formidable women poured into brooch-pinned shirtwaist dresses severely indented in the middle by thin leather belts.  The girdles these women wore were so effective they rendered their poor bodies as firm as car seats.  You could bounce quarters off their tummies, though I hasten to add I never tried.  On the other end of the spectrum sat the teachers who always reminded me of birds.  Tiny and timid, with pale pinched faces devoid of any type of make-up save a bit of red lipstick that was faded and smeared before noon, they seemed to always be waiting for a disaster of some sort or other and we were generally all too happy to oblige them.   Needless to say, if and when we girls gave any thought at all to what we might look like as older women, we looked around, we swallowed hard. 

Thankfully, mercifully, things have changed, and if you don’t believe me you have only to crack open the new book by Ari Seth Cohen, Advanced Style.  Mr. Cohen apparently got the idea for this book, and his delightful blog of the same name, from observing the enviable style of his own grandmother and within these glossy pages, he has captured the beauty, wit and individuality that can come with old age.  The women were all captured on the streets of New York City and they stroll through these pages with style in abundance.  It’s obvious each of them embraced her uniqueness a long time ago.  Advanced Style is fun to flip through and choose which of these ladies to hold up as a favourite example for your own future.  Fun, and difficult, for there is not a Dame Edna amongst them, I’m happy to say.

And personally speaking, I’m pretty envious of that outfit on page 84.....

Find the book HERE

Wildly Blessed

Wildly Blessed

The comments my readers leave here at The House of Edward are always a treat for me and I read each one with relish.  They are thought-provoking, unusually kind and much appreciated.  One such comment recently gave me pause and I have thought of it often during this past week.  The commenter said I was “wildly blessed”.   How I loved that.  So often when we think of “blessings” we see softness, quietness, bowed heads and piety. But to be wildly blessed feels different to me, calling up images of laughter, crashing waves and barking dogs - wind in my hair, walks through the forest, runs on the beach.   And yes, that is indeed what my life so often feels like, Wildly Blessed.

I have always backed off a wee bit from calling myself “blessed”, for if God blesses me, are those undergoing the trials and tribulations of life to assume he has turned his back on them?  I cannot accept that image of God as someone who picks and chooses whom to bless, willy-nilly.  Rather than pray for God’s blessings on me, I pray I can help to bless others.  That seems to make much more sense and it certainly serves to take my mind of myself, which is always beneficial.  If I have been blessed with anything, it is the valuable gift of recognition.  Given the fact that we all seem to find what we look for, I always choose to see the beautiful whenever I possibly can.  I notice the little things, for that’s where the truest, and wildest, blessings can be found.

Today The Songwriter is out of town for a concert in Virginia and I am home alone with Edward and Apple.  The windows are open and sunlight is pouring in, riding on a breeze that lifts the fragrance of the gardenias sitting on my bedside table and carries it gently through the house.  I have fresh strawberries and melon in the refrigerator for lunch.  New yarn arrived in the mail all the way from Colorado - a delicious chartreuse colour from an English longwool sheep that will soon be turned into mittens for Christmas presents.  Lazy Hawaiian music is floating through the rooms.  I plan to write during the afternoon and later, when the sun starts to dip into evening, I’ll walk out into the garden and pick armfuls of blue and white hydrangeas.  A jasmine scented bath will follow a dinner of fresh vegetables and I’ll read a bit before bed.   Now some would look upon this day as boring beyond belief.  It feels like twelve hours of wild blessings to me.

There are those today who say that God wants everyone to be successful and wealthy. Sermons are preached on it, books written about it. Personally I have a difficult time being told what "God wants" by anyone, but that’s another issue I suppose.  I will say that the most unhappy people I’ve encountered in my life are those who want more or, even worse, those who think they are entitled to more - always grasping, rarely satisfied.  Not rich enough, not pretty enough, not there yet.  I have no doubt there are wild blessings all around them yet they cannot seem to notice.  

 I love to watch Apple hang her head out the car window as we zip along down the road.  Her tail wags with enthusiasm as her big ears fly out behind her like furry banners. She is the personification of glee.  If Apple could speak, I have no doubt she’d call herself wildly blessed.  And the look on Edward’s face at the end of the day when he jumps up on the bed to lay his big head on my tummy while I read.  He gives a big sigh and I swear he goes to sleep with a smile on his face.  Wildly blessed?  He’d say so.  

Take a look around you and count the wild blessings you see right in front of your nose.   
I’ll give you a hint.... they’re found in the little things.

“May your prayer of listening deepen enough

to hear in the depths the laughter of God.”

From the marvelous book, 

To Bless the Space Between Us

 by John O’Donohue

Find it HERE

The Adventures of Apple

The Adventures of Apple

Although they look enough alike to be frequently mistaken for brother and sister, Edward and Apple are not related and are, in fact, quite different.  Edward’s tail curls up over his back and wags like a spinning top.  Apple’s tail is feathery, not unlike the tail of a Briard, a bit of which we suspect might be included in the potpourri of her lineage.  It gracefully swoops out behind her and she wags it theatrically, like a parade flag.  At dinnertime, Edward stretches out to wait on the kitchen floor, dignified and calm, while Apple sits directly beside the stove, as close to me as possible, following my every move with barely contained joy and behaving for all the world as though she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Edward saunters along by my side on walks, frequently stopping to sniff a flower or consider a vista.  From the moment we step out the door Apple tugs on her lead like a fireman en route to a fire.

Whenever we are out for a drive, Edward sits in the backseat like a gentleman, only occasionally putting his nose close to the edge of the window to investigate the scents flying past.  Apple hangs out the other side as far as she can, convinced, I am sure, that she’s flying. In the mornings, Apple follows The Songwriter out to the studio to spend the day on his screened porch under the ceiling fan.  Edward stays with me.

Apple hides behind Edward if something truly frightens her and she’ll always step back to let him enter or leave the house first in a display of canine deference that never fails to make me smile.  And while the two of them are less than thrilled that the evolutionary process has granted passage to both the chipmunk and the squirrel, only Apple finds this fact unbearable enough to follow these creatures to the ends of the earth in her efforts to eradicate them from the planet. 

  To this end,  Apple can sometimes be found frozen over a chipmunk hole in the garden with her furry head completely underground, looking for all the world as though she’s been cleanly decapitated in the midst of a hydrangea bush.  You may stand right above her and call her name as loudly as you might, she’ll never respond.  In fact, her focus is such, I doubt she even hears you.  The Songwriter has learned not to waste his breath in the trying; he simply pulls her out - her head making a vacuum popping sound as it dislodges - and carries her inside, a rather heroic feat, for she is not a small dog.  Needless to say, she gets more baths than Edward, who usually regards her exploits with bemusement.

For the past several nights we have suspected an unusual creature might have added our back garden to his midnight ramble route, for Apple has been more and more difficult to round up at bedtime.  Both she and Edward usually go out for awhile before bed and both generally come back in after a few minutes, pushing open the back door with a paw and heading straight for their beds.  Last evening, however, this well-worn routine veered off course with a bang. 

While turning back the bed and drawing the curtains, I heard the back door fly open with a crash.  Looking up, I saw Edward running down the hall, taking the stair into the bedroom with a leap and stopping, out of breath and furrowed of brow, to sit at my feet.  I could feel his frustration over his lack of language; it was palpable.  But he didn’t need speech.  I could easily imagine the conversation that had just taken place in the far back garden, under a hemlock tree to be precise.  

Edward:  “Sister, leave that thing alone! 
 He’s too big for you and he’s dangerous besides.  
Don’t you hear him hissing?”
Apple:  nothing
Edward:  “I mean it, Sister.  If you don’t leave it alone and come back inside with me right this minute, I’m gonna tell!”

Apple:  nothing

Edward:  “Here I go!  Last chance, Sister!  Okay? 
 Okay.  I’m gonna go tell!”

It wasn’t hard to ascertain the meaning of Edward’s breathless stare, particularly as he’d come in without her, so The Songwriter grabbed a light and headed out to find the indefatigable Apple.  Sure enough, exactly as Edward was attempting to explain, she had indeed bitten off a bit more than was advisable, as she had a rather large, rather upset, opossum cornered just this side of the fence.  The creature, never the most attractive member of the marsupial family, was bare-toothed and hissing like a cobra.  Edward and I sat side by side in the bedroom windowseat - his heart beating fast and me silently wondering how difficult it would be to reach our vet after midnight - as we waited to see what would happen next. 

 Soon, through the shadows of the poplar trees, we could just make out the figure of The Songwriter coming down the stone pathway.  He had a huge mass of black dog slung over his shoulder and although he, too, was out of breath, unlike Edward, his power of speech was working most efficiently. 

Apple will be taking her midnight ramble with supervision from now on.

Oh and yes, she is fine.

American Food

American Food

I was dreaming of a city street in the rain.  Snug under a big, black umbrella, I made my way along the wet pavement, en route to an unknown destination when all of a sudden the buildings on either side of me began to melt like hot fudge - roof lines slipping, windows sliding - and an enticing aroma started to seep into my senses.  Unrecognizable at first... too rich to be flowers, too savory to be cake... Ah, fresh coffee.  Breakfast.  My favourite meal of the day.

I crawled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen table where I sat down before a gloriously yellow gathering of scrambled eggs provided by a brood of winsome ladies named Charlotte, Flannery, Guinevere and Dooley.  No, I haven’t employed a quartet of cooks.  These ladies are the chickens of a good friend of mine, a friend kind enough to bestow on me a carton of homegrown eggs.  And oh, my soul... one can tell the difference at first forkful.

Although chickens are probably out of the question here at The House of Edward, due to the fact that both Edward and Apple have decidedly negative opinions on a flock being installed in our back garden, I can, after two years of growing my own vegetables in our city’s community garden, wholeheartedly attest that fresh is best.  There is simply nothing better that taking a basket into my garden and picking dinner.  Beans and zucchini, okra and peas, cucumbers, tomatoes and corn.  Cooking these treats while they are still warm from the sun is a delight unmatched in my culinary experience.  

I suppose I’m fortunate, for I have always craved healthy food.  My favourite snack is a big bowl of cucumbers, raw carrots and celery.  I know, I know... it’s downright weird.  But after years of eating this way, I can tell a distinct difference when I diverge from habit.  A big stack of pancakes might be tempting but, as I know from experience, if I scarf them down in the morning, I’ll feel like a gloomy hippo in the afternoon.  The modern day diet is a strange one.  From reading food labels I have learned that a lot of prepackaged food doesn’t really have any “food” in it at all.  Ever read a Cheetos label?

Here in the states we are in the midst of a food debate.  The Mayor of New York City recently proposed a ban on 16oz sugary sodas and, while I’m not sure that can be legally enforced, which he probably knew all along, at least he has raised awareness about the issue.  One in three people here are overweight or obese.  One in three.  That’s, pardon the pun, a huge problem.  Type II diabetes, an awful disease, is running rampant.  Once known primarily as adult-onset diabetes, statistics are showing its rise amongst American children to be alarming.  Only two percent of high schools still have daily physical education classes, so we don’t move around like we used to either.  Our first lady, Michelle Obama, has gently tackled this issue and is leading by example.  Two months after moving into The White House, she enlisted a group of school children to help her plant a vegetable garden on the South Lawn.  The largest vegetable garden that famous house has ever seen, it now provides fifty-five varieties of vegetables for the White House kitchen as well as a large hive of bees for pollination and honey. 

 Mrs. Obama has been vocal in encouraging us not only to recognize the connection between what we eat and how we feel, but how important our activity level is to our overall well being.   It is a noble and worthy effort, but of course, as had been the case since President Obama took office, those in the opposition can let no good deed go unpunished.  Writing about Mrs. Obama’s garden on the rather ironically named website, “American Thinker”, conservative Betsy Galliher declared that “gardening is the brainchild of the liberal elites” and “a cover for the food oppression narrative required for wealth distribution.”  And of course, the incessantly farcical Sarah Palin weighed in, accusing Mrs. Obama of an attempt to strip us of our “God-given right” to eat the way we want to.  The nadir of these criticisms had to have been when some in the conservative press suggested that Mrs. Obama was endangering people, blaming an increase in pedestrian deaths on her encouragement for us all to walk more.  These criticisms would be laughable if they were not so sad.

For myself, I am proud of Mrs. Obama and happily applaud her efforts.  This week she published a new book on American gardens, the White House one included.  I am buying my copy today to read of others in this country, just like me, who enter their vegetable gardens each evening wondering what’s for dinner.  All the profits from this beautiful book are going to our National Parks.  

What could be bad about that?

I’m sure there are those already hard at work on that one.   

See the book HERE.

The Southern Jubilee

The Southern Jubilee 

It mattered not that the tea shoppe ran out of scones well before half past noon and, though disappointed, the enthusiasm of the crowd remained high when the last fish and chips dinner disappeared not long after.  The insurmountable challenge of our geographical distance from authenticity was not once mentioned.  We came to celebrate and for one bright, sunny, and blessedly cool afternoon we were all British, and happy to be so.

The grounds of the picturesque old college teemed with attendees in extravagant hats and costumes.  Bentleys and Rolls were parked curbside and The Beatles were blasted from speakers.  It was an event best enjoyed by giving humour free reign while at the same time keeping one’s sense of irony firmly in check, a feat difficult to master when Southern drawls could be heard emanating from kilt-wearing souvenir hawkers and meat pie sellers alike.  The Commonwealth was well represented by Indian dancers in colourful saris and Tonganese twirlers in grass skirts and bone necklaces.  There was an egg and spoon race, as well as a three-legged one and the announcer sounded suspiciously like Jonathan Ross.  A cricket match was played in the stone seated arena after which versions of the same sentence were uttered over and over like a mantra, ...
 “I simply cannot understand that game!”. 

 But at least we tried.

The Welsh tent had the friendliest workers.  The Scots had bagpipers.

The Indians gave us free mango juice.

The Irish had the best tea towels.

And at two o’clock on the dot we all lined up, some fighting back giggles, as a polished black car rolled up to deposit “the Queen”, a most surreal sight to be sure. We watched in amazement as an elderly lady in an embroidered gold dress negotiated her way down the grassy hill between two rows of pipers lustily playing Scotland The Brave.  To the discerning eye, the look on her face revealed she had been vigorously talked into this, but she managed a frozen smile and an unpracticed wave as she passed.  In her wake came several lovely ladies in princess dresses as well as, quite inexplicably, two tall creatures in microscopic blue skirts who were immediately dubbed, The Bond Girls.  A mother was overheard leaning down to her little boy and saying, “Look!  There’s the Queen!”, at which point the father sputtered and said, “For God’s sake, don’t tell him that!!  He’ll grow up thinking he actually saw The Queen!”.  

Like I said, surreal.

I am sorry to report that we left before this Southern version of Her Majesty made it all the way down the promenade to her throne, but as I was told it consisted of nothing more than a red folding chair and a couple of ferns, I don’t think we missed too much.

True, it was an event that enabled even those devoid of wit to conjure a bon mot or two.  It was silly, perhaps, in the extreme.  But in its own way, it was also a celebration of a marvelous sixty year reign- a day full of good will, a day with more than its fair share of smiles and, despite ourselves, we rather enjoyed it.

God Save The Queen.

Both of them.

June! A List to Celebrate

June!

I still remember it.  The feeling of the last day of school.  Three whole months stretching out before me like a yellow brick road, disappearing in the rosy haze of a summer sun.  How much longer those three months seemed back then.  

Now that I’m an adult, well sort of, I can see serious September sitting at the end of the summer pathway.  I know she travels faster than she did when I was small.  She'll be here before I know it.

But still.    There is just something about the closing of those school doors and the first morning in the month of June.  Don’t you feel it, too?  A certain freedom, a collective sigh?  I say goodbye to boots and wiggle my bare toes in hot sand.  My hair goes up and my heart rate goes down.  Food is from the garden and so are the flowers that fill each room - gardenias, hydrangeas and roses.  Even the music that dances through the house changes as I listen to Astrid Gilberto and Erik Satie.  

I still see summer as a holiday and try to celebrate it as such.

Here are ten favourite things for the start of this particular three month holiday.

I hope you enjoy them!
Happy June to you all!

1. Summer Bag

I have tried, I really have, to carry a small handbag.  
There was a certain Calvin Klein clutch that I found especially appealing and almost bought one afternoon at Bloomingdales.  Before I did, however, I took out the absolute essentials from the bag on my arm to see if they would, possibly, fit in this new one.  Well.  Even the saleslady laughed. 
 No, I need a big bag, especially in summer when sunscreen, water and, occasionally, a hat are added to my usual items. 
 I always have a book.  Usually have my knitting. 
 Dog biscuits.  Lipstick.  Writing notebook.  Fan.

No, this is the bag I need.!

I love this one.

In green, please!

Find it HERE.
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2. Summer Sandals

Ever girl needs a pair, don’t you think?

No matter how little she is.

Aren’t these baby girl sandals the cutest things ever?

Find them HERE.
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3. Summer Sunglasses

Jacqueline Kennedy had the right idea.  

Big sunglasses are fabulous.

I’m never without my huge black pair.

But when I saw these new ones from Liberty, I fell in love.

Find them HERE.
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4. Summer Hideaway

When my neighbours decided to renovate their hundred year old home, they gave their imaginative daughter the attic as her bedroom.  Sloped ceilinged and full of delightful little nooks and crannies, it was a child’s dream.  But the piece de resistance was the secret room they installed behind the built-in bookcases.  I would have been over the moon with one of those when I was little. 
 Didn’t we all love hideaways and huts, secret rooms and tents?

  Spaces just big enough for us, spaces to dream our dreams and think our big thoughts, all by ourselves? 

How about this one for your little dreamer?

Isn’t it sublime?

Find it HERE.
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5. Summer Houses

Who doesn’t dream of a beach house in summer? 

For myself, it would have to be old, and have to be small. 

 With weathered floors and wide porches - large windows to catch the sea breeze.
  There would be wind chimes hanging from the eaves and exuberant roses climbing up over the roof. 

 Until I find a place just like that, this book satisfies my beach house desires just fine.

It’s lovely.

Find it HERE.
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 6. Summer Rugs

Of course on the floor of every beach house, there needs to be the perfect rug.

I am crazy about these.

Handmade, and made to order if you choose, these come in a rainbow of colours.

This beachy grey one is my favourite, though.

Find it HERE.
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7.  Summer Music

With the windows open and the house scented with vases of white gardenias, the music just has to compliment the setting.

  Appropriately enough, just in time for summer nights, the wonderful artist Melody Gardot, pictured above,  has just released her latest CD.  

Such a summertime sound. 

 I am also listening to the delightful soundtracks of The Descendants and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

  One takes me to the islands, the other to India.  

All are perfect for summer.

Find Melody Gardot HERE.

The Descendants HERE

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel HERE.
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8.  Summer Jubilee

I cannot mention June without bestowing a curtsy on Queen Elizabeth II.

Sixty years on the throne, but a lifetime of dignity and grace. 

 Britain is so fortunate to have her. 

 Truly a remarkable life.

Long may she reign.

How I’d love to be in London this week!
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9.  Summer Jubilee Shoes

And if I was in London this week....

I’d be wearing these!

Find Them HERE.
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10. Summer Book

Ever since childhood, summer has meant reading for me.  I’d head to our city’s main library, a huge old stone building with dark mahogany floors and long corridors full of magical books, and leave with my arms full.

Not much has changed. 

 I still visit the library in summer and find treasures galore.  

My latest favorite is The Uninvited Guests by Sadie Jones.

At first bite, The Uninvited Guests is a sweet little bonbon of a book and one that is tailor made for reading outdoors in a garden.  Nibble a bit further, however, and one encounters the spicy taste of mystery and a hint of the macabre.  Set in England during the infant years of the 20th century, not unlike our beloved Downton Abbey, The Uninvited Guests contains characters with perfectly scrumptious names like Emerald and Patience, Clovis and Smudge.  There is a capacious old house full of paisley carpets, unreliable settees and vases upon vases of hyacinths, roses and lilies.  There is a recalcitrant cook.  There is a pony.  And yes, hence the title, there are some decidedly uninvited guests who manage to arrive at a most inopportune time, right before a birthday dinner, and who happen to be much more, and much less, than they seem.  

A delightful book, perfect for summer.

Find it HERE.


Top photo via Pinterest

Under the Protection of Trees

Under the Protection of Trees

All day long they had stretched out their boughs to an azure sky, green and blue mingling to create an aquamarine sea in the air all around us.  Light from a golden sun dripped down like honey through leaves slowly waving in an afternoon breeze.  It was a day made for May, a near perfect creation with nary a hint of drama nor fear.

The darkening of the sky was imperceptible at first, a mere triviality this close to nightfall.  The wind remained in the wings until the very last moment, when it suddenly rushed on stage as in act three of Lear, coaxing ominous tunes from the wind chimes as it whipped round the garden, an invisible portent of the chaos to come.  The old trees took notice.  Before our eyes they seemed to grow taller, every sprig and spray of green burgeoning, billowing, to link arms with each other over our roof.  Like eagle’s wings they covered us as the hail began to fall.  

Blown in by the theatrical wind, it crashed into our garden with a deafening sound, an artillery of ice as unusual as it was destructive.  The floor of the garden turned white, a macabre snowfall on the doorstep of summer.  For at least twenty minutes it continued to fall as we stood at the window as helpless as kittens.  And then, like a dream, it was over.

As an otherworldly fog rose up from the icy ground, like Dorothy on arrival in Oz, we stepped out our door, expecting to see the garden in ruins. 

 But the hydrangea blossoms were smiling.

  The rose was untouched. 

 The yellow petunias, crystal-fragile and translucent, still cascaded over the stone planters, as fresh and unspoiled as morning.  We looked up at the trees - the magnolia, the poplar, the pine and the oak - our giant sentinels, our protectors - and not for the first time, we nodded our thanks. 

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The hailstorm of last week was an unusual one.  It lasted much longer than any we’ve ever experienced and gave us a violent pounding that caused me to put my fingers in my ears.  We got out afterwards to look round the neighbourhood.  The streets were covered in pine needles and thick with a fog unlike any we’ve seen.  The ground was white.  Most gardens had a good deal of destruction, but our big trees broke the fall of the ice and we escaped any damage.  

One more reason to love them. 

Exotic Marigolds

Exotic Marigolds

My love of Scotland, and Britain in general, is such that whenever I board a plane with my passport in my pocket, it is usually headed in that direction.  Delightfully, my general appearance - pale skin, blonde hair, light eyes - grants me passage as a local most of the time, at least until I open my mouth, thus allowing the escape of a faint hint of a southern accent, an accent that I myself am totally unaware of but which, apparently, others can detect at twenty paces.  Even then, when my accent reveals me as an outsider, Edinburgh cab drivers still ask me over for tea upon finding out my mother was a MacDonald.  I’ve been stopped on a London street by lost tourists inquiring the best route to the British Museum and was once, during the presidency of George Bush Jr., included in an amusing “can you believe these Americans” conversation with an elderly gentleman one rainy afternoon outside Holyrood Castle. 

Nothing is sweeter than disappearing into the everyday life of another country.  It’s truly the best way to experience travel, at least for me.  However, after spending two hours in India on Saturday, that may be about to change. I had such a wonderful trip.  Of course it would have been, for I had some charming traveling companions.  Bill Nighy, Judi Dench, Maggie Smith.  Yes, I went to see the new movie, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, and now I want to go again.  I also think I want to go to India, even though I would most certainly not fit in as I seem to do in Britain.  Locals would pick me out in a nanosecond.  The heat might cause me to swoon and I would, no doubt, get woozy riding backwards in a tuk tuk.  

But, still.

  I want to go.

I want to see the colours of India.  Yellows and oranges unlike any on the colour wheels of my experience.

  I want to stroll down a dusty road alongside a grey elephant. 

 I want to see camels waiting curbside like taxis.

 I want to stand knee deep in marigolds the colour of fire.

 I want to hear unusual sounds, stare into smiling black eyes, drink strange tea.

  I want to wear a blue sari.

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel is a wise little film.  In eloquent fashion, it tells us that life, though indeed short, never loses its capacity for adventure but that we can, by living a life of negativity and fear, lose our own.  And what a sad state that is.  If we turn away from beauty often enough, we soon cease to see it at all.  If we plod through our days with our ideas chiseled in stone - eyes shut, ears closed - our lives slowly evaporate down into something hard, something cold.  Life is, at least to my eyes, so full of beauty and serendipity my only worry is how to stretch my arms wide enough to contain it all.  

So yes, now I want to go to India. 

 And if Bill Nighy, or you, want to come along.... more’s the better for me.

Here’s the guidebook I’m buying!

Farewell to Wilf

Farewell to Wilf

At three twenty-two this morning I was awakened by a slow rocking motion not unlike the swaying of a boat tied up to the dock in a placid river.  A pleasant dream and one I was in no hurry to vacate.  However, as the motion continued, growing increasingly more emphatic, I opened my eyes to find  myself staring, not at sun-dappled ripples of water, but straight into a pair of almond shaped eyes the colour of chestnuts, eyes that stared deeply into my own from barely three inches away.  It was Edward, his big furry paw placed on the side the bed just at my chin, pushing insistently, over and over, for my attention.  Most unusual for a dog known to be a sound and serious sleeper.  Raising myself up on one elbow, I reached over to scratch his head.  His fluffy tail, which had begun its jubilant rotations the moment I’d opened my eyes, now reached its full and usual speed.

“What is it?”, I asked.

No reply.

Slipping out of bed, I crept over to the windowseat and pulled back the lace curtain to gaze out at the garden.  Edward jumped up to sit beside me.  The mammoth moon of May was waning now, layers of honeyed light dripping down through the trees to settle on the white hydrangeas and white roses, making them glow.  White petunias spilled out over the old stone pots like milk and silver shadows were unfurled beneath the pines.  

I didn’t ask myself if Edward knew about Wilf.  Did he perhaps sense my heavy heart as I thought about that dear family deep in the heart of France, so many miles from our door?  Or does his knowledge of the unseen and unknowable far exceed my own?  These being questions I’ll never answer this side of the veil, I was content just to sit gazing out at the exquisite night with my big wise dog by my side.
  

In the morning when I learned of Wilf’s passing, I could not stop myself wondering.  In the bits of gleaming white that adorned my back garden this morning at three, could some of them have been, just perhaps, the shadow of a little polish sheepdog, his fur the colour of moonlight itself, on his way past the stars? 
 Did Edward wake me to say farewell?

For those of you unfamiliar with my favourite blog, do pay a visit to dear Angus today.  Wilf laughed at his dire diagnosis and lived, fully and delightfully, for an entire year and eight months longer than he was supposed to.  His long, happy journey now ended, I know his devoted Angus would appreciate a kind word or two from my sweet, generous readers.  You may find him HERE.

Summer Books and Where to Read Them

Summer Books and Where to Read Them

The date of June 3rd is filed away in my head, brightly circled in red.  No, I am not attending a fancy dress dinner that night.  I do not have a dentist’s appointment, and no house guests are expected that weekend, at least none that I know of at present.  So what is the significance of June 3rd, you may ask?  Well, that’s the day the New York Times publishes their deliciously fat, irresistibly tempting, Summer Reading issue of the Book Review.  And I cannot wait. 

For a satisfying summer reading program, it is vital to match the book with the setting.  No one wants to read Ethan Frome at the beach, for instance. With its harsh landscape, buried in snow, that book is best savoured in the grey days of winter.  And as for The Snow Child, the charming book I mentioned a few months ago, it’s a much better fit for a January day.    But summer.  Ah, summer is different.   The books of summer must be carefully chosen, must fit perfectly in the setting in which they are read.  We take them along on our summer holidays, those few lazy, languid weeks just meant for floating along on a breeze.  They go with us the the beach, carried along in bright cotton totes.  They lie open across our chests as we doze, swaying slowly back and forth in a hammock. 

 Just the phrase, Summer Reading, calls up images of....

 Long, sand-scuffed porches with tall rocking chairs facing out towards a crashing blue sea... 

Plump cotton cushions piled high on a sunny windowseat....  

A row of weathered suitcases lined up by the car, holding scores of new books  tucked around white linen trousers and sun hats.... 

 An extravagant four-poster dressed all in white in a room with bay windows where just outside a July thunderstorm is raging.  Mysteries are stacked high on the night table, their colourful spines lit every now and then by a flash of summer lightning.

Oh yes, one must choose carefully for settings such as these.  So, to do my bit in aiding this process, I’m jumping a couple of weeks ahead of the Times and sharing some of the books I highly recommend for this summer.  Some of these I’ve read and some I cannot wait to read, and all are paired with the most sublime settings in which to read them.  I hope this may entice you to perhaps begin your own summer reading list soon!  June will be here before we can blink.

Oh and do tell me one I’ve forgotten.   

I do love your reading suggestions, too!

The rest of the family has gone kayaking,
 their voices are slowly evaporating in the salt sprinkled air as they drift away.
 But you, quite wisely, have opted for a late morning on the bedroom windowseat, the window open wide to catch the breeze sailing in from the sea, just visible beyond the green marshes.  You sit with your chin resting on your palm, trying to decide between these books.

A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute

A wonderful book to get lost inside.  You’ll travel from Scotland to England, from Malaya to Australia and never be bored for one second.  A well-deserved classic.  

Binocular Vision, the stories of Edith Pearlman

Highly recommended, one of my own new purchases for summer.  Can’t wait to start these.

What There is to Say We Have Said:
 The Correspondence Between Eudora Welty and William Maxwell.

Entertaining and illuminating letters between two great American writers.  I’m in the middle of this one now and love it.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce

On my own list, to be released on July 24th.

The Ile Saint-Louis is just as wonderful as she told you it would be.
  Why haven’t you come here sooner? All morning you’ve wandered down the winding streets, stopping here for strawberries, there for a huge bouquet of white lilacs.  An extravagance, you know, but they do smell so delicious in this gorgeous room.  You are ever so grateful to your friend for lending you her apartment while she’s in Africa for the month.  One whole month here, alone.  Days and days that stretch out before you like a silk ribbon.  Leaning out of the window you smile as your hear the laughter rising up from the cafe down below.  You pour a glass of pink lemonade and walk to the bookcase.  So many to choose from!......  Will it be.....

State of Wonder by Ann Patchett

I actually read this book last summer, but it was such a perfect book for a holiday read I had to mention it, particularly as it’s just out in paperback.  Patchett’s imagination is ambitious and far-reaching and this tale reflects that wonderfully.  A literate adventure story for grown-ups.

The Hare With the Amber Eyes by Edmund de Waal

Near the top of my own list, this book has been pushed into my hands several times. I finally picked up a copy of my own. 

Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton

What happens when a mother runs into a burning school to save her daughter trapped inside on the third floor?  A wonderful read, absorbing to the end, and a fitting follow-up to Ms. Lupton’s equally pleasing first novel, Sister, published just last year.  Both are great choices for summer reads.

The rain has been relentless all afternoon.

  Lunch was held in the formal dining room, each damask covered table adorned with clear glass vases of peonies cut only this morning.  You have wandered back up to your room, glad you decided to spend the few extra pounds that gave you this view.  Standing at the window you gaze out over the gardens, a dazzle of colour made even brighter by the rain.  You open the window to listen as it hits the slate roof just above you.  Turning, you spy the deep bed, its cool linen sheets stretched tight, its pillows fat and soft.  Kicking off your shoes, you crawl up inside it and reach for the books you’ve brought along just for an afternoon such as this.  Now let’s see.... which one to choose....

Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel

Oh boy, have I been waiting for this one.  Having adored the captivating, Wolf Hall, Ms. Mantel’s first book set in Tudor England during the reign of Henry VIII, I have been counting the months till this sequel was released.  I’ll save it for the perfect summer setting.  

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton

One of my all time favorite reads, Wharton’s beautiful words spin a web impossible to escape, for reader and characters alike.  Truly magnificent.  If you’ve missed it, give it a try.  I’m planning to reread this one this summer myself.

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

Another one I’ve heard great things about.  I should get to it by July.

Nothing here ever changes,

 yet somehow it always manages to appear fresh and new.  Your great-aunt has lived in this grey shingled house on Nantucket for years and years, as long as you can remember anyway.  There are always flowers on the table by the lamp, always a compote of fresh fruit on the little round table.  The room always smells like lemons.  You’ve wandered in from the library, your arms full of books to choose from.  There’s time for an hour, or two, to read before dinner.  Hmmmm, now these look intriguing.....

The Land of Decoration by Grace McCleen

I loved this book.  A first novel, it is both highly imaginative and unexpectedly touching.  Narrated by a little girl, it explores many topics including fatherly love, childhood guilt, the ugliness of bullying and the often razor-thin line that occasionally divides religion and madness.  Plus, the UK edition has a cover that is absolutely gorgeous.  That’s the one I bought.

A Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

A remarkable little book, more of a novella actually, that follows a middle-aged man as he revisits his past and asks the question, “Has my life increased, or merely added to itself?”. Beautiful writing and compelling story.

The Dark Rose by Erin Kelly

A contemporary mystery with an old-fashioned sensibility.  A well-told tale just made for summer.

Why can’t you sleep?
 It’s already way past midnight and still you’re mentally wandering the streets of Oxford, unable to get this story out of your mind.  Getting up, you tiptoe your way down the curving staircase, pausing briefly on the landing to stare out through the fog.  It’s so thick now the streetlamp has no more power than a firefly.  Entering the library, you switch on the reading lamps, pour yourself a small glass of sherry, and curl up on the velvet paisley sofa with your bare feet tucked underneath your nightgown.  You pick up your book once more.... now, where were we?

A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness

I admit it.  I was a total snob when this book was recommended to me.  Witches and vampires?  Again with the witches and vampires?  No, not for me, I thought.  But because this book was recommended by someone whose tastes I generally trust, I checked it out from the library to give it a try.  By page two I was interested.  By page six, I was hooked.  Picturesque and blessedly literate, A Discovery of Witches is a fabulous summer escape.  Particularly on a foggy night.  (I liked it so much I bought my own copy after returning the book I read to the library.)   And even better, you won’t have to wait long for the sequel.  Shadow of Night is being released on July 10th!

Also, I should mention, my out of town classics book club recently read Dracula by Bram Stocker.  Given my vampire prejudice, I was reluctant to participate, but as I’d never read it in school, I decided to give it a go.  Such a revelation.  Nothing like any movie you’ve ever seen.  (Why DO directors insist on so drastically altering the classics?  Francis Coppola, I’m talking to you!) 

Remember now, add a selection or two!