King Winter

From the coldest caverns and the bleakest hills he has summoned them. They have journeyed from the twelfth month through the first and finally they are all assembled, ready to do his bidding. At the King’s midnight signal, they shall advance unchallenged across the landscape, warriors older than time, shouldering weapons tried and true; weapons that never fail to hit their mark. Ice and snow and freezing rain, with artillery fashioned to make moods fall as low as temperatures, trailing melancholy and lethargy in their wake. Knowing this to be his last stand, King Winter enters into no mere frigid skirmish. Oh no, this is his February; this is his war. We know it is useless to fight, for we have lived through this before. So, snug in our wool and our fleece, we hunker down, with our beaks under our wings, and we wait. Well supplied, secure in our hope and our imagination, we know we can hold out for the twenty eight day siege, even longer if need be. For soon, we remember too well to doubt, the cavalry shall come. Little green troops of Spring shall awaken - a bit here, a bit there - until whole verdant armies appear on the hillsides and swarm through the valleys, warming and lightening both our spirits and our skies, and driving King Winter into exile once more.
Oh yes, we can wait. We are ready.

Outside

King Winter sat in his Hall one day,
And he said to himself, said he,
“I must admit I’ve had some fun,
I’ve chilled the Earth and cooled the Sun,
And not a flower or tree
But wishes that my reign were done,
And as long as Time and Tide shall run,
I’ll go on making everyone
As cold as cold can be.”

There came a knock at the outer door:
“Who’s there?” King Winter cried;
“Open your Palace Gate,” said Spring
“For you can reign no more as King,
Nor longer here abide;
This message from the Sun I bring,
‘The trees are green, the birds do sing;
The hills with joy are echoing’:
So pray, Sir - step outside!”

Hugh Chesterman
19th Century

Painting by NC Wyeth

Midwinter Fog

We awoke to a veiled world, a world transformed by the silvery cloak of a midwinter fog that had wrapped itself around us in the silence of the dawn. Almost theatrical, as if handknit for sheer effect, it seemed but an ingenious set design crafted to hide life’s more ephemeral players; those rarely seen in sunlight, but much too timid for the dark. Pointillistic halos encircled the streetlamps, creating unblinking golden eyes that stared out in straightlined, ironbacked attention all the way up the slate grey hill. The old trees, with their bare black bones so completely enshrouded, found they had no more need of the children, but could now play hide and seek with one another instead, counting to one hundred in arcane, deep-voiced words of their own. Through the magic gauze of the morning, the big white dog moved about the garden like a Dickensian spectre, casting no shadow, making no sound, as he made his way through the mist, up the stairs and back inside the cozy house to his fat, paisley covered bed where, he was quite certain, mysterious mornings such as these were best spent.
And there he would wait for the sun to return.

Our Anniversary

Outside it was dead of winter, all grey blues, shadow, and chill. But past glowing windows that twinkled with whispered sonnets to the light of Arthurian candles - snow white, ruby red, and roses. So many roses. It was a beginning, a golden circle of serenity, certainty, grace, laughter. A moment in time that continues even today, to warm, to cheer - to shower more roses, even more, through winter shadows, with every passing year until all we know is beauty.
It was a winter wedding. And today we celebrate.


My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick set fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a daïs of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

by Christina Rosetti

Milo

Edward has a deal with the Blue Jays. I cannot say when it was struck, nor how, but I am certain it exists. It seems the Blue Jays are forever on the lookout for Milo, the neighborhood cat - a cat in possession of a copious amount of chutzpah; a cat for whom boundaries hold no meaning, a cat who knows no fear. When Milo is spotted by the Blue Jay sentry on duty, the sentry immediately signals an alarm to his compatriots in other outposts of tree and limb. They all proceed to convene within our old magnolia tree, like a squawking blue-uniformed battalion. I have become convinced they are merely shouting the name of Edward in Blue Jay-ese. For whatever he is doing, wherever he happens to be - napping in his spot under the piano or exploring the furthermost points of the far back garden - Edward comes dashing. Running the gauntlet twixt table, chair and lamp, sliding across the hardwood floors, like an armored bear of old, he leaps into the chair by the window to let loose his most threatening, ear-splitting bark - a sound designed to strike terror in the heart of any self-respecting feline. Any feline that is, but Milo. For Milo, impassively lounging atop the dining table that sits outside under the magnolia tree, is calmly waiting for any feathered bit of blue that happens to lose its footing from one of the limbs above, and cares not a whit for anything Edward happens to say. Naturally, this nonchalance infuriates Edward all the more and the cycle of Blue Jay squawks and ferocious barks will continue unabated until either the Songwriter or I takes it upon ourselves to venture out and remind Milo of the nature of things. Milo will saunter off eventually, with head held high, his bottlebrush tail a furry flag of dignity, utterly convinced it was his own idea to leave in the first place, as if reminded only that he has an appointment elsewhere. Edward goes for a drink of water to settle his nerves, and soon, one by one, all the tiny bits of blue leave the big tree winter-green once more.
Until the next time Milo happens to visit.

Elgol

I wrote her a long letter today and remembered....

“You really should go down to the bottom of the hill before you leave”, she said. “I know you’re tired and you have a long drive back to the hotel, but it’s one of the most famous views in the country and you should see it”.

She was right, we were tired. Windblown, a bit damp, and now, following her most resplendent and generous gift of high tea, quite full and quite sleepy. The day was fast departing. Already the sky colours were deepening, moody grey clouds were boiling up across the horizon, and we never liked to travel the narrow road around the sea loch in darkness, always being too afraid we’d accidentally hit one of the sheep who preferred to doze just a wee bit too close to the side. But she seemed adamant - she of the gentle and soft-spoken spirit who never seemed adamant about anything - so we thought we should obey. Pulling out of the drive, we headed down the hill, unprepared for the steepness and sharpness of the curve ahead. Finally reaching the bottom we turned behind us to see a view straight out of literature, at once as forbidding as Mordor and as enchanted as Avalon. We looked around - no one else in sight. We could have been the only two people left on the planet. We could have been spirited backward a thousand years or more, perhaps invisible, mere spirits ourselves, with nothing real and solid on earth but those immortal black mountains rising above that churning black sea. Standing where we stood, with the howl of the sea wind in our ears, any scenario could have easily been imagined possible.

It wasn’t until many months later that I noticed the slight similarities between the photograph taken on that day and the Waterhouse painting shown above. Perhaps she had long ago warned him not to miss the view as well.

Oh, What A Beautiful Morning!

There’s a bright, golden haze on the meadow,
There’s a bright, golden haze on the meadow,
The corn is as high as an elephant’s eye,
And it looks like it’s climbing clear up to the sky.....

Oh, what a beautiful morning!
Oh, what a beautiful day!
I got a beautiful feeling,
Everything’s going my way.....


Lyric by Oscar Hammerstein II
Painting by Childe Hassam
Sentiments shared by Pamela and Edward!

Farewell

"I do an awful lot of thinking and dreaming about things in the past and the future - the timelessness of the rocks and the hills - all the people who have existed there. I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure in the landscape - the loneliness of it - the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it; the whole story doesn’t show. I think anything like that - which is contemplative, silent, shows a person alone - people always feel is sad. Is it because we’ve lost the art of being alone?"

Andrew Wyeth
1917 - 2009

Surely You Jest

Last night I dreamed I gave up swimming for Lent. Now, before someone pauses in admiration of my saintliness, let me hasten to explain that I cannot swim. This dream of mine, therefore, caused a bit of entertainment over morning toast and clementines when I related it to the Songwriter, who wryly commented, ”Wow, what a sacrifice for you”. He is well-versed in irony. My parents tried to interest me in swimming with lessons which I truly dreaded like medicine. The sensation of being under water consistently failed to charm me, and no number of ear plugs or nose clips could ever elevate the experience to an enjoyable level. Needless to say, I did not excel in those lessons. However, as I suspected at the time, much like high school frog dissection, I have never once found swimming to be a necessary skill in my adult life. Decorators are not usually required to work in bathing suits and if they are, they should probably re-evaluate the project.

The only sport I have ever participated in willingly was riding. I did love that with a passion, but seriously suspect it had much more to do with the requisite close relationship with a horse than with my actual enjoyment of any sort of activity that could perhaps have been deemed athletic. No to softball, no to tennis, no gymnastics and no track. Football? Please. Bowling? In rental shoes? Golf? Surely you jest. Watch any of these things on television? What?..... Why? To tell the truth, I just never got the point of competitive sports. The only two sporting events I am ever even aware of during the year are The Kentucky Derby and The Iditirod. (To be honest, I did drive a dog sled team in Alaska once. In a frigid January, no less. And actually, I was quite good at that, but that is another story entirely.) I do walk and run and bike and hike, but that’s about it. Fortunately for me, The Songwriter and I share in this disinterest of the wide, wide world of sports, which makes for quite a happy little life. To best illustrate this, some years back, The Songwriter had one of his songs performed during the halftime show at the Super Bowl. True to form, we were totally unaware of the game and were actually returning home on a flight from Disney World, of all places, while it was played. When we arrived home, our phone was ringing like mad with friends from all over the country calling with congratulations. We had missed the whole thing.

So, all this is to say that, regardless of my dream, I do not think swearing off swimming will actually accomplish much for my soul during this season of Lent.
Why do I think it’s going to have to be chocolate?

Something Shiny

Years ago, my neighborhood was carved out of a forest. Nowadays its ancient oaks and leafy poplars provide a canopy over land that is paradise for wildlife of all sorts, and that includes the Crows. An almost sinister looking bird, the Crow is rarely spotted on his own, but usually descends upon the garden as a member of a loud and discordant flock. A rather gloomy congregation, they swoop and assemble in a winter-bare oak, filling the naked limbs like scores of blue black leaves, creating a haunted tree worthy of an Edward Gorey painting. Make a sudden movement at the window, and whoosh, these changeling leaves are blown upward, enmasse, into the blue sky like an angry storm cloud on its way to rain down on another garden a couple of streets away, leaving their momentary roost January bare once more.

Not long ago, I discovered that the Crows have more than a passing interest in my very own front garden. For down near the edge of the drive, there is a bed of green clover in which I keep a modest collection of glass blue stones. Like a tiny sea lapping the shores of Lilliput, this circle of glimmering blue glass is a delight to my eye each time I see it. And, apparently, the Crows share in that delight. You see, the Crow cannot spot anything shiny without wanting to possess it. He is, quite simply, the shopaholic of the avian world and my little glass ocean is completely irresistible to his sharply acquisitive eye. The daily walkers who stroll by my garden, those who no doubt once viewed my collection of blue with bemused curiosity, now find themselves participants in its care and maintenance. For the Crows steal the stones, and the walkers bring them back. I have been told that they are found all over the neighborhood, and the walkers seem to take a certain pleasure in finding one, pocketing it and returning it to its rightful place by the clover shoreline at the edge of my garden. I find this such a charming game played between bird and man. Both of them out in the fresh clean winter air, looking for something shiny.

Painting above by Arthur Rackham

Edward Looks At Rain

From the late afternoon on there had been something of a drenched, warm feeling to the early January air; an odd soddeness, expected at other times of the year, but most unusual for a winter month. The big white dog had noticed. He knew the rain was purported to be arriving as a dramatic escort to a much colder tomorrow, and for that he was glad. But, still. Rain. His least favourite sort of weather. No walk tonight. For even though his lady had received the black wellies she had asked for at Christmas, he knew she cared far too much for him to take him on an outing in the pouring rain. He would have to get his paws wet, and that was the one thing in life he really, really hated. He hopped up on the window seat to watch the skies and ponder the miserable sensation of wet paws.

The rain was preceded by chariots of wind that galloped through the tops of the tall trees at breakneck speed, occasionally reaching down to the garden floor with a gust that would vacuum up the leftover, paperthin leaves in a tornadic whirl of brown and grey. The big dog watched it all at the window and thought about his paws. Then finally, around midnight, just as they all were heading down the hallway to bed, it came. Rain. He could hear it... blitzing the roof above him, racing down the gutters, pounding its drowned wetness deep into the ground - ground that, tomorrow, he would have to trod on, walk through - ground that would probably get his paws wet. Bother. He sighed. But then his lady smiled and told him not to worry. She reminded him that being snug and dry inside on a stormy night was really a very good thing. Effortlessly, he leaped up to take his normal place atop the downy bed and laid his big white head on her feet as she opened another of those books of which she is so fond. He sighed again. He had to admit, the sound of the rain was pleasing. His large almond eyes felt so heavy, so he closed them. His lady patted his head and told him that the rain would be over before he awoke in the morning - that it would be a much colder, sunnier day tomorrow, and that he would love it, and they would go for a long afternoon walk and .... but he never heard her. He was asleep.

Edward sets off for his walk on the sunnier tomorrow

Painting above: The Thunderstorm by Vincent Van Gogh

A Thing With Feathers

Whilst perusing the online news sites on the first morning of this new year, an opinion poll happened to catch my eye. There it sat, on the right hand side of the home page of CNN, sandwiched between the grimmest sort of headlines, one simple question: How do you feel about the coming year? Only two answers were available: Hopeful? , or Hopeless? After clicking my choice, I was curious to see the results of everyone else’s answers, and smiled in amazement at what I saw. Overwhelmingly, and in spite of the surrounding sirens of tangible woe, almost everyone had cast their vote for Hope. I nodded at the resiliency of the human race; at our never ending belief that we can achieve a better day - that we are nobler, kinder, smarter than our present circumstances might suggest. We remain ever hopeful that we can, and shall, rise above and even, dare we say, soar. And truly, what greatness has ever been achieved without that thing called Hope?

I have thought a great deal over the past year about the man Martin Luther King. What would he be feeling in this first month of the year 2009, as America stands proudly poised to inaugurate her first African-American president? He who had been insulted, jailed, jeered, then murdered, for daring to hope in the better natures of the American people. He who had dared to dream. It brings tears to the eyes and indeed, shame to the soul for the one who chooses to set down the precious burden of hope when the weight becomes too heavy.

For some of us, hope is a lyrical embroidery that flows through the tapestry of our very natures. We are sewn together with its shimmering threads. For others, Hope is much more of a conscious choice, and sometimes a difficult one. As we all set off through this year late in the first decade of a new century, our journey is not unlike any adventurous expedition of old. Like explorers before us, we never know what might lie just around the bend. But, where there is an end, may we all see a beginning, may we turn our challenges into opportunities, make the choice to replace doubt with faith, and when there is death, may the Hope of new life be made real.

Emily Dickinson so eloquently described Hope as “a thing with feathers”. As I write this, fat little birds are watching me just outside my window, fluffy and cheerful. Despite the remarkably cold afternoon, there they sit, tiny and serene on my windowsill, occasionally lifting up a tune; not the least bit bothered or fretful. I can easily see the basis for Dickinson’s poetic description. For in the midst of the world’s current gales, this perennial presence of hope is a most sweetly feathered thing indeed.

Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

by Emily Dickinson

Blessed With Books at Christmas

I count myself fortunate, for people seem to like to give me books, especially at Christmas. A fine thing, and much appreciated, for it is difficult for me to fathom a better gift to receive than a book chosen specifically with me in mind. I am spending a delicious amount of time this week getting acquainted with some of these new bound treasures and as I do, I know I am sharing the experience with countless readers all over the world; readers who, like me, were blessed with books at Christmas.
Perhaps your favourite aunt, the one who suffers cruelly with wanderlust, received a Bruce Chatwin or Evelyn Waugh, a Michael Palin or Gerald Durrell, and is currently curled in her favorite armchair, with her tea going cold, snow falling quietly out in her garden, while she travels the dusty streets of Cairo or roams the hillsides of Corfu. Your ten year old niece, the one with all the fetching freckles, who practically lives in jodhpurs and hacking jackets? It is after midnight and she is under the blankets reading her very first copy of Black Beauty by the dim glow of a pink flashlight. At this very moment, in town and country, there are cooks devouring all the latest recipes from the inspired kitchens of Ina Garten or Nigella Lawson - gardeners carefully underlining passages of Elizabeth Lawrence or Gertrude Jekyll - oh, so lucky novice readers embarking on maiden voyages inside the world of Harry Potter - mystery lovers unravelling the just released P.D. James or the classic Wilkie Collins - babies with their imaginations aglow from the magical illustrations of Chris Van Allsburg or Beatrix Potter, or from the unique artistry of Robert Sabuda.
Count me in with these voracious page turners, for this first week of January commences my month of serious hibernation.... reading, planning, sketching out the year ahead..... but mostly, reading. For while lounging beachside with a book nestled on one’s lap in July is certainly sublime, there is not much better than a cold January afternoon spent fireside, snug in a fat nest of a chair, cracking open a brand new book for the very first time.

Here are a few newly added to my library:

John Fowler: Prince of Decorators by Martin Wood
Michael S. Smith Houses by Michael Smith and Christine Pittel
Charlotte Moss: A Flair for Living by Charlotte Moss and Pieter Estersohn

The Drawings of Gustave Dore by George Davidson
The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery
Three Bags Full by Leonie Swann
Shaggy Muses by Maureen Adams

I Married Adventure by Osa Johnson.... a fabulous hardback copy of this
vintage classic in its fabulous zebra cover

The Tales of Beedle the Bard by JK Rowling...I was unbelievably fortunate to receive this one in the hardback, collector’s edition!!!

A Peek Through the Opening Door

A bit of a new look here at The House of Edward as the old door opens on the fresh green day of the infant year.
With more than the usual challenges to face in every corner of the planet, but with reasons aplenty to hope for a brighter year and lighter hearts, I am filled with admiration and gratitude for the many charming and creative new friends I have encountered through this little blog effort of mine. Having really started this as an entry for my Etsy shoppe, I found that I enjoyed writing so much the shoppe sort of took a back seat. I have always loved words, and writing, but had previously only written via long letters to certain souls during my travels. I really feel as if that is what I have continued to do through this site. Thank you all for reading my letters to you. Your comments and emails have been incredibly enjoyable, interesting and kind. I do appreciate them greatly.
And just now, as I peek through the opening door at the grand mystery of a pristine new year, this particular quotation of William Ellery Channing resonates like music with the desires of my soul.

"I will seek elegance rather than luxury, refinement rather than fashion. I will seek to be worthy more than respectable, wealthy and not rich. I will study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly. I will listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with an open heart. I will bear all things cheerfully, do all things bravely, await occasions and hurry never. In a word I will let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious grow up through the common."

Edward and I wish you all a most Happy New Year.

Sleep At All Hours

The three big Christmas trees continue to sparkle. The music, gauzy and classical, drifts through the old house like a mist. The sheets are linen and the blankets, wool. Down pillows are fluffed like marshmallows and clothing is warm and rather eccentric. The books, oh the books.... all crisp, all new...massive, slipcased and magically illustrated or small and utterly engrossing..... are stacked in teetering towers beside me. The drinks are hot and the food.... is pie. All responsibility has been banished - flown with a whoosh out the shuttered window, not to return for at least one week. I shall venture outside my wooden door for only two good reasons..... long, bracing walks with a furry dog in the cloudy cold, or a comfortable seat in a darkened movie theatre. And I shall sleep at all hours, whenever I wish.
One of the best weeks of the year!


.....Just as the spiniest chestnut-burr
Is lined within with the finest fur,
So the stoney-walled, snow-roofed house
Of every squirrel and mole and mouse
Is lined with thistledown, sea-gull's feather,
Velvet mullein-leaf, heaped together
With balsam and juniper, dry and curled,
Sweeter than anything else in the world.

O what a warm and darksome nest
Where the wildest things are hidden to rest!
It's there that I'd love to lie and sleep,
Soft, soft, soft, and deep, deep, deep!

From the Poem, Winter Sleep by Elinor Wylie

Listen

Edward is a creature in possession of a myriad of magical qualities- qualities which draw people to him, friends and strangers alike, wherever we happen to go. They gather round him in outdoor cafes, follow us on our walks, roll down their windows at traffic lights to say hello to him, they get out of their cars to come squat down in front of him, they even allow their toddlers to kiss him smack on the mouth. Edward, ever patient, is consistently tolerant of these advances. So much so in fact, that last Halloween, when friends dressed their three adorable stairstep daughters as characters from Peter Pan, they asked if Edward would be willing to play Nana for a photo. He was honored, although a bit reticent about the bonnet he was supposed to wear. I realize I may be slightly prejudiced, but he really is an extraordinary dog. However, tonight and only tonight, he just may share one very special gift with every other animal on the planet. He just may speak. For tonight is Christmas Eve, and it is a tale well told that on this night of nights, the animals speak at midnight.

For those of you fortunate enough to live on a farm, take a stroll past your barn at that hour. Stop. Listen. Do you hear the whispered conversations of those enchanted creatures within? The tabby cat on the windowsill, gazing out at the frozen garden....what is he saying? Did you catch it? The Lioness on the moonlit plain, the Mountain Gorilla beneath Rwandan trees - from the Great Horned Owls at the bottom of our garden, to the ice white Polar Bear sitting alone on the top of the world, what words will they choose to speak for this, their once a year soliloquy. Words of despair, or words of hope? Of recrimination, or of praise? While I would certainly never deign to speak for Edward, I can only imagine his statement to the holy darkness will be the simple, pure words of gratitude.
On this night, what more is there to say?


Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night!!

The Journey

Pull on the woolen mittens, wrap the shawl tightly. It is time for the journey into winter.
For six months now, the iridescent curtains of the earth have been slowly closing. The unseen, pale blue hand has moved them, bit by bit, an infinitesimal distance towards the center, shutting out the light in minute amounts each and every evening since the month of June. On this very weekend he stands back to admire his handiwork. With wizened hands on hips, he smiles his ancient silver smile as he observes the many hours of darkness, the iced moon hanging in a starry sky, taking up its lofty post earlier this weekend than at any other - the fewest hours of the sun - the shortest day of the year. It is complete, and he is most pleased, for he has once again fashioned Winter. White grey, silver blue, Winter.
And yet, he does not trouble us. As we make our way into his boreal creation, our provisions are sufficient. For even in the piercing cold of the bleakest of mid-winters, there is such warmth to be found. True friends, glowing fireplaces, fuzzy slippers, furry faces. Cinnamon toast, spiced tea. Days spent in cozy kitchens where copper kettles sing and savory soups simmer atop cherry red stoves - with nights burrowed snug under tartan blankets, lost inside the crisp pages of adventurous books.
Oh yes, we are quite prepared for this journey, for we have taken it before. And well we know, even now, as the old man takes his leave, rightly satisfied with his design, a smooth and tiny hand, the colour of peridot, is reaching for those curtains, ready now to pull them, bit by bit, every so slightly, open.

Painting above: Atkinson Grimshaw

In a Snow Globe

Long after midnight, when the silence is a sound unto itself, a soft blue blanket wrapped tightly around the house, enveloping all in the deepest quiet, I slipped out of bed. Lifting a woolen throw from off the chaise, I made my way to the biggest Christmas tree in the house and switched on the lights. Fairyland descended gently on the usual. What is it about this season that lends itself so readily to magic? Everything, it seems, conspires to wonder and amaze. The long-fingered frost on the windowpanes, the winter aroma of fir trees and hot chocolate, the ornamental colour - bells and carols, secret whispers and stolen kisses. I think of our little cottage here in the trees, bathed in moonlight and fairyglow and it almost seems as if we four are dwelling within a snow globe of our very own. A little wonderland separated from roving darkness by the clear glass dome of Christmas. It is said that Christmas is for children, but I don’t think that’s necessarily so. As the years go by and I see more of the sadness and trouble this world can parcel out, Christmas seems more of a mystery to me than ever. To think that no matter what occurs, it still settles joyously into my heart every year, retaining its full power to amaze and delight, to liberally sprinkle the enchantment of hope into every room. Merry Christmas, indeed.
I could have sat by the glimmering tree for hours, but soon I heard a soft yawn behind me and turned to see Edward, the fur atop his head mussed and askew from sleep, his thoughts nearly audible...”Come. Back. To. Bed.”... So, I did.

Being Watched

This morning, while wrapping presents at the old octagonal table in my office, I knew I was being watched. Not just by Edward, who had finally begun to abandon his enthusiastic attempts to claim the ribbons for his own - but by others, many others, just outside my window, curiously looking in at me from their place in the cold early sunlight. The Birds. Cardinals and chickadees, fat grey doves and red-winged blackbirds, titmice and towhees. Constant companions here in my little wing of the house, surrounding the cerulean glass feeder at all hours of the day, taking turns, crowding occasionally, chirping often, singing frequently. They are here in all seasons of the year, splashing around in their stone bath nestled in the holly bushes in summer, gathering twigs and pine needles for their brand new nests in spring, but oh so playful, so cheery in winter. They seem to love this time of year as much as I and it almost seems as though they themselves are filled with the happy spirit of Christmas and wish to join in the festive work they see just beyond the glass. Feathers fluffed, eyes bright, happily enjoying their breakfast, they watched me work all morning.
Like Edward, like myself, they call this cottage home.

Bird Sanctuary

Between the cliff-rise and the beach
A slip of emerald I own;
With fig and olive, almond, peach,
cherry and plum-tree overgrown;
Glad-watered by a crystal spring
That carols through the silver night,
And populous with birds who sing
Gay madrigals for my delight.

Some merchants fain would buy my land
To build a stately pleasure dome.
Poor fools! they cannot understand
how pricelessly it is my home!
So luminous with living wings,
So musical with feathered joy . . .
Not for all pleasure fortune brings,
Would I such ecstasy destroy.

A thousand birds are in my grove,
Melodious from morn to night;
My fruit trees are their treasure trove,
Their happiness is my delight.
And through the sweet and shining days
They know their lover and their friend;
So I will shield in peace and praise
My innocents unto the end.

Robert W. Service

Beautiful Things

The world is full of beautiful things
Butterfly wings, fairy tale kings,
And each new day undoubtedly brings,
Still more beautiful things.

The world abounds with many delights,
Magical sights, fanciful flights,
And those who dream on beautiful nights,
Dream of beautiful things.

The Merchant Ivory film adaptation of Howard’s End would, to me, be a magnificent treat even if the only frame I had ever watched was the Christmas shopping scene. Set in the resplendent halls of turn of the century London’s Fortnum and Mason, Emma Thompson attempts to introduce Vanessa Redgrave to the “scientific” approach to Christmas shopping, - “the list”-, all the while wandering around the most sumptuously decorated holiday set ever created. My heart beats a bit faster every time I see it. It awakens in me the passion I possess for the enticing experience that is Christmas shopping. Given my profession I have the occasion to frequent delightfully unusual and off-the-beaten-track shops all throughout the year. Between those visits, and given the fact that Christmas presents are often a handmade affair here at The House of Edward, my holiday shopping is completed each year long before the first decorations pop up in the shops. But that does not for one second mean I don’t go Christmas shopping in December. It just means I can enjoy it a bit more. Being an inveterate observer, there is nothing I like more than strolling through the storybook decor of all the various stores... watching the holiday shoppers - bundled up and muttering- rushing to and fro....listening to the sweetly familiar holiday songs that provide the festive soundtrack... stopping to enjoy the show as one after another little gaily dressed and pressed children are plopped onto Santa’s lap to relate their deepest desires to the red-suited old man... and then finding the perfectly warm spot in the perfectly cozy cafe to enjoy a marshmallow topped hot chocolate with a good book or a good friend. Sometimes I discover something I just have to purchase, some sort of curious bauble or frippery, magically feathered, sugared or flounced. But mostly my Christmas shopping is a reconnaissance mission, meant to store up valuable inspiration for the later hours of future days. I will wrap it carefully and pack it away in its holly and tinsel and on some future frustrating or sweltering afternoon - some troublesome or mind-numbing morning, I’ll have a peek inside that memory and all the colourful flurries, carillon melodies, the hope, the happiness, the wonderment that is Christmas will swirl around my life once more.

Lyrics above by Leslie Bricusse

With Every Christmas Card I Write

As the calendar pages turn and the years go by, it seems some long held traditions are increasingly susceptible to evaporation. Women in white gloves at Sunday services, men in dress hats and overcoats nodding to one another along busy weekday sidewalks, the far off sound of mother’s voices heard through neighborhood streets as they call their children home from outdoor play at suppertime, always adding a few more syllables than the name actually possesses. Once commonplace, I fear these sights and sounds are long gone now. One can look for them only in books, on film and in the halls of memory. Here in my own little world, I do try to keep alive meaningful customs and traditions that I sometimes fear are perilously close to the endangered list, and I think my life the richer for the effort. I still hand write thank you notes, still keep fresh flowers in my rooms, I do RSVP and I do not wear white at weddings, or after Labor Day. I take a gift when I’m invited to dinner, I attend funerals, dine by candlelight, I still even iron my sheets, God help me. And, I still send Christmas cards. In fact, one of the most delightful aspects of the entire festive season is, for me, the Christmas card. In a special wooden box, I have kept every card the Songwriter and I have sent out during the many years of our marriage. Each Christmas, as I add another, I take out all those from years past and enjoy them once more, each one reminding me of who we were then.

The hunt for the perfect card begins in the summer. For a few years in a row I had the luxury of being in Britain during the fall season when the shops were already stocked for the holidays. What bliss! No one does Christmas like the British. For three years straight, I found the perfect card there. Then the next year, naturally, I was spoiled. No card I found even approached the bar set so high by those wonderful elves in the UK. So, I decided to create my own. And lo, another tradition was born. Now it seems, everyone expects an original Christmas card from me each season and the ritual has become much more involved. But, how I do love it. With mellow strains of Perry Como, Vivaldi and Nat King Cole playing through the house, hot tea at my elbow, furry dogs under tables that are spread with papers, inks, glitters, stamps, envelopes, embossing tools...I am in complete holiday heaven. Thinking of each person as I write their name on their envelope, I am silently thankful for their friendship and wishing them well for the coming year. Yes, it is time consuming. Yes, it costs some money. But, oh is it worth it. This year I am happy to report that I am on schedule and I’ll soon be dreaming of a White Christmas once again. With every Christmas Card I write!

Above picture is my Christmas Card from 1990