From the Children

From the Children

For the past several nights the weatherman on Channel 4 has been in near hysterics over the heat.  In the manner of an Old Testament prophet he points to the map, now recoloured a blazing orange for ultimate effect, flails his arms and predicts… “Tomorrow will be the hottest day so far this year!”.   As we are in the South, and it is only June, I find this forecast fairly unremarkable.  That said, it is hot, and getting hotter, which means Edward’s normally exuberant enthusiasm for his daily walk has evaporated to a trickle.  Until September he will prefer a game of fetch down the cool hallways of the house.  

So I find myself at the gym more often where my daily walks are done at a much faster pace, in air-conditioned comfort, on the treadmill. This is not as bad as it sounds.  With my music in my ears, I can close my eyes and be practically anywhere, and of course there are lots of opportunities for observation in a public place like this one.  For instance, there is the elderly gentleman who walks the track with sheet music in his hands, singing along all the way.  There is the white-haired old lady who strolls, in heels, with her handbag on her arm.  A statuesque woman who works the track like a catwalk. And then, sometimes, if I’m lucky, on the open floor below me will be a large group of children taking part in some sort of summer camp.  They do gymnastics, practice cheerleading routines, and consume great quanities of Kool-aid and Animal Crackers, a menu that, oddly,  hasn’t changed in half a century.  I find these kids endlessly entertaining and amazingly instructive.  For instance, I’ve noticed they run everywhere they go, and I mean everywhere.  Want to talk to someone over there?  Run!  Want to get something that you left in your backpack over there?  Run!  Want to visit the ladies room?  Run!… and for good measure add a couple of cartwheels as you go!   I watch them running from my sweaty place on the treadmill, feeling the irony most acutely, and marvel again at the easy wisdom of children.  

Thinking about these kids as I run, I recall a report I recently heard on the radio.  Jen and Adam Slipakoff have a transgender child named Allie.  Born a boy named Eli, Allie always knew she was a girl in her head and began transitioning when she was four.  When asked if they ever thought about what it meant to be transgender, or about having a transgender child, Allie’s father said, “Not even a little bit.” 

Concerned about hurtful remarks, one of the family’s neighbors related the instruction she gave her son about how to treat Allie.   She told him, “I just don't want you to point out that Eli is now wearing a dress”.   "And he said, 'What are you talking about?  Like what would you say?' And I said, 'I'm just saying don't, don't say anything that would hurt her feelings.' And he said, 'Why would I do that??’" 

From my spot on the treadmill I gaze down at these children running around below me and see a myriad of skin colours, hair styles, and personalities.  They are all laughing together, obviously enjoying each other’s company with a relish few adults can match.  For them, it’s too soon for prejudice and polarization.  Too soon for suspicion and fear.  Too soon for dogmatism.  Too soon for gun permits.  Too soon for hate.  

A couple of months ago I was invited to read some of my stories to a class of at-risk children, aged five to twelve.   Seems their teacher had read Edward Speaks at Midnight to them at Christmas and they wanted me to visit.  I did, and I had a ball.  At the close of the class I asked if anyone had questions.  An adorable second-grader raised his hand.  “Yes?”, I said.  With honest curiosity and a shimmering intelligence far beyond his years, he looked at me and asked, “What inspires you?”

I don’t remember everything I told him,

 but today as I pray for the world these children will inherit,

  I would say, “You do.”

Listen to the NPR report referenced HERE

and please pray for the people of Orlando.

Summer Books

Summer Books

In the world of quizzes and personality tests, there is one question that is purported to reveal volumes, or pages at least, about someone:  “Beatles or Rolling Stones?”  I suppose if one answers "Beatles" one is considered more sensitive and artistic and if the answer is “Stones” one is more likely to be recalcitrant and rebellious.  Total rubbish, I know, but fun to talk about. The Songwriter would be squarely in The Beatles camp, as he’s been a lifelong devotee, but he’s almost equally a fan of the Rolling Stones, so when we were in London last month he was delighted to see that a new Rolling Stones Retrospective had just opened at the Saatchi Gallery just around the corner from our beloved hotel, The Draycott.  Of course he was going. 

Now as for me, I can sing along to You Can’t Always Get What You Want with the best of them, but as it happens, my favorite bookshop in the entire world, John Sandoe Books, is also located just around the corner from our hotel.  There was no question which one I was going to choose.  So we kissed farewell on the corner and the Songwriter turned left while I turned right and we both headed off, grinning, to our respective destinations with a meet up time scheduled for two hours later.  

Two hours.  

Two fat hours to spend in John Sandoe Books. 

Bliss.  Heaven.  

And hardly enough time! 

  (You can see my sack full of treasures in the photo below.)

Since I’ve been home I’ve been very busy with writing projects.  I’m trying to finish a huge knitted shawl as a gift for a Scottish friend.  I’m putting together the neighborhood home tour.  But the weather is getting warm and let’s face it… there’s nothing much sweeter than sitting barefoot on the screened porch, underneath a softly twirling ceiling fan, with a glass of sparkling water at my elbow and a big juicy book in my lap.  Yes, it’s time for Summer Reading, which is, in my opinion, one of the primary reasons God invented summer in the first place.  

Here is a list of the books currently in my summer stack,

 or on my shopping list. Just click on the photos to see more.

As always, do share some of yours.
Happy Summer!

xoxo,

Pamela
(Painting above by Charlie Mackesey)

The King Who Made Paper Flowers

by Terry Kay

The Course of Love

by Alain de Botton

Paradise Lodge

by Nina Stibbe

The Summer Before the War

by Helen Simonson

Everyone Brave is Forgiven

by Chris Cleave

Summer Evening 

by Walter de la Mare

Barkskins

by Annie Proulx

The Last Painting of Sara De Vos

by Dominic Smith

The Violet Hour

by Katie Roiphe

The Echoing Green

Poems of Fields, Meadows, and Grasses

The Old Ways

by Robert Macfarlane

In The Footsteps of Sheep

Tales of a Journey Through Scotland, 

Walking, Spinning and Knitting Socks

by Debbie Zawinski

East of Eden

by John Steinbeck

New Tricks

New Tricks

A few days before Easter a good friend knocked on my door.  This is a friend who has known me since the days of center parts and blue eye-shadow.  My sins and peccadillos are as familiar to her as hers are to me, and equally forgiven.  She’s the type of friend who will carry my birthday present around in her car for three months before getting it to me, but then show up with a fabulous gift for Arbor Day.  Delightfully - predictably - unpredictable, the sort of friend everyone should have.  And so sure enough, when I opened the door that pre-Easter afternoon I found her holding a large oblong box, the sort of size and shape to comfortably house a ventriloquist dummy.   Inside were two large cloth rabbits, boy and girl, long-eared and charmingly anthropomorphic right down to their little shoes.  She does know me well.  “They reminded me of you two”, she said.  (As these rabbits are only tangential to this story, I’ll place their photo at the close.  I know you want to see them.)  

Over a Diet Coke and something tasty - I don’t remember what - I noticed she was wearing a very fetching sweater.  She proceeded to share with me where she got it, encouraging me to shop there as soon as possible.  “You’ll love it!  Great clothes.”  But then… “You’re not listening to me, are you?  What are you…. Oh, you’re trying to figure out how to make this, aren’t you?  Good Lord.”  (Again, the sweater is not the point, but the link to her new favourite shop is at the close.  You’re welcome. )

She was right, of course.  I was studying that sweater with an eye to needle and wool, figuring out seams and gauge as I smiled and nodded like any normal person.  Caught out, I had to wonder.  When did I become the sort of person who would rather figure out how to knit a fabulous sweater than go shopping for one?  Truth was, the more I thought about it I realized that it had been months since I’d passed through the automatic glass doors of a shopping mall.  Another bit of me that has gradually, yet pointedly, changed.

It tickles me that as I get older, rather than comfortably folding my feathers, I appear to be evolving outward, my interests and curiosities rippling around me in ever expanding circles. More than ever there are places I want to go, things I wish to see, experiences I long to dive into headfirst.  My habits of old are not necessarily my habits of late.  Only recently, for instance, I have become a regular at my city’s gym and if you knew me well that last statement would cause you to spit your Earl Grey out all over your dressing gown.  While it’s true I regularly ramble with Edward over hill and dale, concentrated exercise activity, the sort that involves perspiring and heart rate elevation, has never exactly been on my to-do list.  But that has now changed.

Every other day, sometimes more often, I can be found at the gym, speeding along on a treadmill, or climbing virtual peaks on some contraption called an elliptical.  While I freely admit that the first day I did this I could not see the attraction in the slightest, I now find…. and this is the difficult part to admit to and/or comprehend… I really enjoy it.  I actually look forward to it.  I get loads of fist bumps from my African-American brothers exercising alongside me, though I seriously doubt they would be so generous with these if they knew I was listening to the soundtrack of The Music Man in my headphones.  And let me tell you, nothing assuages election year angst like imagining you’re chasing a tarred and feathered Donald Trump off a high cliff while running flat out on a treadmill.  Oh, how my heart rate soars!

While I doubt I shall ever achieve the perky posterior of Pippa Middleton, I do feel incredibly strong and energetic at present which is never a bad thing.  I’m also sleeping like a baby at night, which is another plus.  I may never like raw oysters or football, but it’s strangely exciting to wonder just what I might get up to next.  

What about you?  

What new avenues are you pursuing at present?

And by the way... as I approach my 8th year of writing

 From the House of Edward,

I have to wonder....

Does anybody read blogs anymore?

*****

As promised:

Rabbits....

and Shop.

May

“Now is the month of Maying, 

When merry lads are playing.”

Thomas Morley

Greetings to May.

The prettiest month of the year.

xoxo

No Matter, My Age

No Matter, My Age

It was a big fat birthday, the one I just had.  True, I woke up that morning in one of the most glorious places I’ve ever had the privilege to sleep and, true again, I was kissed by men all day, men I didn’t know, who found out the significance of the date and, also true, I was happy all day long and remain so now.  But, still. This was the sort of birthday that makes one struggle to justify one’s time on the planet, a birthday that prompts the inner questions of, “What am I doing?” and “What have I done?”, and perhaps even more pertinent, “Is that a wrinkle or a laugh line?”. 

 I tell myself that this birthday doesn’t bother me in the slightest.  After all, I feel terrific, can climb mountains without getting winded or even particularly tired (though I hasten to say I seriously doubt I could climb for three hours straight up in the heat of Bhutan with my hair down, wearing knee high boots and a leather gilet, without a single visible bead of perspiration on my perpetually smiling, totally radiant, face as the Duchess of Cambridge did last Friday.  I mean, honestly!)  and I feel mentally adequate to practically any task I set for myself.  However, I am frequently mistaken for ten years younger than I actually am and I am ashamed to say I hardly ever correct the kindly, short-sighted person making that flattering but inaccurate assumption.  This must mean I have at least a little bit of discomfort with the number.  

My grandmother dealt with this issue by simply shaving ten years off her age.  She continued at a job she enjoyed long past the time when she would have been expected to exit by employing this fib and when she died, well into her nineties, there were people still remarking what incredible skin she had for a woman barely eighty.  I am grateful for her genes, particularly as I have no intention of surgically altering my appearance in the always futile effort to look younger.  As the guru on aging acceptance, Diane Keaton, so eloquently put it, “No one ever looks younger, just different”.   As an unabashed lover of the uniqueness of faces it saddens me no end to see that irreplaceable quality erased in so many, all in the pursuit of the outer illusion of youth.  One thing I have learned in my many years is that youth is an inside job.  I am lucky to have older friends whose zestful curiosity, playful wit, and sincere empathy cause me to regard them as peers.  These people, I know, shall remain young no matter their age.  May it be so for me as well.

For those of you with big birthdays on the horizon, here’s what I can tell you.  Grab a pencil, you may want to write these down..... 

Everything you ever heard about sunscreen is absolutely true, it’s way more important than La Mer. 

 No matter how you feel, losing five pounds always makes you feel better.

 Fruits, vegetables, fresh water, fish, and a little chocolate. 

 Flip through Vogue for inspiration, it’s not a manual. 

 Read everything, especially the classics.  

Turn off the television, except for Grantchester. 

 Travel, travel, travel. 

 Do something creative every day. 

 Write letters, with pen and paper and pretty stamps. 

 Kiss, a lot. 

 Hold hands.

Spend less time thinking about how you look.  It’s totally true that nobody cares, they really are too busy thinking about how they look to consider you. 

  Always roll the car windows down on a pretty day.

  Stilettos really are a tool of the devil.

  Be kind. 

 Forgive.

  Not everyone looks good in a hat.

 Everybody really does look good in black. 

  Plant flowers round your door.

  Don't dismiss God because so many people are doing stupid, cruel things in His name.  

Sit by the sea whenever you can.

  Never stop listening to The Beatles. 

 And of course, get a dog if you don’t have one.  You will always be a thing of utter beauty and goodness in his eyes.  No matter your age. 

The photo above sits in The Songwriter’s studio.  Me, around five I guess.  There were two photos taken that day.  One, perfectly posed and ladylike, with me smiling carefully so as not to display my missing teeth.  That is the one my Mother framed. This one, however, is The Songwriter's favourite as he thinks it shows me as I really was.  Here’s the secret, that still who I am.  No matter my age. 

No matter, my age. 

**If you’re interesting in seeing photos from my recent journey, go HERE** 

Adventure.....

“The world is a book, 

and those who do not travel read only one page.” 

 St. Augustine

Come along with me on Instagram HERE.

Be Back Soon!

For Easter

Spring

by Mary Oliver

Faith

is the instructor.

We need no other.

Guess what I am 

he says in his 

incomparably lovely

young-man voice.

Because I love the world

I think of grass, 

I think of leaves

and the bold sun, 

I think of the rushes

in the black marshes

just coming back

from under the pure white

and now finally melting 

stubs of snow.

Whatever we know or don’t know

leads us to say; 

Teacher, what do you mean?

But faith is still there, and silent.

Then he who owns 

the incomparable voice

suddenly flows upward

and out of the room

and I follow, 

obedient and happy.

Of course I am thinking

the Lord was once young

and will never in fact be old.

And who else could this be, who goes off

down the green path, 

carrying his sandals, and singing?

Happy Easter to All!

xoxo

painting above by Jean Francois Millet

Mary Oliver's latest book of wonderful poems, HERE

The Naughtiest Dog

The Naughtiest Dog

The lovely magazine, Country Life, recently published a list of the naughtiest dogs in Britain.  That is Rabbit pictured above, posing with his adorable mistress, Violet.  She would agree with me, I know, that “naughty” is merely a matter of opinion, despite the fact that Rabbit has some pretty impressive credentials in that department including, but not limited to, stowing away in an Amazon delivery truck and chewing up all the parcels before being discovered by the distraught driver.  Our adorable Apple, not being British, was of course not eligible for this contest, therefore I can only picture the spot on on shelf where her trophy would go.  But here are some of her claims to that prize, and I’ll let the reading public decide.

In the realm of child psychology, it is widely believed that the most carefree child is the youngest child.  I can empirically state that this fact carries over into the canine world as well.  Apple, being a year younger than Edward, exhibits all the characteristics of a child without a care in the world.  If she happens upon someone or something that gives her pause, she simply barks for Edward to come take care of things and on the occasion when she gets herself into such a pickle that even the infinite capabilities of Edward are stretched too far, she knows full well that The Songwriter or I will be on hand to bail her out.  For example, there was the morning she dug underneath the fence and became wedged like a sausage between our fence and the one next to our property.  She summoned Edward immediately, of course, and he, seeing he was seriously out of his depth on this one, came trotting inside the house to stare meaningfully in our faces.  We know that stare. The Songwriter quickly followed him outside to find Apple, stuck fast.  She put her front paws up like a toddler for him to pull her out. 

Though she is undeniably a large dog, Apple feels entirely comfortable climbing over into my lap whenever I am occupying the passenger seat of the car.  She began doing this whilst still a tiny puppy and does not consider her current size to be any sort of impediment in continuing the delightful habit. From this vantage point, if I am accommodating enough to roll down the window for her, she can hang her head out and fly, ears in the wind.  Her obvious glee in this activity is what causes me to indulge her, though, if I’m completely honest, it’s never the most relaxing situation for me.  Of course, Edward would never dream of doing such a thing and can always be found sitting in his back seat like an Edwardian gentleman being driven to the park in a coach and six.  But Apple?  Apple is another story altogether.   

There have been countless evenings we’ve returned home to find yarn strewn all over the house, the result of a foray into my knitting bag.   And in case you're thinking that perhaps I’m judging her too quickly,…. after all… it could be Edward, right?……. there was the night she ran with the yarn round and round and round a large rocking chair until she managed to tie herself to it as tightly as a damsel on the railroad tracks.  We came home to find Edward lying beside her, looking both protective and irritated. I swear I think he rolled his eyes.  She’s been known to run through the house with my undergarments on her head and just last week as I was writing I heard a strange rustling sound coming from my office and rushed in to find her finishing off a dozen or more foil-wrapped Easter eggs that had been carefully hidden in a sealed bag beneath my desk.  This latest escapade saw the two of us rushing to the vet for an emergency “purging”, an event that gave neither one of us any pleasure. 

 Squirrels drive her crazy, but chipmunks are the bane of her existence.  A couple of years ago, she chased one with such vigor she tore the meniscus in her knee, necessitating a three thousand dollar surgery and twelve weeks of crate rest.  If we let her outside at night when it’s raining, she disappears completely and ignores our calls and whistles.  The Songwriter finally pulls on his raincoat and troops out only to find her far back in the garden, standing stock still with her head tilted back, mesmerized by the sound of the rain in the trees.  You simply cannot get mad at a dog so enamored of the world’s wonders, now can you?

She’s always thinking, always busy - but then there are times when she sidles up to me and makes it clear she’d like a hug.  I sit down on the floor and she snuggles up to me, sometimes with her head on my shoulder, sometimes climbing atop that shoulder to look around.  She’ll stay like that till she’s ready to tear off someplace new.    If I’m ever ill, she exudes the sweetest sympathy, sticking beside me for hours.  And she thinks The Songwriter hung the moon.  A naughty dog?  Perhaps, but a thoroughly beloved one.

Farewell to The Prince of Tides

Beaufort, South Carolina - October 2015

Farewell to The Prince of Tides

It has been said that Pat Conroy put the low country of South Carolina on the map for most people.  Indeed, his moss-draped language paints such luminous pictures of that part of the world one can almost see the changing colours of the marsh grasses as they follow the eye of a salty summer sun.  It is a unique environment, rich with beauty, and in his books Mr. Conroy made it breathe, his pen full of memory and love.  I came to the books of Pat Conroy in search of stories, and oh, he did not disappoint.  He had that rare gift for language and, like most Southerners, he could spin words into tales that ensnared the imagination like a shrimp net. 

The majority of Pat Conroy’s books were fiction, but thinly veiled.  It was clear he was writing about his own life.  The Water is Wide told the entertaining and compassionate story of his year teaching in a small island school. The Lords of Discipline - a coming of age story that grew from of his years at the Carolina Military Institute known as The Citadel.  The Great Santini pulled the curtain back on a childhood endured beneath the tyrannical reign of an abusive, clueless father, and that same father would appear prominently in his glorious masterpiece, The Prince of Tides.  Reading these books, I could not begin to imagine such a childhood; they made the quarrels and complaints against my own parents seem as trivial as dust.  But as Mr. Conroy himself said, “One of the greatest gifts you can get as a writer is to be born into an unhappy family”, and he had no shortage of stories to tell.  However, I found more than stories in Mr. Conroy’s books.  I also found forgiveness, hard won and more valuable than gold.

This past October I attended a 70th birthday celebration for Pat Conroy in the low country hometown he so eloquently immortalized in his words.  I listened as he and his brothers and sisters talked about the childhood so many of us were privy to through the pages of his books.  There was laughter, lots of laughter, as they told stories that, frankly,  made me shudder and I realized I was witnessing an extraordinary example of the bounty that springs from forgiveness.  The publications of Pat Conroy’s books dislodged his siblings from their individual shelters of denial.  His words laid their pasts bare to bake in the South Carolina sun and forced them to deal with painful personal issues whether they wished to or not.  I can only guess how hard a process that was.  But it was clear to me that each of them, in their own way, had risen up to face those issues and had wrestled them to the ground.  It was a wonderful thing to witness and it so beautifully illustrated the astounding power words can have when they clasp hands with honesty, love and truth.

I was fortunate, so fortunate, to talk with Mr. Conroy that evening and to tell him how much grace he’d been given, and that from the forgiveness he’d managed to carve from the block of hurt he’d received, he had made a pathway for others in similar situations to find their way out of their own pasts, their own bitterness.  He was a delightful, sweet man. 

They buried Pat Conroy today, in the sandy soil of his beloved Beaufort. The flags there are flying at half-mast.  I have thought a lot about legacy since I learned of his death.  Pat earned his legacy through his remarkable books, it’s true.  But perhaps even more importantly, his books were a way for him to do the inner work of his own soul, the work we all must do to ensure personal peace and unassailable joy.  He did not give up in his quest for truth and understanding.  

May that be said of us all on our last day.

**

“When the words pour out of you just right, you understand that these sentences are all part of a river flowing out of your own distant, hidden ranges, and all words become the dissolving snow that feeds your mountain streams forever.  The language locks itself in the icy slopes of our own high passes, and it is up to us, the writers, to melt the glaciers within us.  When these glaciers break off, we get to call them novels, the changelings of our burning spirits, our life’s work.”

Pat Conroy

Find all of Pat Conroy's marvelous books, HERE

And an amazing joint interview with the Pat and his siblings, HERE