Apple and the Rose

Coming home from an late evening walk, a neighbour called to me from his garden.
He had snipped a fat orange rose from the cloud of blowsy blossoms that dangled like ripe tangerines from his wrought iron arbor, and he handed it to me over the fence as I passed. Such a lovely gift, I thought as I placed it in a vase by my bed. By midnight, the ambrosial fragrance from this lone flower had drifted into every corner of the room as if entire bouquets of roses had fallen from the sky.

When I slipped between the crisp sheets to sleep, both Edward and Apple jumped up to say goodnight, as is their habit. As I patted their furry heads, I lifted the vase to my nose again to drink in the delicious smell of the rose and I noticed Apple watching me with interest, no doubt wondering if I had sneaked a “treat” to bed with me. So I held the flower to her face and she bent close to investigate. As the sweet perfume of the orange rose reached her, her dark eyes grew wide and she backed up to look at me. “Smells good, doesn’t it”, I asked. She got the funniest little look on her face and bent down once again to sniff.
And then, I swear, she smiled.
Ah, every girl loves roses.

Apple wearing her favourite outfit during a neighbourhood festival.
Like any girly girl, she would wear this every single day if she could, whilst Edward will not tolerate it for two seconds.

A Happy Mistake

For the past two Sunday nights, I have been lost in Sweden. Not serenely strolling through the softly sunwashed colours of artist Carl Larsson, but stranded amidst the harsh landscape of writer Henning Mankell, as his Wallander detective series has now come to television via the new BBC production starring Kenneth Branagh. Set in Ystad, it is a Sweden unfamiliar to me, with a midnight sun that pierces the summer night like the half closed eye of Apollo, never resting, always watching, and a noonday sun that enflames the colours of the landscape - all school bus yellow and chlorine blue - with such vividness they almost sting the eye. These bleakly haunting stories match the intensity of their setting with starkness and weblike intricacy. They are completely engrossing.

So engrossing in fact, that last Sunday after knitting my way through the second episode, I looked down and observed ...yikes.... a mistake. I had changed skeins right after the show had begun and neglected to notice an infinitesimal difference in dyelot. Now here I was, eight inches knitted, and the colours were off course a bit. The yarn I am using is a variegated cotton, sublime in texture and delicious in shades of watery greens, blues and lavenders, but now, about a third of the way into the scarf the colours were a tiny bit more blue than green. I sat stock still as I pondered my next move. As it was a fairly intricate pattern, the thought of ripping out my work was distasteful to say the least. But amazingly, the longer I looked, the more I liked what I saw.... the more I really, really liked what I saw. I am now completely thrilled with this new creation; one I never would have imagined myself. When the scarf is wound around my neck, the subtle change in colour is divine, and looks expertly planned. A happy mistake. The Songwriter says they happen in recording all the time.

It is amusing to think how we humans so often rigidly map out our lives, schedule our days, presuming we know best how things should proceed. Sometimes, if we can manage to let go of the reins a bit, it seems that circumstances may just hand us a better way, present us with a more wondrous idea than we ever could have imagined on our own. The holiday that was planned, the school that was counted on, the career always hoped for, the pattern so dilligently followed. When kismet laughingly shuts the door, that open window across the room just might lead to Neverland.

Or at the very least, there might be a fabulous scarf sitting on the windowsill.


Painting above by Carl Larsson

A Quiet Day

I was presented with a quiet day.
A freshly wrapped candy box of calm and peaceful hours, each one nothing less than a divine morsel of indulgence. For it is rare to partake of an entire box of hours such as these all in one day, rather more likely to sneak a taste every now and then.... a bite of a nap here, a nibble of a garden stroll there. To have an entire day to myself, a glistening pathway of time stretched out before me, with no roadblocks, no detours, was practically an engraved invitation to happiness. Every unplanned hour, a confection, and I intended to feast on the complete collection.

So I savored a butter creme morning festooning the house with freshly cut oakleaf hydrangeas and lemon scented magnolia blossoms. A truffle of an hour was spent finishing a book and then another lazily perusing my library shelves as I considered my next literary destination, with a newly manicured finger running along the colourful spines as if they were travel brochures to exotic locales, which indeed they are. Then, a caramel of an hour baking a coconut cake and licking the beaters myself. I whiled away a totally decadent chocolate bonbon of time dozing in the big red chair as a rainy breeze blew through the cottage windows and ruffled the fur of the white dog beside me. A butterscotch stroll down the lane with Edward and Apple followed by high tea in my favourite cup. A toffee of a hot bath with jasmine bubbles galore.

No phone, no radio, no television.
Just bird song and breezes, wind chimes and sighs.


"Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you."
Nathaniel Hawthorne

Fun

A couple of nights ago I found myself in a car with three world class wits as we all returned home from a rather extravagantly overacted play. While we had managed to exhibit impeccable adult decorum during the performance, our facade cracked, then shattered, inside that car as we each offered up our increasingly hilarious reviews of the night. I laughed so hard that my sides literally ached; the kind of ache I remember from the belly laughs of childhood fun. As I reflected on the evening later that night, I had to admit that even while I find so much in this world to be amusing - even downright funny - real side-splitting laughter, real fun, is a bit of a rare thing.

To be certain, being an adult has its undeniable advantages. I can stay up as late as I want, and frequently do so. I can eat dessert first if I choose, even though I rarely do. However, along with the grand freedoms that come with all the costumes of adulthood, there is also the somber coloured, conservatively cut cloak of responsibility that we all must wear. An often itchy and uncomfortable garment, it is a cloak tailored for each of us individually, and sometimes, it seems, unfairly. Its powers are such that, strangely, it seems that if one never takes it off.... for a weekend, or even just an hour.... the more cumbersome it becomes, the scratchier its fabric, the heavier its weight, until it begins to alter the very posture of the spirit - the very lightness of the heart.

I can remember being a little girl and going outside every day, “to play”. It seems as if we adults could benefit from such an activity today. To run through a field, or bicycle through an afternoon, for reasons having more to do with joy than with exercise. To take a turn on the swingset, or a swing on the dance floor. To ride the carousel, sing along with the radio, play on the seesaw..... or just take the long way home.
To remember how to play and how to laugh till your sides ache.

So if you will excuse me, I think I shall go and play hide and seek with Edward. It is his favourite game.
And perhaps, I shall eat my dessert first tonight.


"What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul."
Yiddish Proverb

Eat, Drink and Be Merry

So many times, whenever a friend is embarking on a first trip to Britain, the inevitable question arises...”what about the food??”. It seems to be an untruth universally acknowledged that all British food is somehow lacking - in taste, nutrition and style. Perhaps that thought held some validity in decades past, but I can certainly argue empirically against it now. Some of the most deliciously satisfying meals of my memory were enjoyed in the UK.

Walking into Loch Bay Seafood, an unassuming whitewashed building by the sea on the Isle of Skye one windy day, I sat down to the best fish soup I had ever tasted. The incredibly delicious breakfast at Holbeck Ghyll high in the Lake District, which was served with a side of achingly beautiful view from my sunlit table. Lunch at The Witchery in Edinburgh, where I do have to admit I paid much more attention to the wickedly creative decor than to the dining, but which remains a indelible and most charming luncheon memory.

One of the best meals of my whole life was created by the proprietress of Ladyburn, an idyllic Bed and Breakfast on a greenly picturesque estate outside Maybole, Scotland. In a candlelit dining room of graceful proportions, with playful strains of Mozart coming from the kitchen, I sat beside a flickering fire and enjoyed the most delicate cheese souffle ever conceived - cooked to perfection, freshly caught Scottish salmon, sweet seasonal vegetables straight from the house garden, and a blissfully decadent chocolate torte. True culinary bliss. Afterwards we sat by a roaring library fire, with Bertie, the family’s warmth seeking Jack Russell, and slowly sipped a warm brandy before making our way to bed, where a piping hot water bottle had been thoughtfully tucked between our crisp cotton sheets. No hobbit could have been more fat and happy.

The bracing tea we had after a windblown hike around Buttermere, the savory dinner brought to our room at The Torridon, the inviting little Italian cafe we found one misty night near Harrods, the opulent dinner at Inverlochy Castle, the luscious grilled salmon at a friendly restaurant beside Loch Linnhe, even the quintessential fish and chips we enjoyed near Covent Garden.... all mouth-watering memories to treasure, and not a fried Mars Bar or blood pudding to be found! If you’re planning a trip across the pond, feel free to look forward to the food, you’re sure to enjoy it.

However, um...well...you will perhaps notice I did not mention Haggis!

John Romain Changed My Life

There are people who dwell in the rooms of my memory and I try to visit them often. Strangely, some begin to disappear after a year or so, fading slowly into shadow. No doubt, a malady due to lack of attention on my part. But the others who remain, colourful and complete, are all there for the very same reason - they have helped to create, in bits and in bobs, the person that is me.

See the elderly lady in the shirtwaist dress, watering the ferns at the window? She has lived here for decades for she long ago gave me my love of flowers. And the smiling chap sitting at the piano? A fairly new arrival, he taught me that happiness is a choice one makes every day. No doubt some in this crowd are recognizable to you. The two ladies in the library? Yes, that is indeed Virginia Woolf discussing Bloomsbury’s Charleston farmhouse with Sister Parish. I also have it on quite good authority that Walt Disney walks my childhood dogs every afternoon at four. But, look. See the gentleman over there in the tufted leather chair by the fire? The one flipping through an old copy of Country Life? That is John Romain. He was a handbag designer and he has dwelt here for ages. For you see, when I was eight years old, John Romain changed my life.

When I entered third grade, it seemed every girl I knew was longing for a John Romain handbag. Nut brown, tweedy creations, with butter soft leather trim, they were the ultimate acquisition and a sure symbol of fashionable acceptance. Although an admittedly unnecessary accessory, parents soon began to acquiesce to the pleas and the whines of their daughters, and one by one, these objects of pre-teen desire began to show up on the little arms of my saddle-shoed classmates. As a happily only child, I was always amused by competition. It seemed such a quizzical activity to me. Keeping up with other people was an alien notion to a little girl whose favourite confidant was her dog. But oh, how I wanted one of those bags. It came over me like the flu and I was introduced to my first chilled feeling of envy.

Then, on a cold Christmas morning, I opened an elaborately wrapped present and... there it lay. My very own John Romain bag. And wonder of wonders, my parents had ordered one with a horsehead clasp! The Ultimate. I was beside myself with joy and could hardly wait for the holidays to be over when I would join the ranks of those sartorially in vogue. But a funny thing happened when I walked into class, proudly carrying my celebrated bag like the trophy it was.
I was now just like everyone else.
And, I hated it.
Oh, I loved the handbag. But I hated being part of the herd.

So yes, John Romain remains anchored in my memory for having taught me a priceless lesson about myself; a lesson I am most grateful to have learned early: I am happiest following my own path. Utterly skeptical of trends, I much prefer to trust my own eye. Preserving my individuality is vital to me and through the years I have found such joy in aiding my clients in the discovery of their own unique voices and enabling them to express those personal voices in the design and decoration of their homes.

So if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll just sit here with Mr. Romain for a bit. I am curious for his opinion on a couple of articles I have just read in the latest Elle Decor.
I am sure you can find your way out.
Just don’t let Mr. Disney con you into walking those dogs.
That’s his job.

The Flower Moon

In icy fullness he sits aloft, enthroned in the blue-black January sky, a lambent wizard whose incantation of frozen light is cast down over snow covered hills for the wolves to find their way home. He does his best throughout the year to live up to the names he’s been given and the first month knows him, by legend and lore, as the Wolf Moon.

He’s christened Pink in the month of April, as he gently drapes the glow of a rose petal over the luminous newness of a Spring night, while the chill of October finds him clad in the orange robes of a Harvest Moon, illuminating the autumnal gold that is sprinkled across the dark fields of the world.

But as all lovers of his magical light can easily agree, he achieves the full height of his powers in May. For this month, this very night in fact, he becomes the Flower Moon, when the spirits of beauty flock to the gardens to drink in the sight of May flowers aglow. They stroll down moss pathways in clear star-strewn dresses, beneath radiant rose arbors he has lit so divinely, they look as though all the world’s fireflies have come there to pose. Indeed every flower, from the aristocratic white orchid on the manor house windowsill to the happy brotherhood of bluebells that holds court on the forest floor - like gemstones from Heaven, all shall bedazzle tonight.

So, look to the flowers when the warm sun sets. For no candle, no kleig, no footlight or floodlight could ever compare to the pure, perennial splendour
that is the Flower Moon of May.


FLY NOT YET

Fly not yet; 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing
Oh ! stay, oh ! stay,
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
To break it's links so soon.

by Thomas Moore

The Ghost in Love

Every Friday , the New York Times publishes a special section in their newspaper entitled Escapes. Different from the Travel section, Escapes showcases second home locales or places just perfect for the perfect, well..... escape. I both look forward to, and slightly dread, dipping into these weekly pages, for I know I shall find myself sorely tempted by the words I read and the pictures I see. Faded seaside towns with steep cobbled streets where I might just find the weathered beach cottage I keep in my treasure chest of secret longings. Or green mountain villages where people of a lilting language could point me in the direction of that stone cottage with the diamond paned windows that often haunts my daydreams. Every Friday morning with paper and coffee, I pore over this section and my mind begins to roam. Soon I am perusing real estate websites and visualizing paint colours. By no means am I disenchanted with my current place in the world, but there is something that, to me at least, is so deliciously tempting about the idea of escape.

Fortunately for me, there are all sorts of definitions for escape. And one of the best, and certainly most cost efficient, is within the pages of a book. I have just returned from such an escape and am still unpacking all my shiny souvenirs. What a time I had! Generally, when I pick up a new book, I have some sort of hint as to what to expect. Either I have read a review, been given a recommendation, or perhaps I am already acquainted with the author and have returned to sample more delights from their literary table.

But I had no idea where I was headed when I cracked open The Ghost In Love by Jonathan Carroll and began my journey through its pages late one stormy evening last week. I settled back into my pillow and just held on for dear life. All the dependable touchstones and signposts were thrown out the window pretty soon after page one and I was left as giddy as a buttoned-up passenger on a runaway train of ideas.

With talking dogs, reincarnations, and angels of death, not to mention time travels, picnics in the rain with all one’s former selves...and yes, even a ghost in love, this surreal book may not be for everyone. Frankly, I wasn’t sure if it was for me. But I soon discovered it felt quite refreshing to read something that stretched out my mind like a difficult yoga pose. I was entranced by the sheer scope of the writing and I relished my escape into this author’s expansive imagination.
True, The Ghost in Love may not equal that stone cottage in the faraway trees, but it will more than suffice as my escape for this week.

Painting above: On Top Of The World by James Hill

A Dozen of My Favourite Things for May

1.
The Imaginative Art of Gretel Parker
Illustrator and Toy Maker Extraordinaire
Her painting featured above, and below are a few of her latest toy creations:



2.
Charles Dickens on PBS

3.
The resurgence of wonderful wallpapers, as evidenced by
Grow, House, Grow...
a most creative company after my own heart...glorious wallpaper designs - each with its very own narrative!
I can just see a elegant entry hall... with this on the wall above glossy white panelling...


and dark antique furniture, sunburst mirrors, cut crystal vases of orange parrot tulips and a West Highland Terrier sitting on a black and white marble floor waiting patiently for the postman to put today’s mail through the bronze slot in the forest green front door.

4.
Listening to Astrid Gilberto with the windows open while I make a pie and the dogs sleep on the floor at my feet.

5.
This blog that I discovered just as its writer was on holiday in London.
It has now become a regular morning coffee stop for me.

6.
Sharp cheddar cheese melted on toasted sourdough bread

7.
Planting flowers, flowers, flowers!

8.
Lemon Ice Cream

9.
My collection of cotton pajamas from The Cat’s Pajamas

10.
SPF 90 and sun hats by Kokin

11.
This wonderful, wonderful rug:


I can just see it, lying on a polished wood floor in a room painted the palest shade of citron, with a magnificent stone fireplace, weathered leather chairs with tapestry cushions, the complete works of Simenon and Conan Doyle bound in red leather in French Deco bookcases, and leaded glass casement windows that open out onto a peony garden where a vaguely surly bulldog is waiting to be let back inside before it rains.

12.
And finally, this poem by Mary Oliver.
If only you could read it with your eyes closed.

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts,her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

Green Gardens

The recent airing of the remarkable production of HBO's Grey Gardens has precipitated quite a lot of conversation in my circles on the subject of eccentricity. Is it a singular characteristic; one to be celebrated and encouraged? Or is it simply the more fanciful relative of insanity? In regards to the ladies from Grey Gardens, one might certainly argue that eccentricity veers solidly into madness when squalor, stench and raccoon roommates enter the picture.
I do feel qualified to say that I can recognize the difference, for I am from the South.
Though our gardens may be green, we are well acquainted with eccentricity here.

There are those who have read John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and believed it to be a wonderfully imaginative tale. For us, it was totally non-fiction. The colourful characters that populate the works of Eudora Welty, Flannery O’Connor and Pat Conroy...not to mention Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote? I could introduce you to their prototypes any day of the week. In fact, more that a few of them are nesting quite comfortably in my family tree.

We have swimmers in our gene pool who have broken limbs as the result of ill-considered efforts to fly. While a few of these painfully hopeful attempts employed the aid of umbrellas, at least one depended solely on the flapping of arms. There is the uncle who named his truck, painted that moniker on the side of the door, bought a police radio and spent his days waiting to hear of any and all disturbances at which point he would jump in the christened vehicle and head to the scene. Needless to say, he was a bit famous in law enforcement circles. There is the neighbor who swears he witnessed a group of houseguests levitate in another neighbor’s back garden and of course, there is the gentlemen who frequently strolls out to get the morning newspaper in a short baby blue negligee.

Maybe it’s the heat. Or the humidity. Perhaps the moss that hangs from the trees somehow finds its way inside our heads. But here in the South we dwell within a veritable petri dish of eccentricity. It permeates our literature, our music, our humour, and it is often the prism through which we view the world. To be sure, it does make life interesting and, I suppose, as long as the raccoons remain on the other side of the doors, we’re safe.

“We are all mad here”
The Cheshire Cat,
from Alice in Wonderland

Ever Smiling

Her beauty, while intoxicating, never overpowers as does that of her summertime sisters. She has never been as reserved, nor as wise, as her brothers of autumn. Ever smiling, she drifts in the doorway as a fragrance, trailing lilacs all over the floor, and a bit of her lingers, in the secret corners of the soul, long after her departure.

She flirts, she entices, she weaves flowers in my hair and puts ideas in my head. She turns my chair towards the window and makes me think of picnics. She lays out my linen blazer and finds a gardenia for my lapel. She wants me to wear white shoes.

She recites poetry at the oddest times, stanzas awash with chimerical gardens and follies of stone. Pale rooms with tall windows and blue nights full of stars.
She erases years and fills my plate with strawberries. She dances a waltz in an arbor at midnight and begs me to follow her down to the sea.
I am helpless in her presence.

She is May.
Open the windows.
She is almost here.


"The month of May was come,
when every lusty heart beginneth to blossom,
and to bring forth fruit;
for like as herbs and trees bring forth fruit and flourish in May,
in likewise every lusty heart that is in any manner a lover,
springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds.
For it giveth unto all lovers courage, that lusty month of May."

Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d'Arthur

The First Few Notes of a Song

In recent days I, like so many others, have struggled to hold back tears as I sat in front of my computer screen mesmerized by the video of Scotland’s Susan Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent. An ordinary woman with an extraordinary gift, she accomplished a feat I would not have dreamed possible. In the first few notes of a song, her lovely voice effectively silenced the snarky, arrogant attitude that seems to permeate the culture of fame. In the first few notes of a song, she drew a technicolour line between talent and celebrity, placing both in sharp contrast and illustrating clearly how rarely the two intersect. Just why was everyone in that audience so certain this woman was incapable of such a performance?
Simple answer, really. She didn’t look the part.

So often these days it seems appearance trumps everything else. In Hollywood, apparently, there is such a sparse folder of acceptable definitions for beauty that people are willing to do just about anything to make certain their visage falls within the corporately validated range. True individuality, and the courage to retain it, seems rather thin on the ground at the moment. A naturally aging face or a bit of a crooked nose, both of which I happily own, are often difficult to find in the halls of celebrity.

Perhaps this is part of the reason that dear Susan Boyle has so transfixed the world. She has challenged the current, paperthin definition of beauty and has, just perhaps, made us wonder how many others just like her are out there in the crowd. How many talented, brilliant, remarkable souls are casually dismissed for appearance sake, and just how much wonder has our culture been denied as a result? I have often heard it said that Abraham Lincoln could never have been elected president in this media driven day. He just would not look the part.
A shudder worthy thought, to be sure.

It is quite impossible to fathom the white hot glare of the lights now focused on Ms. Boyle or what effect that glare will have. Indeed, I have recently read that she has undergone a makeover of sorts.
I do hope those blazing lights do her no harm.
And I hope she gets to sing for the Queen.


Painting above: The Mirror of Venus by Edward Burne-Jones

Our Friends

The morning had just awakened, stretching out her graceful arms in painterly strokes of pink and blue as she yawned with sweet breezes that sailed in from the east and made the windchimes sing in rounds of tenor voices.
The poplar noticed first.
Down below, the big white dog was tearing cross the garden, fur flying out behind him as he bore down on a fat grey rabbit whose spatula feet fast forwarded it... always just a bit out of reach... till it scooted under the wooden fence like a vapour. Stunned, the white dog watched the cottontail disappear with barks of frustration. The old poplar tree laughed, his lemonlime leaves fluttering in their Spring-born fuzziness, and soon, one by ever larger one, they were all awake to share in this comedy unfolding far beneath them on the garden floor.

They are the guardians of the ivy covered cottage that nestles beneath their greenly benevolent gaze. From their tip top branches where the Great Horned Owl surveys the midnight landscape, all the way down, down to their horrible-muddy, long-fingered roots clasping hands with one another far below the surface of the soil. They have stood their ground for decades. These venerable oaks and mischievous, cone-throwing pines. These girlish pink dogwoods and quietly handsome maples. Through winter snow and summer storm, they dance in the wind and lift their leafy faces to the rain, while mockingbirds nest in the crooks of their arms and squirrels chase squirrels on the tightropes of their high-wire branches.
Occasionally, especially in April, their bashful new leaves shyly brush the windows to say hello.

They are our friends. They are our trees.
And tis too true, no poem could be lovelier.

Painting by Joyce Gibson

Sheep

I have always had a thing for sheep. How well I remember the perfectly delicious feeling of having a chubby white ewe take treats from my little flattened palm under a cavernous tent at the state fair when I was a child. What a treat it was to enjoy a personal encounter with an animal that I had only met on the pages of story books. I have sat amused in my car on isolated, one-lane tracks in Scotland, patiently waiting for the flock of woolly wanderers gazing in my windows to deem me worthy of passage by moving out from the center of the road. And once, I sat on a windy hill by the sea and watched in fascination as a flock of sheep suddenly turned from the hillside and began to make their way, single-file and sure, out to the steep, winding road, over a small stone wall, and down to the beach below.
What an enchanting sight to see.... sheep enjoying a day out at the beach.

Maybe it is my new found love of knitting that has caused me to appreciate these remarkable creatures anew. I walk into my favourite knitting shop and stand there happily tempted by the myriad of colour and variety of texture they are capable of producing. Shall I choose Black Welsh or Jacob? Suffolk or Bluefaced Leister? I feel in partnership with them somehow, as together we team up to create such lovely things and Lord knows, I could not do it without them. Knitting is such a tactile activity, and as I sit for hours watching as a simple ball of delicate wool is transformed under my own ten fingers, I cannot help but wonder about the sturdy hillside fellow that sent it my way.

There are those who say the only thing that exists inside the mind of the sheep is a dial tone. But I don’t believe it for a minute. Especially after reading this truly wonderful new book by Leonie Swann. It is entitled Three Bags Full and I most highly recommend it, even for those who might not be as besotted with sheep as I. It is the story of a certain flock of sheep who were read to every evening by their shepherd and consequently developed a higher, albeit quirky, intelligence than might otherwise have been afforded them. When their shepherd is murdered...in the first few pages...they take it upon themselves to solve the crime. Witty, original, and delightfully sheepy, I looked forward to my time spent inside its covers and I would be the first in line to purchase a sequel if one appeared.

Imprisoned

Like most interior designers, I am a total showhouse addict. I love to see what other designers are thinking and how those thoughts are translating into new ideas for the decoration of houses. Generally speaking, showhouse rooms are not created for any specific client; a designer is totally unfettered when it comes to interpreting the images swimming in the forefront of his imagination. Thus, these houses are of unfailing interest to me because I can discover a bit of the current inspirations of my peers. Are they looking backwards, into historical interiors with document fabrics and aubusson rugs? Are they totally immersed in the current moment with clean lines, farmhouse sinks and blue grey walls? Or perhaps, are they off roaming the landscape of the future and, if so, just how do they see it?

As I read about New York City’s Kips bay Showhouse today, I must consider that, at least for a few of these artists, the future has become the present. Kips Bay has the reputation of being the creme de la creme of showhouses, consistently presenting top designers pulling out all the stops available. It is revered and highly publicized. And this year, it features a Panic Room. Windowless, with walls the colour of charcoal, it contains a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, a stainless steel toilet and a bearskin rug. I found this comically ironic and assumed it was meant to be so until I read the quote from the designer, William T. Georgis. When asked why we need a panic room Mr. Georgis replied, ”Do you read the papers? Economic mayhem, global warfare, take your pick. We have to hunker down, and where we do so has to be chic and comfortable”.

I shall set aside the question about this room being either chic or comfortable and consider this supposed need for mankind to “hunker down” . Really? Have we traveled that far full circle? How long till it is back to blood over the door and a necklace of garlic? Once, glowering gargoyles perched on rooftops to ward off evil spirits and moats encircled the manor house. Are we now to believe that those antediluvian fears have returned with such thunder as to force our retreat into prisons within our own houses? I am no Pollyanna - I read the same papers as those now altered by fear. I just refuse to bow to those headlines of doom. I much prefer to station round my home the safeguards of hope and faith, optimism and love. Strong guardians all, who will not allow panic into my house, let alone give him his own room.

Panic room? I am off to open my windows.

“I've seen the nations rise and fall
I've heard their stories, heard them all
but love's the only engine of survival”

from “The Future” by Leonard Cohen

Painting above: Princess Elizabeth in Prison by Sir John Everett Millais

The Storm

The full moon covered his eyes with clouds, not daring to look as the boiling darkness filled the skies above our cottage. Suddenly, like the flash of silver light when a sword is unsheathed, the room was lit like a momentary noon, while off in the distance we could hear the thunder, coming ever nearer, as a herd of black riders galloping over the heavenly plains.

Silent and still we lay there and counted.....one....two....then whoomp - Edward landed with conviction atop the bed, only to be followed, a short second later, by Apple. In possession of entirely too much dignity to act frightened, they both merely appeared to be checking to see if we were alright. Then agreeing together that we might be just a wee bit nervous, they resolved to stay and keep us company. Edward settled himself with his big white head on the Songwriter’s chest, while Apple cozied up against my knees. The windowpanes rattled and shook with the force of the tempest outside, while the four of us snuggled down and listened. The wind howled and the trees cracked and the rain pelted the windows like slingshot stones. But we lay warm and dry, safe and sound, together. A picture perfect illustration of the sweet eccentricity of family.
For surely as the Windsors or the Waltons, we four are a family .

Sharing one’s life with animals is such a delightful way to live. Having two bright souls around who love without prejudice or condition is a bounding and abiding joy.
Whenever I shudder at the horrors of the world, pain that I am incapable of erasing or evils I can only fight with prayer, I look at my dogs lying contentedly by my chair - with their tummies full, their coats brushed, and their paws dry - and I feel comforted. Here are two kind creatures who were rescued from potential disaster and who are now happy, loved and cared for. Perhaps that is a small thing, but somehow it always makes me feel just a bit better.

My favourite quote remains:

“Man with dog closes a gap in the universe.”
C.S. Lewis


Edward and I are so tickled to see the charming photographs
of Bo Obama, or BoBama as we like to call him, the handsome new addition to America’s first family. May he bring them much joy and happiness as they begin their new life as a family of five.

I Have Seen the Bunny, and He Is Me

Unusually large and unnaturally bipedal, they are outsized versions of the storybook characters and cartoon creatures of old, most prevalent in the land of parties and Magic Kingdoms. They count chipmunks and tigers, hound dogs and ducks in their numbers, these anthropomorphic animals adored by children everywhere who entertain no doubt of their living, breathing reality.

Every Spring at Eastertime, one of the more heralded members of this fraternity of fake fur ventures outside the confines of play to the gardens of the everyday world. Perhaps you saw one yourself this weekend, his stitched-on smile never fading as he awkwardly stood in a neighbor’s yard, surrounded by awestruck toddlers anxious for their one special moment with this mysterious annual visitor, this giant rabbit, this Easter Bunny.

I have always been a sucker for the Easter Bunny, and for all of his compadres. Donald Duck, Tigger, Goofy and Pooh Bear - for years I bought the illusion completely, gleefully posing for pictures with these charming fellows whenever the opportunity arose, never thinking, not once considering, the poor suffering wretch hiding inside his suit of stifling polyester. And then, it happened.

One lovely Spring, I helped to plan our neighborhood’s first Easter Egg hunt. Being the sort of person who never likes to ask others to do something I am perfectly capable of doing myself, I decided to play the Bunny. How hard could it be? Rent a furry suit and climb inside. Right? Oh, the naivete.

Tickled with my sartorial choice - for I had chosen a Bunny suit that I found quite fetching, complete with a colourful little vest, bright blue bow tie, and requisite cottontail - I had actually begun to look forward to the event. I mean it is not everyday when one is, without question, destined to be the star of the show. So when the big day arrived I happily bounced out of bed in anticipation.
My confidence began to ebb ever so slightly when I slipped on my rabbit feet. As large as cross country skis, I could see that these newly acquired appendages would make getting around unaided almost impossible. But a touch of real gloom descended when I pulled on my gargantuan rabbit head. Ostensibly, these costumes are meant to fit everyone, but it was quite clear that no one of my exact proportions had been considered during the creation of this particular cranium. If I was ever going to suffer from claustrophobia, this was going to be the day.
Barely able to breath, I could see out the darkly screened eye holes only when I stood as ramrod straight as a palace guard, and achieving this particular posture made my chin jut out at a rather irritating angle. It was at this exact point that I noticed the smell...an overwhelming sweet scent of fabric softener, which made me consider for the first time how many other human heads had been stuffed inside this rabbit skull before my own. And as I am a person who would never dream of renting a pair of bowling shoes because I find the thought of wearing “public” footwear more that a little distasteful, well..... imagining all those previous tenants of my big rabbit head began to make me feel just a wee bit woozy.
But, in for a penny , in for a pound, and besides...my public was waiting, so off to the car I went. I could tell by the none too subtle way The Songwriter was doubled over in laughter that this was destined to be an afternoon I would remember for a long, long while.

I lumbered into the grassy garden filled to bursting with children of all shapes and sizes and I must say that that I played my part to perfection all afternoon. Never saying a word, I shook my basket full of eggs, I hugged giggling toddlers, I bounced babies on my knee, all the while being gazed up at by these happy, shining faces with total adoration. Funnily, it took me hours before I stopped smiling when a camera was pointed my way and now whenever I think of myself grinning like a cat inside my giant rabbit head, I have to laugh. Once I figured it out, the freedom of actually sticking out my tongue or making a monkey face whenever someone said “smile”, was quite delicious.

It was an experience everyone should have at least once in their lifetime, although I am glad to say that other neighbors have been enlisted for this Easter duty in recent years. But as we gain empathy through experience, I am now unfailingly kind to those Disney ducks and Pooh Bears whenever I happen to be in their presence.
For I know that inside that festive attire there lurks a silent sufferer; a hot, nearly blind soul, standing tall, and balancing on feet that are way too big to count for much.


"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."
Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.....

From the poem by Dylan Thomas

Painting - Why Seek Ye the Living Among the Dead
by Howard Pyle

A Most Happy Easter to Everyone!!
From Both of Us!

Andalusia

Her writing was oft considered somewhat strange, so it seemed only fitting that I embarked on my birthday pilgrimage to her farm just as a somewhat strange April snow was falling all around me. And I fell with it, back decades in time, to a day when this enigmatic writer lived and wrote in this white wooden farmhouse with its red tin roof and wide screened porch.
She kept a flock of fifty peacocks.
And she died too young.

Whispers of her stories are everywhere here, one can hear them on the very wind that rustles through the towering oak trees above, soft echoes caught in corners of the unchanged rooms - snippets of stories that gently point to all those colourful symbols she once used to paint her shining paragraphs. Her inspirations are still manifest everywhere I look.

Sanctification floats on the quiet waters of the pond at the bottom of the hill, grace flutters through the hundreds of white lilies that line the trail by the meadow, suffering sits with the cold metal crutches that still silently lean against her writing desk, and dark humour glints the eye of a crotchety old mule as he stares down a large, white, rather flabbergasted, dog.

My words would be inadequate to say what it means to
stand at her bedroom door; to see where she worked, where she slept, where she met the day.
I left with that memory and one perfect peacock feather.



Andalusia is the home of American writer, Flannery O'Connor.
She wrote two novels and thirty-two short stories and was the first fiction writer born in the twentieth century to have her works collected and published by the Library of America.
She died of lupus at age thirty-nine.

William and Me

“We have within ourselves
Enough to fill the present day with joy,
And overspread the future years with hope.”

William Wordsworth
born April 7th

I have always been proud to share my birthday with Mr. Wordsworth and have always thought this old postcard to be one of the most delightful illustrations of pure happiness I have ever seen.
Like the pair in the picture, Edward and I are off to have a happy day!