Godspeed

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

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

Up-Hill

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

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

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

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

by Christina Rossetti

Painting by Sir John Everett Millais

Whispers From the Tartan

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

By The Sea

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

Until it beckons again.

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

Senator Ted Kennedy

1932-2009
Farewell.

SEA JOY

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

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

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

The Wonder Remains

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

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

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

Thunderstorms

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

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

by William Henry Davies

Bundle Up

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

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

The Ennui of Edward

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

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

Summer Days

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

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

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

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

I wonder

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

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

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

The image above is from the Zuber wallpaper mural,

Mer Glaciale (The Sea of Ice) 1854

The Spider

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


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

Dame Agatha

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

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

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

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

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

It Is August

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

It is August.

Joy

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

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

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

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

46 AD - 120 AD

Ideas on Film

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Enchanted Souvenir

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

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

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

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

from A Psalm of Life, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Orchestra

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

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

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

A Dozen Favourite Things For Summer!

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

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

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

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

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

5. This enchanting bed







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










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

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

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

9. Adorable Luna Lovegood

10. White linen trousers and shell bracelets

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

12. And finally, this quotation by Iris Murdoch:

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


painting by Amber Alexander

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emily Dickinson

The Very Definition of Summer

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

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

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

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

Walking Home On A Night In Midsummer

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

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

Act II, Scene I

A Midsummer Night's Dream

William Shakespeare

I Like Americans
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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

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

I like Americans.
They give the matches free…

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

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

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

Happy 4th of July to All

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

Fireworks

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


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

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

Painting above: Fireworks, by James Lynch