Spring Sale

It is warm today!  Actually warm!

The sun has remembered how to shine, there are sweet breezes blowing, and Edward is staring at me with a gleam in his eye.

 I have rolled all my responsibilites up into a prickly, peevish ball and thrown them right out the window to be blown far away by a gust of March wind.

With an apple and some dog biscuits in my pocket, Edward and I are off to enjoy the glorious weather!

  No time to write today.  

So, as a part of our Springtime celebration, I am having a special sale in my Etsy shoppe, just for all you wonderful blog readers.  

Here's how it works.  From now thru Sunday the 28th, all items in The House of Edward are 25% off.   If you purchase an item, send me an Etsy message, or regular email, and let me know that you came from the blog and I will refund your paypal account 25%.

In the shoppe you will find Easter bunnies and wedding cakes, silver dogs, babies and lovebirds, and one happy, laughing pig.  All are boxes that open to hide away special keepsakes, special memories, or even chocolate eggs!

Have fun.

And, more words soon!

I promise.

All Items From The Shoppe at the House of Edward

The Owls Watch

On a branch in the top of the poplar tree, far down at the bottom of the garden, the owls sit,  watching.  Like a row of pious, brown cloaked friars they wait, silently wondering when the performance will commence.

  Knee deep in the carpet of emerald ivy, hidden away from the rapier gaze of the owls, a family of rabbits nestles shoulder to shoulder - patient, alert.

The mice nibble birdseed nervously, looking up, wishing again that they were taller.

 The navy blue big top sky is festooned with glittering stars, each a tiny spotlight to illuminate the stage set below.  Only the March wind dares to make a sound tonight.

Suddenly, the owls sit up straighter, lemon yellow eyes fixed in unblinking stares.

  A rabbit’s nose twitches.  

A mouse drops a sunflower seed.  

Look. There he is, the masked bandit of the midnight circus, making his way up the tallest pine tree.  Furry gasps are heard as this acrobat jumps to the highwire roof of the studio, and stops.  Has he lost his nerve?   No, no, here he goes... cautiously, carefully... one nimble paw in front of the other, his ringed tail following behind him like a convict’s shadow. 

 Never looking down...yes, that’s the trick.  

Perhaps he’ll make it to the other side tonight. 

 Perhaps he won’t get caught. 

 A hero raccoon at last.

But with a sound like a gun shot, a door flies open and the large white dog flies down the steps - roars down the pathway.  The dog looks up in growling shock to see the silhouette of the audacious bandit himself, a black cut-out in the dark blue sky, frozen precisely on the tightrope of the roof, impossibly high. 

The two creatures lock eyes.

 For a millisecond, all the world holds its breath.....then explodes. 

  A  fur-scurrying, feather-flapping, claw-sliding melee ... a cacophony of chattering, scrambling, barking, chirping, cheeping, as everyone runs from everyone else, clamboring up and over fences, diving headfirst into burrows, feetfirst into nests.

Then.  Quiet.

Indignant, the big white dog stands alone in the clearing and shakes himself furiously.   To get his fur back in place; to regain his composure.  With a final warning glare over his left shoulder and one last huruump to the darkness, he trots back up the pathway, satisfied that once again he has saved his family from certain danger.  What on earth would they do without him?  

Back through the silent garden he goes - back up the stairs, back into the house. 

Back to the warmth of his bed.  

While up, up, from their seats in the balcony, the owls watch.

One of the Crowd

The fountains ran green in my town this week. From shoreline to shoreline, in big city and small, Americans celebrated the Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.  As happens every March the seventeenth, toasts were made and parades were held, Yeats was quoted and misquoted. Danny Boy was wistfully sung in voices both in tune and out, and from the tiniest babe to the grey-haired amongst us, all wore a bit o’ green for the day.

One of the most remarkable things about the United States is that we are a nation of immigrants.  It is our most marked characteristic and what makes America unique.  For each of us has, somewhere in the upper branches of our family tree, someone who came here from another country, and while we share a fierce love of our United States, for each of us there is another homeland in our history, another flag that knew us when.   We cannot escape our geneology, not should we wish to.

It is said that America is a melting pot, and I personally have always loved that description. So many colourful seasonings from so many countries all mingling together make for an flavourful, one-of-a-kind concoction.  This myriad of amazing representatives from foreign shores has enriched our culture immeasurably, and continues to do so.   Our music, our cuisine, our literature, our spirit - take away one ingredient and this grand experiment called America would be so much the lesser for it.

 So La Paix, or Fois Scots, Saanti, Siochain, or Pax.

  Tonight I am happy to be but one of this crowd called America.

“There are no strangers here; 

Only friends you haven’t yet met”.

William Butler Yeats

A Real Friend

Once, and only once, I played the Easter Bunny at the neighborhood Easter Egg Hunt.  During my rather uncomfortable afternoon as the iconic big-eared fellow, I had to constantly keep reminding myself that I had indeed volunteered for the assignment.  After the hunt for the eggs was over and all the little bunny fans had gone home for their naps, happily carrying their baskets of chocolate eggs, I was finally free to go. Unfortunately, in my size twenty rabbit feet and my three foot rabbit head, I could not exactly drive myself.  This duty fell to my suspiciously too eager chauffeur, The Songwriter, who simply could not resist this delicious opportunity to show me off to friends and family.  My protestations were futile, and we were off, soon passing by the home of a favourite neighbor, an elderly lady who was kneeling in her front garden, planting red geraniums.  We pulled in the driveway, The Songwriter giggling, and I struggled out of the car, stood up to my full Easter Bunny height and waved my platter-sized Easter Bunny hand.  She glanced over her shoulder nonchalantly and, in the most unimpressed voice one could possibly imagine, simply said, 

“Oh, hi Pamela.” 

I mean, really?  Just “Oh, Hi”?  She didn’t even require an explanation as to who this was?  The life-long, well-tended image of myself as a woman of elegance and decorum evaporated like the morning dew.  She did not even pretend to be surprised to see me dressed up as a ten foot rabbit.  And I loved her for it.

I attended this wonderful lady’s funeral a few days ago, just one week shy of her ninety-fifth birthday.  I had to smile when the speaker, an elderly man himself who had known the lady for years, told of the time when, tired of the slow and inevitable process of going bald, he had decided to shave his head.  Everyone told him how “wonderful” he looked, although he knew pretty well that the mirror disagreed with this flattering assessment of his new visage.  Only one friend, the lady in question, told him the truth when she declared, 

“Lord, Albert.  What did you do to yourself?  You look positively awful”.

  As everyone in the church laughed, he added, 

“You know, I always knew I could trust her after that.  A real friend is someone who will tell you the truth.”

 Now, I certainly do not hold with those who, seemingly unencumbered by the virtue of tact, simply spout harsh opinions willy nilly to any and all ears.  These people can be hurtful at worst, annoying at best.  I do however, know the value of a good friend - most often an old friend - who will tell you the truth.  She is the one who will quietly let you know you have lipstick on your teeth or a snag in your stocking.  He is the one with whom you can argue, who never demands your allegiance to his opinions - a bit of a rarity in this polarized age.  She is not afraid to tell you she did not care for the book that you loved; the two of you can discuss it freely.   A friend such as this will let you know if they think you are about to make a wrong choice.  And they will always defend you to others.  Their honest criticism makes the praise they bestow all the sweeter, for one feels more comfortable believing it.

How sweet it is to have friends such as these, and even sweeter when one's spouse is such a friend, as mine is.   It makes life so much more pleasurable. While they could never be as devoted as Edward, (who could?) I do feel most fortunate in my friends and I wish the one recently departed a sweet and peaceful rest.

For more on my Easter Bunny escapade, including incriminating pictures, read HERE.

The Gift of Flight

Sometimes, especially when I find myself ensnared in the metal trap of a traffic jam, one of hundreds just like me, each of us caged inside our respective vehicles - hands on wheels, eyes straight ahead - my mind tends to wander right out of my car and away to the wildest of places.  I often find myself playing the solitary game of “what if”.  No doubt, you are familiar with this game, perhaps even playing it yourself on especially boring occasions.  One plays the game simply by imagining scenarios that are wildly divergent from the usual routine of one’s life, mulling over the myriad of resulting possibilities that arise from questions such as.....“what if I won the lottery”... “what if I had been born on another continent”.. “what if my parents had been wildebeests”....  you know, that sort of thing.  

Trolling through the index of all the most entertaining “what ifs” the other afternoon as I sat on the highway going nowhere fast, I came to the inevitable “what if I could have a superpower, which one would I want? ”... one of my favourite what ifs from childhood.  Considering this proposal from the prospective of an adult instead of a child caused me to reject the answer I always gave as a little girl.  In those days,  I would have wished for the ability to fly, which of course, remains a tantalizing prospect to ponder.  However, now I realize all too well the sort of inconveniences the gift of flight would bring to the recipient.  I can just picture it... there I would be, happily swooping over the fields, diving with the seagull, racing the honeybee,  only to return home, land upon my rooftop,  and behold a crush of horrid reporters and film crews lined up in my street, anxious to record my latest excursion for the nightly news, or worse.  It is easy to imagine that one might eventually become a prisoner in one’s own home, unable to ever lift off for a spin over the treetops without a most unwelcome audience of shutter clicking note takers. That would be a serious downside to the owning the ability to fly and, for myself, one quite impossible to overcome.

Of course, these were problems I never considered as a little girl as I watched Mary Poppins drift through the foggy skies of London holding on to nothing more than her parrot head umbrella, touching down lightly at Number Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane with every hair in place.  Her entire descent seemed utterly plausible to me.  I looked on, transfixed, as Peter Pan sprinkled fairy dust over the Darling children, enabling them to easily follow him right out their bedroom window.... turning at the first star on the left, going straight on till morning.  

Seemed simple to me.

Being the child that I was, naturally the time came when I had to try this out for myself.  I can clearly remember the sunny afternoon when, as a six year old,  I stood with my dog atop a neighbour’s stone wall about fifteen feet above their back garden thinking.... I bet I can fly, too.  I just bet I can.  So strong was my conviction that of course, yes, I jumped, leaving my little terrier alone on the wall, no doubt wishing fervently that she possessed the gift of speech, for surely she would have attempted to talk me out of it.  But with the anticipation of sailing far up over the pine trees shining like fairy dust in my head, I jumped without giving the matter a second thought.

And it was as though Isaac Newton arm wrestled Tinkerbelle in that briefest fraction of a second that I hung with my hope in midair. And of course, Isaac won.  Most decidedly.  Gravity wasted no time in claiming me for its own and I crashed to the ground below, which would have been the end of the story had my left leg not landed on a nasty piece of rock, breaking in three places.  The poor leg was placed in a cast and I received quite a bit of attention, which was rather thrilling for awhile.  Everyone assumed of course that I had simply slipped and fallen - a typical childhood accident.  Only my dog and I knew the truth, and we weren’t talking.

I suppose this event should have doused me with doubt and convinced me that magic and dreams are just faint wisps of smoke to be blown out by the gales of reality.  But my failed attempt only showed me that I myself did not possess the particular gift of flight.  It never once made me doubt that Mary and Peter had it.  I simply turned my thoughts to all the other gifts that perhaps could be mine.

Like time travel, for instance. 
 Now there’s something I’d most definitely like to try.

"You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.”

C. S. Lewis

A Dozen Springtime Smiles

Perhaps it’s because it  falls on the last day of the first week of April, but the accoutrements of Springtime have always seemed completely intertwined with my birthday.  My special day sometimes landed on Easter Sunday which meant that, along with the requisite birthday cake, my celebration included anthropormorphic bunnies and innocent lambs, polka dot dresses, milk chocolate eggs, flamboyant hats, pastel jelly beans, and a beribboned basket at the end of my bed, waiting patiently for me to awake on Easter morning.   It could sometimes be a wee bit confusing, but always fabulous.

During recent long walks with Edward, I have begun to see the signs of the new season to come - the birds are out house hunting, the hydrangeas are slowing waking up, the light is softening.

I still feel like this season rather belongs to me- everything about it makes me smile.  

In no particular order, here are a dozen special reasons why.

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1.  First of all, I cannot think of a better representative of his kind that the Easter Bunny shown above.  His name is Beau Bunny and he is the whimsical creation of The Decorated House on Etsy.  You must visit and see him in all his delightful incarnations.  

He is the perfect ambassador for Spring!

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2. The past week, I have been literally surrounded by bunnies and lambs, paper flowers and birds, glitter and paint and boxes.  I have been making Easter boxes for my Etsy shoppe, The House of Edward.  So much fun.  I also recently completed a custom birthday box for Isabelle, Angie Muresan’s winsome little daughter, who was turning four.  Angie had told me that Isabelle is a budding ballerina, and I was fortunate to find a vintage ballerina to pose atop her double tiered box.  What a thrill it was to get this photograph of the lovely Isabelle with her box!  Is that just the most adorable face ever? Be sure and visit Angie at her insightful blog and wish Isabelle a happy year.

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3.    I can see this adorable radio by Cath Kidston sitting next to my beach chair, side by side with a sweaty glass of limeade, playing Beyond the Sea by Bobby Darin at a soothing volume.

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4.   In the kitchen of my imaginary beach house, these chairs from Anthropologie would encircle my dining table. 

 I love these.

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5.   And without question, this wonderfully retro refrigerator would reside  in that same imaginary kitchen.  In seafoam green, naturally.  Big Chill Fridge has an entire line of state of the art kitchen appliances, all bearing the cheerful expressions of a bygone era.

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6.  I am besotted with this vintage wallpaper from Secondhand Rose in New York City.  I can just see it covering the walls of a bathroom, with a view of the sea out the large oval window above the capacious tub, and one orange towel hanging from a shell-shaped hook.

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7.  Before I became obsessed with knitting, I was a dedicated needlepointer.  I preferred to work in petitpoint, and loved to work with charts.  One of the best resources I found for beautiful, intricate charts was The Scarlet Quince.  I know the website says these are for cross-stitch, but most of them can easily be done in needlepoint, provided there is not too much backstitching in the pattern.  

Wouldn’t this one be amazing on the bed of an all white bedroom with watery blue-green walls?

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8.  I am an enthusiastic fan of Stephen Fry.   I adored his latest PBS series, Stephen Fry in America, and he remains the quintessential Jeeves to me.   I had always wanted to listen to him read all the Harry Potter books on audio, but unfortunately, they have never been available in the US.  But joy of joys.... this past Christmas, a couple of our best and kindest friends gave us Mr. Fry’s version of the first two books, all the way from the UK.  I am now seriously addicted to these.  He reads them in such a way that I am completely captivated, his resonant, avuncular voice renders the words almost visible.  Highly recommended.

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9.  One of the anticipated joys of Spring, is the totally different wardrobe one can now choose from.  Crisp linens, big straw bags, spectator oxfords... all waving at me from the back of the closet, ready for their time in the sun.  I just found this linen blazer and pair of yellow shoes from TOAST. 
 They make me swoon.

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10.  I know I have showcased these handmade journals from Kreativlink  on an earlier occasion, but the new ones for Springtime are simply too beautiful not to share.  I can just imagine sitting under a flowering apple tree on a warm afternoon, writing a story about the wanderlust of hedgehogs in this enchanting handmade book. 
 It seems as though it would foster technicolour creativity.

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11.  I have always been a bath person.  At some point every night, I can be found, up to my chin in a cloud of scented bubbles in my big, clawfoot tub - music playing, lights dimmed, with Edward dozing on the bathroom rug.  Consequently, I am a serious connoisseur of bubble baths and soaps.  I like to change them with the seasons - vanilla and pomegranate for winter, jasmine and seaside for spring.  This soap by Mistral is my favourite this time of year. 
 It smells divinely of the sea.

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12.  And finally, this photograph just makes me happy. I will always have a big old crush on this man.  Daughter Mary is an accomplished photographer who is responsible for this gorgeous portrait.  
And the other daughter, Stella, designs clothes to die for.

Lambs and Lions

March is known to impart to us quite a capricious collection of days.  We fall asleep at  midnight never quite knowing what sort of music nature will play with the dawn.  Will we awake gently to the delicate tune of soft breezes -  faintly green madrigals that drift in like angel song, gingerly nudging the oak trees from the dark woody depths of their wintertime sleep?  Will the day be a calm one, long hours drifting by at a leisurely pace, each one a shy herald of the sweet season to come?  Will our rooms be filled with a pale eastern light - a light that aspires to once again sparkle and shimmer with warmth?   Will we notice a delicate touch of the sun on our faces and begin to remember the feeling of Spring?

Or will the morning air shudder as an operatic March wind blows down through the trees like a trident, sending ice blue crescendos whipping past our closed windows, intent on reminding us winter is still on his throne?  Will we burrow down deeper inside our cozy shelters, reluctant to venture outside?  Will the songbirds keep silent in the magnolia tree, hiding their heads neath their wings, not daring to offend such a wind with their choir rehearsals of Spring.  Will we put the kettle on and resign ourselves to the cold?

Perhaps the March wind sometimes roars like a lion because he knows that his time is so short.  For true, soon he will leave us to embark on an annual journey far off to other side of the world, breathing mistrals and tempests over other continents, other landscapes.  While here, our days will lengthen like white tulips, a tiny bit more each circle round, until there is nothing before us but bouquets of warm hours that glisten like sea glass under a friendly gold sun. The roar of winter shall trail off into memory.

 I shall let the the old lion roar and enjoy the days he has left.  I shall bury my face in his fur and remember the wildness of winter with joy.  I shall relish the gusts of the wind in my hair as I bid him a bittersweet farewell.

And I shall welcome the days of the bright youthful season as they tip-toe in quietly on an innocent breeze.  I shall take off my shoes and stroll along with each one, lost in my wonderings of all the fresh joys this pristine new Springtime has planned.

This is the only March we shall have this whole year. 

 Be they lambs or lions, let us all enjoy every one of its days!

In The Mirror

 I was an ardent fan of Hayley Mills when I was a little girl, briefly considering running off to a nunnery after seeing her in The Trouble With Angels.  Her British accent enchanted me and, bonus of all bonuses, she had blonde eyelashes just like the ones I saw when I looked in the mirror! I still have an eight by ten glossy of her, dressed as Pollyanna, autographed and on display in my kitchen.  It makes me smile.  I look at it and remember who I was.

About a year after my Hayley inspired flirtation with the convent, I saw the movie, Camelot, and became transfixed by Vanessa Redgrave’s portrayal of Queen Guinevere.  Camelot convinced me that I could not possibly become a nun if it meant that a glorious wedding like the one in that movie could never be mine. Indeed, I was so captivated that, many years later, when it came time to design my own wedding, I copied the one on screen shamelessly.  Winter ceremony, tall candles lining the center aisle, soft flowing dress.  No horse to ride away on, but there are only so many things one can do.  I clearly remember how beautiful Vanessa Redgrave was in Camelot; with her magnificent auburn hair and that bewitching medieval wardrobe, she positively shone.

I saw Ms. Redgrave again recently as The Songwriter and I watched her accept a fellowship from Prince William at the BAFTA’s.   Tall, with silver hair pulled back, she took the stage elegantly dressed in black, as regal as the Queen she once played on film.  It was then that The Songwriter said, ”She looks beautiful.  And, isn’t it great that she hasn’t changed her face.  You can still clearly see who she was”.

Oh, what a statement.

Why is it that so often women seem to believe their beauty is diminished when it changes with age?  I know plastic surgery it is a personal subject, but it grieves me when I see once beautiful faces altered beyond all recognition, any remnant of who they once were lost forever.  And really, no one ever looks younger, just different. 

 If someone is blessed with a beautiful face, age cannot steal it.  Anger and fear, jealousy, bitterness.... those are the thieves of beauty, not age.  

 I remember a quote I read several years ago from the actress, Diane Lane.  She said that to get plastic surgery would make her feel as if she needed to apologize for something.  How perfectly put.

I can only hope, as the years roll on, I will continue to gaze in the mirror and see all the girls I used to be - the Hayley Mills fan, the winter bride - all my many incarnations mingling happily together to make me who I am today.

Hayley Mills

"Joy is the best make-up."

Anne Lamott