Books At Christmas

Books at Christmas

The cold presses against the kitchen window, causing the steam from your coffee cup to whirl and dance in the warm air.  Yes, not only a heavy coat today, but gloves, boots and shawl to boot.  You smile to yourself in happy anticipation.  No better weather for the task at hand.  Placing your carefully curated list in your coat pocket, you give the dogs a treat, tell them to enjoy their naps and set off into the wind.  The ground, still silver plated from last night’s frost, crunches beneath your feet.  It will be hours yet before the chilled December sun manages to soften the landscape.  Pulling your coat up tighter at your neck you follow the pavement into town.  Across the green you can hear the music of ten o’clock choir practice - “the holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown”-  the beautiful sound seeps under the stained glass windows and oaken doors to drift freely in the morning air, bringing to each ear a memory, a hope, a shiver of unexpected happiness.   You can see the big green tree in the city square now, its fat red and gold balls swaying in the wind.  Swags of garland drape the tiny lanes, streetlight to streetlight.  Snowmen made of light stand guard round city hall.  And there, just off to the right, your destination awaits - your pot of gold, your Wonderland.  The Bookshop.  The shop you love more than any, especially at Christmas.   For is there a more satisfying activity than Christmas shopping for the ones you love? 

 And is there a better gift than a book?  None more individual, more imaginative, none that brings so much for so long, to so many.  To give a book is to give ideas, travel tickets, laughter, joy, thought, enlightenment - oh, the list can go on and on.  Books never wear out, never lose their ability to transport.  Oh, some can be the wrong fit, which is why one must put thought and consideration into each purchase.  But that’s what is so much fun.  

The bell on the green door jangles as you enter.  The orange cat on the counter jumps down to thread his way through your legs while you take a measure of the place.  There is a faint wisp of Nat King Cole drifting along from some back room.  You pull out your list, loosen your coat, and begin the best shopping trip of the year!  Happy Christmas to All!

For Great Aunt Octavia

Great Aunt Octa taught you that everyone can wear red lipstick, and should.  She impressed upon you the importance of a good bag, told you that not everyone is a hat person and that good manners are the most significant characteristic of a woman.  Always.  Octa lived in London in the sixties.  She heard Jimi Hendrix at the Bag o’Nails.  She wore Mary Quant dresses and worked the scarf department at Liberty.  She knew Grace Coddington as a model. After marrying Uncle James and moving to Virginia, she set about creating a home that, though decidedly un-Southern, remains to this day the most fascinating place you’ve ever visited.  You still escape there for the occasional rejuvenating weekend.  Always interested, always individual, always just outside the box, Aunt Octavia will love these books.

Darling Monster

the Letters of Lady Diana Cooper to her son, John Julius Norwich 1939-1952

An Exuberant Catalog of Dreams

by Clive Aslet

Dior Impressions

by Florence Muller

Francois Halard

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Great Uncle James

You could perhaps be forgiven for occasionally thinking Great Uncle James is a bit of a grump.  It’s true that he doesn’t suffer fools gladly.  He finds current pop music stupid - his word, not mine -  greatly prefers Gosford Park to Downton Abbey,  and wouldn’t know a Kardashian if he fell over one.  Dinner conversations round his table center on the events of the day; you are often asked your thoughts about international affairs before the salad course.  He refuses to eat brussels sprouts, thinks Jello is “unnatural” and insists on sleeping with the window open.  But if you succeed in making him laugh, which is not as difficult as you would imagine, his laughter is loud, warm and infectious.   

Uncle James loves his Norfolk Terrier, Martin, and strangely enough, Uncle James loves kids.  His own, those of his nieces and nephews, neighbours, you, and your friends.  As long as you can remember, he has gathered you all up to read aloud, cracking open his latest find with a wry smile and launching into a marvelous story in which each character has his own voice and personality, provided by James of course.  He taught you to love stories like candy.  And this year at Christmas, his house will be full of children.  They will all love these books!

Journey 

by Aaron Becker

The Collected Stories of Roald Dahl

I’d Know You Anywhere 

by Nancy Tillman

The Illuminated Adventure of Flora and Ullysses

by Kate DiCamillo

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A personal note....

Thank you all so much for your kind words and best wishes following my last post.

I'm happy to report I am moving along like a champ.

Decorating the house, running errands.  Amazing, really.

Edward is a constant presence at my side...

 He sits beside me, sleeps beside me, watches intently as I go out to the car. 

 If I get up to leave the room, he gets up to leave the room.  

Truly a comforting chap.

I am walking fine, using a rather fabulous cane when I'm outside... one that I just may keep as an affectation when I no longer need it.  I ordered it from Italy... ebony wood with a ivory-coloured rabbit's head on top.  The rabbit has gold-green eyes.  I mean really, how can I give this up??

Stay tuned... many more books to come!

Thinking Beautiful Thoughts

Thinking Beautiful Thoughts

Once upon a time there was a little girl who was fascinated by the story of Peter Pan.  She particularly adored the old production of the play that still aired on television annually and every year she would watch, eyes wide, as Mary Martin, in the role of Peter himself, would line up the Darling children on their wide windowsill, instruct them to “think beautiful thoughts” and jump out into the night air.  Every year the little girl stared as they flew, (THEY FLEW) out over London, taking a left at the north star and going straight on till morning. Straight on to Never Never Land and all the unfathomable wonders it held. 

One hot summer afternoon, this little girl stood atop a stone wall roughly as tall as her house.  She looked out past the rolling hill beneath her to the tops of the trees beyond.  She thought, quite clearly,  

“I’ll never know if I don’t try”

 and then, she jumped.

No, she... or rather I... did not fly.  I broke my left leg in three places.

This past April, many years later, I went for a run on a South Carolina beach with Edward.  We ran, not like marathoners, but like kids...  jumping sea walls and splashing through tidal pools.  I felt like a million bucks.  Thirty minutes later, I swung my leg over a bicycle and...ow, Ow, OW!  Thinking  I had sustained a pulled muscle, I tried to ignore the pain for several months, limping my way through dog walks and shopping trips in April, limping along the streets of London in May, finally going to the doctor in June.  He declared me to be “too young” for the problem to possibly be related to my hip, but did x-rays and a MRI anyway, the results of which were revelatory, and sobering.  My right hip looked like Vitruvian man, it was so perfect.  It practically glowed.  Whereas, my left hip?  Well the curvature of my left hip resembled a serrated knife.  It was an utter mess.  It is remarkable that I knew nothing of this before April, but I’m happy I didn’t.  The cause?   Sad to say, that innocent, though ill-fated, attempt at flight when I was six.  

So when The Songwriter and I returned from our overly dramatic trip to Scotland, with his ankle in a cast, we visited an orthopaedic surgeon recommended by our stateside doctor who added when he referred us, “Now, this is the fellow I’d want to do Pamela’s hip when she decides she’s had enough.” Little did he realize, I had already had enough and would honestly have gone ahead right then with the surgery, had The Songwriter been his usual bipedal self.  But as he was to be, in the immortal words of Peter Cook, a unidexter, for the next six weeks, I was sentenced to wait awhile.  For the past few weeks we have presented quite a humorous display - him on crutches, me limping like a pirate - as the Tweedledee and Tweedledum of the orthopedic floor.  As our surgeon said, “You know how some couples who’ve been married a long while start to look alike?  Well, you two are taking it one step further.”  Sigh. 

I am happy to report that The Songwriter is healed and perfectly ambulatory now.  He can drive; he can shop for groceries; he can take out the trash... (yippee!). Which is why.... believe it or not....I am writing this from a fairly comfortable hospital bed with a fairly unoffensive view of the city.  In my tartan nightshirt and green pashmina, I can happily report that I am the proud owner of a shiny new titanium hip.  I KNOW!  Crazy, right?

Fortunately for me, I was deemed an excellent candidate for a fairly new procedure called “anterior” hip replacement.  Unlike traditional hip surgery, no muscles are cut during the anterior and this enables the recovery to be relatively painless and much, much faster.  Seriously, the first thing I noticed upon waking up from surgery was that the excruciating pain I’d been experiencing for seven months was gone.  Marvelous! (An interesting side note:  Martha Stewart had this exact same procedure several years ago.  She’s quite a bit older than me and she was back to work in five days!  So I have no excuses. )

One thing I have noticed over the past several months is how devilishly distracting pain can be.  Deadlines have whizzed past my head, uncatchable.  Emails have languished in my inbox, unnoticed.  My writings here on the blog have been much sparser than I like and I’m grateful you all have stuck with me, graciously commenting and writing each time I posted something new, even though those postings were few and far between.  Well, things are looking up now and I promise to be much more available.

I am due to go home tomorrow and will give myself over, quite willingly, to the kind care and attention of The Songwriter and Edward.  Apple, who has had her own joint surgery this year and who taught me how to be a good patient, will come in from squirrel patrol to check on me as often as she can, I’m sure.  Edward will not leave my side.  I plan to do some light reading, some gentle walking (huzzah!), and some deep sleeping, all the way till Thanksgiving.

I have much to be thankful for.

As do we all.

See you soon!

xo

A Top Ten List for November!

I am rich today with autumn’s gold,

All that my covetous hands can hold;

Frost-painted leaves and goldenrod,

A goldfinch on a milkweed pod,

Huge golden pumpkins in the field

With heaps of corn from a bounteous yield,

Golden apples heavy on the trees

Rivaling those of Hesperides,

Golden rays of balmy sunshine spread

Over all like butter on warm bread;

And the harvest moon will this night unfold

The streams running over with molten gold.

Oh, who could find a dearth of bliss

With autumn glory such as this?

By Gladys Harp

A Top Ten List for November!

1.  A Book for the Festive Season

I am happy to say that From The House of Edward is in stock and ready to ship for the holidays. 

 As a bonus, all books mailed out between now and Christmas will come gift-wrapped for the festive season.

  If you wish to send some as gifts, please indicate the shipping address, as well as who you’d like them to be autographed to, on your paypal info form. 

I cannot believe Christmas is so close!

Find the book HERE.

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2.  Holiday Knitting

It’s no secret that I love to give hand-knitted gifts at Christmastime.

Last year, I knitted fourteen, yes fourteen, pairs of these wonderful, warm mittens for friends and family.

Everyone was delighted and, bonus, they were so much fun to do.

One skein of THIS YARN makes one ultra warm pair.

Find this wonderful pattern HERE.

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3.  More Divine Antique Pillows

The beautiful antique pillows I found and placed in my etsy shop sold out so quickly in the summer!  

I am happy to say that I’ve found a few more.

Just in time for a holiday house spruce up.

I even kept some for myself!

Find them HERE!
(Update:  Only four left now!)

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4.  The Bulldog

Christmas.

Cookies.

Jar.

Gift.

Perfect.

Find him HERE.

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5.  Peacoquette Designs

One of my friends, Sarah Walden, recently became a designer for Spoonflower.  I knew nothing about Spoonflower and was rather astonished when I investigated.  Seems they are a company that gathers designers from all over to create patterns for fabrics, wallpaper, and gift wrap.  Amazing! Select the design, have it printed and mailed to you. I went to my friend’s page and was gobsmacked by all the designs she has available.  Medieval tapestries, colorful damasks, Grimshaw fairies, William Morris. They can all be printed on various types and weights of fabrics, cotton to linen.  (Just imagine decorating a little girl’s room all in fabrics of Alice in Wonderland illustrations.)

Sarah can even create custom designs just for you. 

  For myself, I went for the gift wrap. 

 Christmas gift wrapping is as important and enjoyable to me as Christmas gift shopping,
and I look every year for special papers and ribbons for that task. 

 Well, all my Christmas wrap came from Peacoquette Designs this year! 

 Visit and I know you’ll find something, too!

Find Sarah’s Spoonflower shop HERE. 

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6.  SKII Masks

Cate Blanchett and I have little in common, I suppose, save for our pale, pale skin. 

 And our devotion to these wonderfully magic little masks. 

 I’ve read that she puts one on for every single plane flight.

  This was extremely tempting to me, but unfortunately nixed by The Songwriter who begged, really begged, not to have to sit next to me if I chose to wear the thing.  

Well yes, they are sort of Halloweeney. 

 But boy, they make my skin feel like a three year old’s.

  A must for holiday stress, take my word for it!

Find some HERE.

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 7.  That Photo

I cannot help myself.

I smile every time I look at that photograph.

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8.  A New, Old Phone

Although I am not as devoted to my iPhone as some, I have to admit it has made my life easier. Texting for appointments, to tell someone I’m running late, of just for a tidbit of brief information, all time-saving and convenient. And who can complain about that fabulous built-in camera?  The little gadget was vital to me in Scotland when The Songwriter broke his ankle. 

 But sometimes, don’t you miss a real phone?  

One with a cord to twist round your fingers as you consider whether or not to accept a dinner date? 

 One with a real ring? 

 One that you have to run to answer?  Just every now and then?

This one caught my eye.

The kids will think it’s oh, so, retro!

Find it HERE.

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9.  A Baby’s Bookshelf

I see a new baby’s room.

All in soft shades of green and blue.

With a forest mural painted on all the walls.

And this bookshelf!

Holding magical books for all the happy days to come.

Find it HERE.

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 10.  And finally.....

I am in the middle of this book, 

and I am enchanted!

Find it HERE.

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See you all soon.

Christmas book lists are coming!

xoxo

Forever Chic

Forever Chic

One of my dearest childhood friends lived three houses up the street from my own, in a small white farmhouse with a screened-in porch across the front, a neat row of boxwoods lining the walk and a cellar with a real dirt floor. As soon as I got home from school every afternoon, I would head to her house as fast as I could, my dog at my heels.  She would always greet us both with a genuine smile, which I realize now must have been occasionally difficult.  You see, Dee Dee was in her eighties and surely she would have liked the odd afternoon to herself.  But she always seemed happy to see me and cheerfully allowed me to follow her around as she tended her garden, cooked up a batch of fresh blackberry jam, or repotted ferns in that fabulous cellar of hers.  Of course I made myself scarce when her family came to visit, but always made a point to watch from afar, often from the branches of a sweet gum tree, whenever her grand-daughter Bonnie came calling.  Having no sister of my own, I was fascinated by every single thing about Bonnie.  With her dark hair in the most divine sixties updo, her tiny pink skirts and black cashmere sweaters, she looked like the perfect girlfriend for one of the Beatles.  She even drove a bright yellow Mustang convertible, for goodness sakes.  

Whenever I saw that car parked in front of Dee Dee’s house, I made sure to keep a covert eye out for beautiful Bonnie, memorizing every move I saw her make to later try them out for myself in my bedroom mirror.  I imagined talking with her for hours, listening intently to all the wise advice she would give me; advice no doubt vital in ensuring the success of my upcoming teenage years.  Bonnie looked like the sort of girl who would innately know all the things I didn’t; all those secret tidbits and tips necessary to make my life easier, and so much more fun.   Sadly, I never mustered the nerve to climb down from my tree and actually have a conversation with Bonnie.  But years later, whilst browsing the blog world one afternoon, I found Tish, and just as I imagined Bonnie to be, Tish proved to be that one essential fountain of information every girl desires.  

Tish Jett started the wonderful blog, A Femme d’un Certain Age, right around the time I started From the House of Edward and I feel fortunate to have followed her from the get go.  For over five years, her blog has been the one place I go each day for the most delicious advice on everything in the realm of style.  Skin care, fashion, make up, manners.  A Femme d’un Certain Age slowly replaced my need for fashion magazines as I soon discovered Tish provides infinitely more interesting and helpful fare.  From Tish, I learned to stock up on Eucerin Hyaluron-Filler whenever I am in London.  I learned to slather my winter-dry face in Avene Masque Apaisant Hydratant.  I learned the magical benefits of Cornflower water.  I learned, from experience, to trust her impeccable voice on all matters of style and beauty, just as I would have trusted a sister’s.

Of course it helps that Tish Jett is an American who moved to France over twenty-five years ago.  This gives her a unique perspective from which to communicate to today’s over forty woman. We all know French women have that certain something that makes aging beguiling rather than bleak.  We all recognize it.  No matter her age, one only has to give a French woman a pair of sleek black trousers, a slim cashmere sweater, and a simple square scarf and she will instantly transform into a creature of supremely insouciant style.  Well I am happy to say, in a brand new, beautiful book entitled Forever Chic, Tish Jett has finally created the ultimate resource for any woman who has ever gazed at that French lady from afar and wondered... “How DOES she do it?”.  

Published by Rizzoli, Forever Chic is no mere meringue of a book, full of nothing but  bubbles and froth.  No, this is a 239 page compendium of style that succeeds wonderfully in translating the French mystique, making it charmingly accessible to us all.   Tish decodes the French woman’s closet, leads us by her well-manicured hand into the secret realms of French diet and exercise, (Why IS it that French women never get fat??).  She reveals their skin care regimens, explains their almost supernatural way with accessories.  And best of all, she makes it so much fun, like a long lunch with your best girlfriend at the chicest cafe in Paris.

 Despite my lack of a sister, I have gathered many sweet and stylish girlfriends through the years.

  All of them are getting this book for Christmas. 

 And if I could track down Bonnie, I’d get her one, too.

Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tish Jett drives a yellow convertible herself.

Get your copy, and several for your girlfriends and sisters, HERE.

Monk's House

Monk’s House

The elm trees are gone now.  I stand where they once stood, imagining the two graceful giants, their limbs once intertwined, their leaves once freely dancing in the winds blowing up from the South Downs.  They were named for their owners and valiantly kept the charge of guarding their ashes for as long as they could, till the cruelty of time and disease felled them, first one, then the other.  But those careless thieves could not vanquish the two great minds whose ashes seem to have carried their essences deep into the very ground of this garden through which I wander.  Her spirit is everywhere here.  A healthy spirit, too, one gifted for recognizing beauty and attempting to illuminate it for the rest of us, in spite of the pain, in spite of the fear.  It is a lovely garden. I feel she is happy here now.

It is a storybook day in May when I stroll the lane towards Monk’s House, the home of Virginia and Leonard Woolf in the bucolic village of Rodmell.  The lane seems shy, indeed it only bears the nondescript name, The Street, as if anything grander would be unseemly.  Candybox houses hide behind flowering fruit trees and the suede of spring-green moss softens the stone walls lining my way.  I lift the latch on the humble wooden gate and follow the path into the garden.  

It is blissful here.  Fat, lazy bumblebees dip and sway around me.  An alchemistic sun turns the white apple blossoms into celestial clusters of light.  A few break free and drift my way to land in my palm like a blessing.  Ever-vigilant, the sturdy square tower of St. Peter’s parish church casts a benevolent eye over all, morning prayers floating on the breeze, wafting through the pink roses that still clamber round her bedroom door.  Did she ever stand in their shadow to listen?  To stand where she stood, to step over her threshold.  To run my hands across the fabric of her favourite chair.  I know how fortunate I am.

People often tell me they find her books difficult.  It’s true, Virginia Woolf’s writing is dense; it cannot be read casually.  But if it seems impenetrable at first glance, one needs only to find a way in.   Perhaps in the middle of a brilliantly lucid rendering of emotion that is at once intimate and universal, there are two or three words to pull apart, just wide enough for the soul to sink inside the illuminating prose and float down, down, to the core of its meaning.  A light shines there, in the midst of her words, perhaps only flickering at first reading, but growing brighter and brighter with each subsequent one till it is possible to see the deepest workings of the heart, shimmering in the darkness.

Unable to bear another war, unable to quell her fear of sinking once again beneath the weight of another grave depression, Virginia Woolf opened her garden gate on a morning in March 1941, and walked down the lane to the river Ouse, picking up heavy stones as she went.  These she placed in the pockets of her cardigan, laid down her cane and hat on the banks of the river, and sank beneath its waters.  For years I have wondered about the solemn determination of that walk and as I lift the same latch as she and turn right to follow in her footsteps, I am struck by the beauty of the scenery around me.  The lane meanders past fields abuzz with the business of Spring; magpies swoop past me on the the currents of the wind.  Everything is green.  How deep her desperation must have been to deny her the tiniest, lifesaving measure of hope in this scene that met her eyes as she took that final walk, gathering sad stones along the way.  Suddenly, I find I cannot go any further.  Her last steps I no longer wish to retrace.  

The elm trees are gone, it’s true.  But there is a chestnut tree, resplendent in its big-leafed Springness, still standing watch over her writing studio in the bottom of her garden.  Before I leave, I gather up eight perfect leaves from that old tree, placing them in a copy of Mrs. Dalloway that I purchase at the shop.  They dry perfectly by the time I return home and I frame them to hang in my library.

 I gaze at these leaves often; emissaries from the same tree that she gazed upon as she wrote the books that mean so much to me.  Having visited her home, I no longer think of her on that walk to the river.  For me, she lives in that spring garden, peaceful now amidst its beauty.  I smile.

“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.” 

from Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf

One of the pathways through the garden of Virginia and Leonard Woolf.

Read more about the garden HERE.

More about Monk's House HERE

A List for Hibernating in Fall

A List for Hibernating in Fall

No matter the weather, whether I’m tired or peppy, hurried or un, whenever I’m in London I always make time for a stroll in St. James Park.  Partly because it’s lovely in any season, and partly because I like to follow in the footsteps of Clarissa Dalloway.  In that setting, so unchanged throughout the years, (the footbridge notwithstanding) it takes very little imagination to see her walking beside me, her gloved hands moving in the sunshine as she tells me all about the party she is to have that very evening.

On a gorgeous fall afternoon last month, after all the drama of our holiday, I left The Songwriter recuperating in his suite at The Draycott and set out for my usual walk through the park.  I wandered through the Buckingham Palace gift shop where I picked up a baby Prince George tea towel and then entered the park under the gaze of the golden Queen Victoria monument.  I took my time, walking slowly, admiring every flower and tree, saying hello to every duck and pelican, until I reached the charming outdoor cafe beside the lake. A restorative cup of tea and a ginger biscuit were in order.  Usually an Earl Grey or Darjeeling girl, this afternoon the idea of Peppermint Tea totally tickled my fancy.  It sounded somewhat rejuvenating, yet soothing at the same time.  So I carried a steaming cup to a table from which I could easily observe all the hustle and bustle of a September Sunday and sat down to collect myself and munch my ginger cookie.  And right there, a new favourite tea was found.  I discovered I quite adored Peppermint Tea and have been having a cup, or three, every evening since returning home.  

 I have also been reading.  A lot.  And knitting.  A lot.  And cooking.  A lot. With The Songwriter’s activity somewhat curtailed for three more weeks, we’ve been quite the homebodies, which is actually rather nice when the nights get chilly and the days get shorter. I've discovered that forced hibernation is not so bad.  It’s given me time to share some of my recent finds with you.   Some books, some book related items, and a bit of whimsy.  All perfect for this most delightful time of year.  As usual, click on the photo and you’ll be transported to find out more.

  Enjoy!

1. The Bookcase 

 At antique shows, I’m always drawn to bookcases.

  Particularly round, revolving ones.

I have several, and adore them all.  

But this one is the ultimate. 

 It’s seven feet tall!   

2. The Candy Jar 

 This is just magnificent. 

 I can easily imagine it filled with all sorts of sweet things. 

From marshmallows to gumdrops.

 Can’t you?

3. The Witch 

 Recognise this witch? 

 I’m so looking forward to seeing her in the upcoming film adaptation
 of Stephen Sondheim’s Into The Woods. 

 Oh, and it’s Meryl, just in case she fooled you.

4. The Settee

As I said, The Songwriter and I have been doing a lot of reading these past couple of weeks. 

 (He’s really enjoying this book.)

  I’m thinking what we need is a settee like this one.

  Don’t you agree? 

 I can just see it covered in this fabric.

5. And, The Books.....  Here’s a few I’m dying to get my hands on!

An English Room

 By Derry Moore

 With Sherlock on the cover... who can resist?

Dog Songs

 by Mary Oliver 

My favourite poet.  

My favourite subject. 

 Cannot wait.

Beatrix Potter’s Gardening Life

 by Marta McDowell 

 Having had the pleasure of wandering through this lady’s enchanted garden
 at Hilltop Farm in Cumbria,

 this is a book I’m so excited to read.

Memos - The Vogue Years

 by Diana Vreeland, Edited by Alexander Vreeland

During her revolutionary years at American Vogue, Diana Vreeland was famous for dictating memos to her staff each morning from her Park Avenue apartment.  When she  arrived at her office, which by the way was never before noon, she would type these up and dispatch them around.  Needless to say, they were over the top, just like the lady herself.  This, I am sure, will be one entertaining book!

6. My New Favourite Tea

Seriously, try some.

7. Scotland

And lastly... I’ve gotten some letters and comments from sweet readers concerned that perhaps our recent adventures in Scotland might dissuade us from making a return trip in the near future.  Just look at the photograph below, taken two days before The Songwriter broke his ankle.  Can you imagine, in your wildest dreams, that we wouldn’t be going back to Scotland? 

 It’s like going home to me.

How Do You Feel?

How Do You Feel?

Like many others around the world, I was fascinated by the opening ceremonies of last year’s London Olympics.  The sheep, the supermodels, the Queen’s doppelganger parachuting in alongside the illustrious James Bond - all were memorable sights to be sure.  The only portion of the program which seemed perhaps a bit odd to an American’s eye was the proud tribute to the National Health Service, complete with hundreds of real nurses and doctors dancing amongst giant beds in a replica of a ward in London’s Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital.  As it is customary for a host nation to celebrate what they are most proud of in their opening ceremonies - to showcase their values, and honour what they hold dear - the message was clear, and as director Danny Boyle himself stated following the production, free universal healthcare is “an amazing thing to celebrate”.

When I left for my September trip to the UK, I certainly never dreamed I would return home with an empirical opinion about the National Health Service of Britain.  However, when your husband breaks his ankle in three places on the hills of the Isle of Mull, there is no time to consider the politics of universal health care.  You simply put your trust in the system and pray for the best.  And here’s the truth.  The care he received was superlative.  From the tiny hospital on Mull, through three ambulance rides and three emergency rooms, with nurses and doctors from hospital wards to operating theatres - at every turn in the road he was treated with the utmost competence, professionalism, and kindness.  No prima donna he, our surgeon was highly skilled, forthcoming, clear, and amazingly accessible.

  The first sign that we had entered a different system from the one we are accustomed to here in the States was the question I was asked at the first reception desk I encountered.  Instead of our usual, “how do you plan to pay for this?”, I heard, “how is your husband feeling?”.  This attitude was pervasive throughout his surgery and hospital stay.  I have been in emergency rooms in the US when my father was having a stroke and, even in that dire situation, before anything was done for him we were queried incessantly about his ability to pay for any treatment he might require.  Clearly, Great Britain ran on a different system.  

Our family has been fortunate in that we have been consistently able to pay for our health insurance, (which I assure you, is no small feat for the self-employed American) and we have enjoyed excellent medical care.  However, we have many friends who earn their living in the arts and who quite simply could never afford the astronomical cost of health insurance in this country.  They live in constant concern that an illness or injury may visit their door.  Their six year old may take a bad fall on the playground, a cold may turn out to be something worse.  Entire savings can easily be wiped out, bankruptcies can occur, houses can be lost, with even one serious illness.  One artist friend, recently hospitalised for two days with high blood pressure, was visited bedside by a lady on staff inquiring how she was planning to pay for her stay.  The entire bill for those two days was over ten thousand dollars and included a bill from that questioning lady herself. Clearly, our system doesn’t work for everybody. 

One would think, one could hope, that our elected officials might find it prudent to manage to work together in an effort to address this problem, but when our plane landed back here in the States we were met with a Congress willing to shut down the entire government in a petulantly political attempt to block revisions to the health care status quo.  The Affordable Health Care act is a law that has already been passed and still they hold the country at ransom in an effort to repeal or block it.  I am grateful for a President who had the guts to try and change what is clearly not working and while the new law may not be perfect, it is a recourse our friends without health insurance thankfully now possess. It is humiliatingly painful to see those who refuse to even try to help make it work, or make it better.  In my own state, our governor is simply ignoring it completely.  The health care of a nation is an issue that should transcend politics.  To hold it hostage is a slap in the face to those in need.

Perhaps I shall be assailed for these opinions.  It is true that my experience with the NHS in Britain, though serious, was brief, and there are no doubt plenty of British citizens with critical views on aspects of their system of which I am unaware.  It is also true that the so-called American Dream marches hand-in-hand with a “pull yourself up by your bootstraps”, “make your own way” philosophy and anything that hints of a variation in that creedo is, by some, suspect.  But I believe the prevailing question of, “how can you pay”, instead of “how do you feel” creates an atmosphere that moves insidiously throughout the soul of a nation, too easily turning the sick and the needy into “deadbeats” and “shirkers” and eventually stripping away our compassion, our humanity, our greatness.  I am embarrassed that my country, the richest nation in the world, is ranked thirty-eighth in health care.  Now, after my experience in Great Britain, I have seen another way and know that changes are possible.  If only we can find the courage to make them.