But I'm Not Afraid Of Bears

But I’m Not Afraid Of Bears

For the past several nights, The Songwriter has been immersed in the new autobiography of Rolling Stone, Keith Richards, a Christmas gift given to him, rather amusingly, by my mother, a woman completely unaware of Mr. Richards’ fairly intemperate lifestyle of which she would most decidedly disapprove. He has been chuckling and sighing, and reading passages out loud for my benefit which in turn has gifted me with the most outlandish mental pictures just before sleep. Images of Mr. Richards, sleepless for days, hurtling over the Atlas mountains in a rental car, dodging missile-laden military vehicles. Visions of bathtubs full of champagne, copious amounts of illegal substances, fist fights, arrests, and overall jaw-dropping mayhem. In other words, descriptions of the type of life I was never meant to live. To thine own self be true, I suppose. Thus, I’m quite happy to confess that I just wasn’t hardwired for wildness.

I was the kid who stood back in observation while others walked on the razor’s edge. I was the one bent over her Bronte book, shaking her head, convinced that a few of her friends had regret in their futures. I suppose I did take my fair share of risks, but they were a bit more singular in nature. For instance, there was the afternoon I jumped off a very high stone wall, utterly certain that I could fly. A broken leg convinced me otherwise. And it’s true that I have no fear of furry animals - large or small, wild or tame - a fact that causes The Songwriter no small amount of consternation as he attempts to drive home the fact that grizzly bears are, indeed, dangerous.

But compare my habits to those of the Keith Richards’ of the world and, most assuredly, mine would land with a thud in the category of the prosaic. For try as I might, I’m unable to imagine Keith listening to a podcast on knitting, thrilled at finally being able to master the perfect decrease. Would Keith look forward to curling up in front of the fire in flannel pajamas to watch Downton Abbey? Would he delight in the sight of a bluebird at his feeder? Would he more often than not prefer a cozy night with a good book to a raucous one on the town? Nope, facts must be faced - Keith Richards and I belong in entirely different subsections of the human race.

But now, before I give the erroneous impression that I am a boring old dullard, let me hasten to say that The Songwriter and I have sat on the front row of a Stones concert, close enough to touch the aforementioned Mr. Richards, and we had an utterly fabulous time. However, there did come a point in the concert when Mick Jagger stripped off his sweaty shirt, pointed straight at me, and threw that soppy thing directly at my head, experience having no doubt taught him that most girls go ape over that particular move.

But me? I ducked.

No, a sweaty shirt is not my idea of a memento.

Not even from a rolling stone. Just read to me about it, okay?

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To Remind Us Of May

To Remind Us of May

Half asleep, I see it, dancing on my bedroom wall like a Neverland fairy. Drifting up from the pool of clear water now shimmering in the old stone birdbath outside of my window, a reflection, a tiny flower bed of light, is waltzing like a figment just below my ceiling. It swirls and twirls, a hypnotist’s dream, and I know without doubt something’s strange. Winter light never behaves in this fashion, not even on Sundays. I throw back the blankets and Edward looks up, yawning, from his place at the foot of the bed. I run to the windowseat, where Apple is snuggled down, to pull back the lace curtain and peer out to the garden.

Sun.

Bright sun.

Brilliant sun.

Shining from a sky so blue it could be a mirage.

A blue bird is splashing in the bath down below, no frozen water today. Sighing and swaying, the bare trees slowly stretch out their winter numb limbs in the warmth of this oddly timed breeze.

None of us are asking why.

None of us are waiting.

We head out to the forest as fast as we can, to walk in this glorious gift of a day. No boots and no coats, not a hat to be seen, we push up our sleeves and lift our faces to the sun.

The snows are forgotten.

We remember Spring.

We are not yet too old to be surprised.

Soon, as we know, Mother Nature will look down and be shocked at her lapse, sending grey icy winds to wrap round our days once again. But how grateful we are her attention was elsewhere on this wonderful, beautiful gift of a day.

And, during this shortest and coldest of months in the year, we will hold this day in our pockets.

A talisman to remind us of May.

Men In Hats

Men In Hats

Years ago, on the very first afternoon that I ever walked down a London street by myself, two elderly gentlemen tipped their hats at me and I was enchanted, happier than ever to be a girl, and longing, once again, for the age when such courtesies were the rule rather than the exception.

Days when people dressed for dinner and held garden parties in the pink glow of a setting sun.

When women wore white gloves, carried hankies and kept their original noses.

When houses had parlors instead of media rooms.

When the secrets concealed in hand-written letters were protected by red sealing wax.

I miss the days when men wore hats.

I suppose I should clarify by saying that I missed the days when men wore hats, for by the time I came along, hat wearing had pretty much been redefined by the baseball cap, a sadly pale imitation of the real thing.

Far be it from me to question the wisdom of Those who arrange such things, but it has crossed my mind from time to time that perhaps, just perhaps, I was born in an incorrect age. My pastimes and pleasures have never exactly been of the modern variety, even when I was a youngster. From an early age, my dreams were lit with candlelight and populated with cottages and peony gardens, fat books and tea times, windowseats and four posters, and chinese lanterns that swayed in the trees on a Springtime evening.

I find now that I am not the only person loathe to let go of the old ways, for I have come across a new book that proves there is at least one more like me in the world. Her name is Lesley M. M. Blume and she has penned a charming book entitled, Let’s Bring Back, which is a chronicle of delights from days gone by - delights that should never have been jettisoned on our way up the evolutionary ladder.

Who doesn’t think longingly of love letters and lighthouse keepers?

Of evening strolls and elbow gloves?

Tree swings and toy soldiers?

Hot toddies and syllabub?

Now I probably wouldn’t choose to go back in time, even if I could. I mean, to live without air-conditioning, The Beatles, or my Dyson vacuum cleaner might take some getting used to, after all. But this book is a winsome resource of those things we don’t want to lose, at least not completely.

And it’s nice to be reminded.

Elevenses, anyone?

I'll be humming this song all day.......

We are the Village Green Preservation Society

God save Donald Duck, Vaudeville and Variety

We are the Desperate Dan Appreciation Society

God save strawberry jam and all the different varieties

Preserving the old ways from being abused

Protecting the new ways for me and for you

What more can we do

We are the Draught Beer Preservation Society

God save Mrs. Mopp and good Old Mother Riley

We are the Custard Pie Appreciation Consortium

God save the George Cross and all those who were awarded them

We are the Sherlock Holmes English Speaking Vernacular

Help save Fu Manchu, Moriarty and Dracula

We are the Office Block Persecution Affinity

God save little shops, china cups and virginity

We are the Skyscraper Condemnation Affiliate

God save Tudor houses, antique tables and billiards

Preserving the old ways from being abused

Protecting the new ways for me and for you

What more can we do

God save the Village Green.

lyrics by Ray Davies

Happy Day

Happy Day

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

sonnet 116 - w. shakespeare

It's my wedding anniversary!

I'm off to celebrate!

Raise a glass to love!

Once Again Smiling

Once Again Smiling

When I was little, if ever I found myself in a pitiful mood, my father would pull funny faces to make me laugh, and it used to infuriate me. For no matter how defiantly I would attempt to hold fast to my sorrowful state, I knew that, eventually, he would win out and my lips would start to quiver, just a bit at first, but enough to relinquish my hold on blueness, and soon I would be laughing out loud.

I suppose, like Beatrice, I was born under a dancing star.

There are worse things.

After my disappointment, mentioned in the previous post, I did spend the weekend in a fine bout of wallowing, as one simply must from time to time. But now, I’m feeling better, as most of you knew I would be, and of course that means Edward is feeling better as well, as evidenced by the smile he is sporting, curled up in his favourite chair.

I thought you might like to see some of my weekend indulgences.

I highly recommend them if you find yourself in a pitiful mood.

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1. Ice Cream

I told you this would be a part of my wallowing!

This is my new favourite ice cream.

I find it at Fresh Market, but it’s probably available everywhere.

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2. Duck Soup

The best war movie ever made.

Hail Fredonia!

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3. Bob and Ray

They are, perhaps, an acquired taste, but these two fellows never fail to make me laugh with their amazing ability to find grand humour in the pedestrian.

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4. Downton Abbey

Like so many, I’m totally hooked on this new production, currently being shown on PBS here in the States.

Dame Maggie Smith guilelessly steals every single scene she is in.

Watching her character try to sit in a swivel chair for the first time was a brilliant experience.

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5. The Friendship of Bloggers

Having previously written about my love of Horlicks on a winter’s night, I have been so astonished at the remarkable kindness of my British blogging friends.

I have received packages of this chocolate nectar from no less than four British bloggers!

Thank you, thank you to Bee, Rowan, Cait and Linda!

You have made these cold nights delicious!

And thank you to both My French Country Home and Picture of Elegance for recently giving me a Stylish Blogger Award!

I’m honoured!

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6. Laugh

In much the same fashion as my father, who tried to make me laugh, The Songwriter sent me this.

And yes, it worked.

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7. Charm

And finally, Little Augury posted this on her blog this week.

Ah, it charmed my socks off.

Life is good.

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Thank you for all your ideas and happy thoughts, by the way. You are the best!

And to those of you kind enough to wonder about Edward whilst I am away from time to time... not to worry. Edward and Apple have a devoted sitter who moves into our cottage and takes very good care of them.

But yes, they would much rather go with us than stay behind.

Disappointment

Disappointment

Disappointment, in her gown of scissors and pins, strode into my room this week and placed her bony hands on my shoulders.

Though perhaps not as vicious as her ugly stepsister, regret, she is still quite capable of stealing both appetite and energy, and throwing a cloud right over the sun.

The writer’s retreat in Marrakesh that I was to attend during the month of February was cancelled, and I am crestfallen.

If I were a colour, I would be grey.

If I were a book, I would be dry as dust.

If I were a song, I would be sung in a minor key.

Now I am too much of a Pollyanna to stay in this state for long, but I intend to have a right wallow this weekend.

And fair warning, ice cream may be involved.

Times like these, it’s good to have a dog who commiserates.

So say something to make us laugh, okay?

Obsession

Obsession

Over this past holiday season, I was told, no less than three times, that I should lie about my age. “I mean, you could lop off ten years, my dear”, said one well-meaning friend. Now I realize this is meant to be a compliment, but when you think about it, is it really? Yes, one is being told that one looks rather well for one’s age and that is a much preferable reaction to one’s appearance than a head-shaking, pity-filled stare. But at the same time, one is, in an albeit subtle fashion, being informed that one’s age has advanced to such a degree that one should really disown it. I’m never quite sure the best way to respond.

Personally, I don’t give age much of a thought. I’ve been known to pause a moment when asked how old I might be, not because I’m caught in the moral quandary of deciding whether or not to lie about it, but because I honestly don’t remember what it is. I take no credit for looking younger than I’m supposed to. I have no secret potion or practice. I don’t hang by my feet at midnight, nor do I consume inordinate quantities of oddly flavoured elixirs, delivered to my doorstep in the dead of night. I do try to take good care of myself and that includes slathering myself in sunscreen, a daily practice that I highly recommend, but when it comes to aging... I think the less we worry about it the better we feel, and perhaps, look.

The obsession, and it really seems to be an obsession, with looking younger is a peculiar one to me. It seems to have originated in Hollywood, a place not exactly known for offering up qualities worthy of emulation. Indeed, many Hollywood actresses seem to have succumbed to the surgeon’s siren call of eternal youth, which is strange since one would think an actress would require an authentic face before any other thespian ability. Personally, when I see a face so altered by cosmetic surgery up on the screen, I find that I can only see the actor or actress, never the character they are supposed to portray, which renders the whole experience rather irritating. I sit there remembering what they used to look like, and wondering why they appear so altered, and totally become removed from the story playing out on the screen.

Why do we hide from looking our age?

Is it vanity? Or is it fear?

If we erase what life has inscribed on our faces, do we succeed in convincing ourselves that time is not really advancing? When we look in the mirror and see our reflection as the enemy, doesn’t that create an unhealthy schizophrenia that carries with it the very real danger of not feeling, somehow, whole? Why do we feel looking a bit older is something we have to apologize for? Maybe I’ll feel differently when my jowls fall into my soup, but I don’t think so. It genuinely troubles me when I see how much time we waste worrying about aging. Valuable, irreplaceable time.

I suppose any hint of aging that our faces may reveal should serve chiefly as a gentle reminder that our time here on Earth in not infinite. But don’t we sometimes need to be reminded of that? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, instead of trying so hard to obliterate these inklings, we could instead choose to let them spur us on to the things that we’ve heretofore put on the back burner?

"Hmmm, do I see a fine line between my eyes?"

"I’m going to learn to speak Italian."

"Are those laugh lines beginning to form?"

"High time I went on safari."

Now of course, whenever any of my friends begin to grumble about how they look, I always urge them to get a dog, advice that is sometimes less than gratefully received. But, I’m serious. A dog loves you no matter what you look like. He really does, and that can work wonders on your self-esteem. A dog gets you out in the fresh air and gets your mind off yourself, which is always a boon to both your appearance as well as your psyche. A dog makes you smile and you have to admit, everyone looks better when they smile. I could go on and on about the benefits of canine ownership on the human countenance, and frequently do, but I recently came across an article that basically said it all for me.

Ten Reasons Why a Dog is Better Than a Facelift.

Edward and I couldn’t have said it better ourselves!

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Painting above: Vanity, 1904

by Otto Friedrich

I don’t think the monkey is in there by accident, do you?

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