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!

No Lovelier Spot

As usual, his dark eyes were hidden in the mist, but I could still sense him gazing down on me from his place so high above as I made my way along the path to the garden. The tallest of his kind, for years he had kept a benevolent watch on the divinely turreted manor nestled below him. Floating islands of cloud cast giant navy blue shadows on the grass; shadows that moved over the hunter green lawn like ball gowns waltzing in the wind. I followed their dance to the stone gate hidden amid the towering firs. Once behind the garden wall, cabbage leaves and dahlias painted tableaus in deep purple, while sun orange pumpkins sat serenely waiting to be turned into midnight fairytale coaches. The air smelled like holidays. Plump raindrops began to fall at my feet, those slow, wet drops that herald downpours, so I started back. Off in the distance, I could see the old stone tower of the great house, stately and mysterious, standing proudly impassive, with stories to tell but with no intention of doing so. The majestic lady, for whom an entire age was named, once wrote in her diary of this very place declaring, “I never saw a lovelier or more romantic spot”.
I would have been foolish to doubt her.
I pulled my hat brim lower, my pace quickened with the raindrops. I knew, inside that tower, wood fires were burning, my name was remembered and my tea was waiting.


For the first person to correctly guess this location, I shall be happy to send
an Easter Keepsake Box!

(Congratulations to Martha from Lines From Linderhof!!!
She was the first to guess correctly!)

Bits of Simple Paper

With the back of a gloved hand, I wiped away a crescent of fog from the taxi window and gazed up at the enigmatic old building rising solidly before me in the steel coloured sky. The British Museum. Home to more enchantment than the mind could fathom. Paying the driver, I joined the muffled throng ascending the stone steps and soon found myself inside. There, in the glowing cavernous room to my right, within ancient wooden cases with heavy glass tops, lay the wonders I had come to see.

Inside the first, lying there open, was a small notebook containing all the magical words that made up the novel, Jane Eyre, the very words written by Charlotte Bronte herself, in her very own tiny, perfect script. There it was, the book that I had read at the age of thirteen, under the blankets with a flashlight - the book that left me with an abiding thirst for all that literature could offer. I could scarcely breathe as I stared at this original manuscript. Then I noticed, over to the side of the room, a crowd was gathered around another case. Walking over slowly, I could see that inside rested the handwritten, iconic lyrics of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Words that defined a generation; words that had changed the culture. I stood a bit off to the side and watched as people of all nationalities approached these bits of simple paper with near reverence, some of them softly singing the songs to themselves in a melange of exotic accents. Tears stung my eyes as I witnessed the astounding power of the written word. Whether book, poem or lyric, when the very words that have been instrumental in shaping your life and your heart, words that have influenced the way in which you see the world or helped you find your way in it....when the original incarnation of those words is right before your very eyes, well... it is an overwhelming experience.

I think back often to that drizzly afternoon in the British Museum. I have never lost the awestruck feeling of gazing down at those wondrous written treasures. And these days, I have to confess, I fear for the written word. There does not seem to be a day that passes without reports of another newspaper switching over to online availability only, while I myself find it utterly impossible to imagine a morning without a pot of hot coffee and the Times spread out on the kitchen table. Now, I am no Luddite. I use technology almost as much as anyone, with the possible exception of a teenager. I find email a valuable tool for handling business and for staying in contact with people one might otherwise lose track of, and I am writing these words on a blog, for goodness sake. But I do wonder what sort of legacy is being left and what sort of environment is being fashioned when so much of what is written and read exists only in the digital realm.

When I look into the eyes of Vincent Van Gogh as they stare out at me from one of his many haunting self-portraits, the experience is infinitely more powerful because I have read the moving letters that exist between the artist and his beloved brother, Theo. Indeed, the letters of E.B. White or C.S. Lewis, Virginia Woolf or Beatrix Potter are so inspiring, so enlightening, it grieves me to think of the scarcity of such correspondence in the current age. The love letters I have tied up with a velvet ribbon in the box under my bed? Somehow I cannot imagine retaining the same sweet fondness for a folder full of emails. And it seems, with the current text and tweet phenomenon, the infinite glory of the English language is constantly being whittled to an ever more insignificant series of nonsensical acronyms, dashes and dots.

I realize I am perilously close to the edge of a rant and I hasten to say that I am fresh out of answers. Perhaps the ship has sailed. But I for one shall go down swinging. And who knows, maybe one day I myself shall be in a museum, sitting upright in a mahogany display case with a hat on my head.

No doubt my label shall declare me to be ...
The Last Surviving Letter Writing, Newspaper Subscribing, Hardback Reading,
Old Crank on the Planet!

Painting: Self-Portrait With Straw Hat, 1887 by Vincent van Gogh

Wide Open Windows

Too cool to be hot, to warm to be cold, it was a day for which Spring is justly famous. A day for Aaron Copland’s celebratory composition of the season, and we listened to his melodic photograph at full volume, with windchimes and honeybees keeping rhythm by the wide open windows. The curtains blew in, welcoming the sweet fragrance of Carolina Jessamine as it shyly crept inside our winter weary rooms, drifting past the big white dog dozing on a dark wood floor and wafting out to the back garden where a New Dawn rose was just beginning to remember how to bloom. It was a day when the bluebirds were out in perfectly matched pairs, shopping for new houses as seriously as any newlywed couple with a down payment from Daddy. A day when a gamboling March wind sprinkled showers of bridal white blossoms onto our pathway as we strolled to a park of rolling hills newly covered in daffodils. A day to look to the trees above, now engaged in their yearly celebration of verdant individuality as they busily don wardrobes worthy of Oz... chartreuse and lime, kelly and citrine...so many colours of green. A day for taking deep, deep breaths of gratitude, for the cloudless sky high above our heads, the warmth of the Spring sun on our shoulders, the soft, fresh carpet beneath our feet.
Too early to plant, to late to harvest, this was a day made only to enjoy.
And, oh how we did.








Special note:... Edward would like to announce that he has been assisting in the creation of lots and lots of Easter Keepsake boxes over the past week. Most are already spoken for, but a few have been placed in our etsy shoppe!

Vintage Bunny Box sold!

Unawares

With a black fedora cocked to one side of his head and a plaid scarf knotted round his neck, he sat by the side of the road, playing a trumpet. Years of laughter were crosshatched round his closed eyes and his espresso hands held the glowing gold trumpet with the easy familiarity of one who had long ago mastered his art. No pedestrians on this stretch of road, no coins to be thrown his way, he played full out for no one but himself. Red changed to green and I drove away, but the sight of him wove ribbons of wonder through my thoughts all afternoon, tying up a memory of this favourite poem.

Angels

Who are without mercy,
Who confide in trumpet flowers,
Who carry loose change in their pockets,
Who dress in black velvet,
Who wince and fidget like bats,
Who balance their haloes on hatracks,
Who watch reruns of famine,
Who powder their noses with pollen,
Who laugh and unleash earthquakes,
Who sidle in and out of our dreams
Like magicians, like childhood friends,
Who practice their smiles like pirates,
Who exercise by walking to Zion,
Who live on the edge of doubt,
Who cause vertigo but ease migraines,
Who weep milky tears when troubled,
Whose night sweats engender the plague,
Who pinion their arms to chandeliers,
Who speak in riddles and slant rhymes,
Who love the weak and foolhardy,
Who lust for unripe persimmons,
Who scavenge the fields for lost souls,
Who hover near lighthouses,
Who pray at railroad crossings,
Who supervise the study of rainbows,
Who cannot blush but try,
Who curl their hair with corkscrews,
Who honeymoon with Orion,
Who are not wise but pure,
Who behave with impious propriety,
Who hourly scour our faces with hope,
Whose own faces glow like radium,
Whom we've created in our own form,
Who are without mercy, seek and yearn
To return us like fossilized roses
To the wholeness of our original bloom.
by Maurya Simon

A Pink Hydrangea

There are fifty-two hydrangeas that surround our cottage. They are a delightful source of beauty during the spring and summer months when they are in full blue, pink, or white bloom, and in the autumn when their flowers turn an amazing shade of green, they are perfect for creating ravishing wreaths and arrangements that last the long winter through. With fifty-two of these gracious ladies around me, I rarely feel the need to purchase fresh flowers once they decide to commence their seasonal show. However, there used to be fifty-three of them.

Our very first hydrangea was planted by my father. It was a vivid pink mophead and he placed it directly beside the front stairs. Being a methodical perfectionist with his own unique set of ideas and techniques, the planting process took a bit of a while. Peat moss was brought in, along with cottonseed meal, the hole was dug and re-dug to a specific depth, fertilizer was added, lime was sprinkled into the mix, mulch carefully placed round the plant like a stole. Wiping his hands on his trousers when finally done, he declared it to be planted “just perfect”. His efforts were amply rewarded as that pink hydrangea continued to thrive year after year, growing ever larger each season, its dinner plate size blooms drooping low over the front porch stairs and shining a fuschia light in the summer sun. Indeed, its beauty was so seductive, it enticed us to continue planting hydrangeas in the garden each and every spring until every spot was taken and we were known as the Hydrangea House.

Daddy passed away a year and a half ago and, in a tale worthy of the fairies, his pink hydrangea, our very first one, the one standing strong and tall for so many years, left with him. I thought last season it might have just been damaged a bit by a early spring frost, but this year it is clear that the lovely old lady is no more. As I plant a new pink one in the same place this year, I shall think of Daddy in his heavenly home, his resplendent garden adorned with a familiar, ever-blooming, pink hydrangea by the front door.
I know it will have been planted just perfect.

The Best of Friends

It was an wayward baseball, launched, no doubt, from the bat of a too-eager Little Leaguer, up high over the fence and out into the wild world where it rolled and it rolled till it came to a stop on a bed of lenten roses in the garden of an elderly neighbor. And there it lay, unnoticed and undisturbed, till the sunny afternoon last week when Edward came by, nonchalantly prancing along in the midst of his lunchtime walk. Pulling up short, he sniffed the air, looked down to his left, and spied the ball. An unexpected treasure ... the very best kind! Gingerly, he picked it up and carried it with him, all the way back to his own drive, up the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door, with Apple on his heels. What a treat! What a find! The two friends could not wait to see what this round leather thing could do!

Edward rolled it to Apple, she rolled it back. He batted it with his polar bear paws across the lawn in true Beckham fashion. She impishly stole it and ran teasingly over the stone wall and through the hydrangea border. He bent low by the climbing rose, patiently waiting to pounce when she emerged from the other side of the birdbath. And pounce he did, igniting a rolling, tumbling festival that continued all over the garden till they both became so tickled with themselves there was nothing left but to run full out, cutting figure eights all through the trees. When they couldn’t run a minute more, they flopped, out of breath and grinning as only the best of friends can grin on a sunny day after playing with a baseball for the very first time. I watched them from the window, laughing, and wondered what dogless people do in the middle of the afternoon for entertainment.

Painting above: Best of Friends by Abel Hold


Best of Friends in the Flesh

Wild Life

Today marks the end of National Wildlife Week. Therefore, I thought it timely to relate a rather heart-stopping wildlife adventure Edward escorted me on last Spring.

It was a year ago this month, a perfectly ordinary evening at the end of a perfectly ordinary week. The Songwriter had just returned from out of town and was in the process of bringing in his bags. I was preparing dinner and had opened the back door for Edward and Apple to go outside for a run in the garden whilst the Songwriter unloaded the car. The dogs ran out but, per usual, immediately ran back in so as not to miss out on any homecoming activities of potential grand interest. Both sat down just behind me as I stood chopping carrots at the kitchen counter, the three of us forming a classic contented picture of quiet domesticity.

All of a sudden our quiet was shattered as I heard the Songwriter scream out in piercing notes of a most unnatural pitch. I wheeled around to see Edward, sitting calmly at my feet, holding on to an extremely large opossum, its horrid, hairless tail reaching almost to the floor. I asked no question, I made no sound. I simply threw carrots into the air and ran like a girl for the door. Edward, of course, sensed a game was afoot and had no intention of being left out of the fun. He followed me full stop, but not before setting down his magnificent prize in the middle of the kitchen floor. Apple retreated fast on Edward’s heels, leaving the Songwriter all alone, holding his bags and staring down in horror at the full grown opossum lying supine at his feet.

Now the wonderful thing about a possum is that he is genetically programmed to play dead whenever he is in a precarious situation, and that was just what our dreadful little friend was doing now - on his side like a corpse in my kitchen. As I paced the back garden chanting ohnoohnoohno like a mantra with Edward following my every step as if to ask, what? what? what?.... man and beast were left together in paralyzed silence for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, the door flew open and I saw the Songwriter sprinting for the back of the garden. In the darkness, I couldn’t see what he was doing and wondered briefly if he had jumped the fence and was making for the airport on foot. But no, soon he came running back, muttering unintelligibly, with a shovel in one hand and a bucket in the other. His unknown, and hastily crafted, plan did not bear thinking about.

Upon his return to the kitchen he could see that our creepy wee visitor, realizing that his clever genetic coping mechanism had once again rescued him from certain disaster, was now sitting bolt upright, comfortably surveying his new circumstance. Fortunately, one nudge with the aforementioned shovel, and he flopped over “dead” once more which rendered him, most mercifully for all concerned, quite easy to maneuver into the bucket and out to the car where, luckily for him, he was taken on a short drive and eventually set free in a densely wooded park where, no doubt, he lives happily to this very day.

Given the unrealistic calm they both exhibited during this harrowing encounter, I do believe neither Edward nor Apple realized exactly what they had. Edward has several large stuffed toys that he frequently carries around, the same size and roughly the same colour as our hairy little houseguest. I truly think he simply walked out onto the porch in the dark, and picked up the opossum who was lying limp in the overwhelming presence of a large dog, and carried him inside as one of his stuffed toys.

Needless to say, it was a wildlife encounter none of us shall ever forget and one I fervently hope will never occur again.

Painting above: Noah's Ark by Francis Hamel


Note: It seems as if the opossum has neglected to travel to other parts of the globe and therefore some of you are unaware of exactly what he looks like. I thought this photo might be of help.

Some Of My Favourite Things This Week Before Spring

The scent of white lilies in vases all over the house
Planting Candytuft and Rosemary bushes

The Songwriter’s new CD......so proud!


The taste of Organic Strawberries, perfectly, sweetly, in season
Shepherd’s Pie on a rainy Saturday night
The pink and white striped cotton shirt I stole from the Songwriter
Mario Badescu products, just the best stuff ever
Fleet Foxes singing White Winter Hymnal
Reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery
Watching Driving Lessons - wonderful, quirky film with Julie Walters and Rupert Grint

This cake stand by William Yeoward...


The colour of Edward’s fur and the hat I knitted to match it
The scent of my hands after planting rosemary bushes
Lemon Ginger Herbal Tea by Stash

This gorgeous new silk from Designers Guild....


This outfit....


This verse:

"For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come
and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.
The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom;
they give forth fragrance.
Arise my love, my fair one,
and come away."

The Song of Solomon, 2:11-13


...And I have a late addition to my list of early Spring favourites....
just today I received some lovely notecards from Karen, the charming artist at
Moonlight and Hares! Do pop over and see her beautiful work!! Thank you, Karen!

Two Emerald Celebrations

The Isle Of Innisfree

I’ve met some folks who say that I’m a dreamer
And I’ve no doubt there’s truth in what they say
But sure a body’s bound to be a dreamer
When all the things he loves are far away.
And precious things are dreams onto an exile
They take him o’er the land across the sea
Especially when it happens he’s an exile
From that dear lovely Isle of Innisfree.

And when the moonlight peeps across the rooftops
Of this great city wondrous tho’ it be
I scarcely feel its wonder or its laughter
I’m once again back home in Innisfree.

I wander o’er green hills thro’ dreamy valleys
And find a peace no other land could know
I hear the birds make music fit for angels
And watch the rivers laughing as they flow.
And then into a humble shack I wander
My dear old home, and tenderly behold
The folks I love around the turf fire gathered
On bended knees their rosary is told.

But dreams don’t last
Tho’ dreams are not forgotten
And soon I’m back to stern reality
But tho’ they paved the footways here with gold dust
I still would choose the Isle of Innisfree.

by Richard Farrelly



and.... Happy Birthday, PVE!

Not only is this emerald green day a celebration for the Irish, but it is also the birthday of the delightful Patricia van Essche of PVE Design. A wonderful painter and illustrator, Patricia is also a kind and generous soul who has surprised many a fortunate blogger with art done specifically with them in mind. I was never so tickled as the morning I awoke to find this lovely portrait of Edward up on her blog. And then, she actually sent it to me! It now presides proudly over my library and is a true treasure to us all. On this St. Patrick’s Day, do join Edward and me as we travel over to PVE Design and wish lovely Patricia a most Happy Birthday!!

Pure Fiction

It may sound contradictory, but I find such truth in fiction. In noting last week’s passing of one of America’s most truthful dramatists, Horton Foote, NY Times columnist Frank Rich compared his work to that of Faulkner “in its ability to make his own corner of America stand for the whole.” So true. Mr. Foote called out characters from the cloud of witnesses that populated his life, shone a golden light on them and rendered them wholly recognizable to human beings everywhere.

That is the enormous challenge as well as the invaluable gift of fiction, to illuminate the human condition in such a way as to give the reader a glimpse into his or her own soul. When successful, such fiction can plant the seed of wisdom, it can provide a visceral recognition of oneself in the feelings and experiences of others, a holy realization that we are all the same, we are all valuable, we are all human.

One can read reams about the Gilded Age in history books, but the words of Edith Wharton can take one’s hand and lead the way right inside it. Read The Age Of Innocence or The House of Mirth and see what I mean. Or dig beneath the surface of Flannery O’Connor’s outrageous stories to find the grace cleverly hidden within. Feast at the banquet of glorious words concocted by Virginia Woolf in Mrs. Dalloway; words that resonate in the deepest parts of the soul, providing vital nourishment to those who did not even realize they were hungry. Or perhaps, try an amazingly lucid book I’ve just recently finished, Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout. Creative in its very form, it is a series of stories that consider the quiet existence of a few people in a coastal Maine village as the prickly character of Olive moves through their individual lives, sometimes directly, often on the periphery. I found it both compassionate and wise, a remarkable two way mirror allowing insight into the lives of others and into myself as well.

By the way, the late Horton Foote also penned the screenplay for Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. And really, I have always felt that pretty much everything worth knowing can be found between the covers of that wondrous book.

“Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Five Needles at Once

On a warm evening a few summers ago, the Songwriter and I stood talking outside our favourite Mexican restaurant whilst we waited for our table. My eyes kept wandering over to young girl seated nearby who happened to be knitting. With five needles at once. Now, I am no stranger to needlework - my needlepoint pillows adorn our upholstery and we sleep every night under quilts handmade by yours truly - but this seemed the most outrageously medieval activity I had ever witnessed at close range. Standing there, I progressed from furtive glances to outright stares, but could make no sense out of what she was doing. And once again, I kicked myself for never really learning to knit, and once again, I resolved afresh to learn.
Well, as I reported a few postings ago, after some expert teaching I have discovered that knitting with five needles is neither outrageous nor medieval. In fact... it’s downright fun. I have now conquered hats and cabled scarves and these days my head is often swimming with rainbows of cashmere, mohair, merino, cotton and silk, all for creations yet to be.
I can highly recommend learning something new.

As the photo shows, Edward agreed to model one of my first creations. He seems to like this particular chapeau quite a lot, but has just a bit of difficulty keeping it on!

To Pay Attention

“That big dog looks so happy”, the man called out over his shoulder as he cycled past and out of sight. Edward paid him no mind as he continued his jaunty pace through the trees.
The winding forest pathway, snowcovered only days before, was now lined with the chartreuse velvet of new moss, transformed as a greystone bridge over leprechaun seas that flowed all the way to the clearing. Edward stopped to listen. The old forest fairly crackled with the expectation of Spring. How long now? Days? Minutes?

The March sun, happily unhindered by cloud, took full afternoon dominion and draped sheets of tinsel across the lake; such shimmering silver, it hurt the eyes. Edward flopped down to rest on a grass carpet which still remained reluctant to remove its winter coat of gold, not yet ready to unveil the lemon emerald dress of Spring. Ancient windchimes performed nonchalant overhead tunes and a clumsy bumblebee tested out his new Spring wings for the very first time. The big dog dozed while the wind gently played with his fur.

To pay attention at the arrival of a new season. To spend a quiet extra hour in the perfection that is Nature. These are the halcyon moments.
That big dog was indeed happy.

"One attraction in coming to the woods to live was that I should have leisure and opportunity to see the spring come in."
Henry David Thoreau

A Birthday Memory

I had come to Britain some years back to observe the occasion of my fortieth birthday with the half hearted hope that by not being in the actual country of my birth on the actual date, perhaps it wouldn’t really count, or even, by some magical quirk in the time- space continuum, the numbers attributed to my age account might happily begin to reverse. I was not exactly certain what I was supposed to be feeling. It seemed as though this particular age I was facing was meant to serve as a milestone of sorts, especially for a woman. After all, there were specialized magazines for “women over forty”, women in the public eye seemed to have careers divided into before - and after - forty, and it seemed as though everything from fashion to health care moved into separate categories at this advanced age, categories heretofore uncharted and not exactly welcoming. Was I supposed to feel differently now? Was a cultural shroud being fashioned for me at this very moment; my very own cloak of invisibility that was the requisite uniform for antediluvian women like myself? I had never before defined myself by any sort of category. Would I be forced to now?

I sat in a cafe in Bath pondering all this one damp and chilly afternoon, when the door suddenly blew open and I turned to see a quite beautiful lady of a certain age enter. She was an exquisite creature, clad in an exotic ensemble of black and grey, complete with a most fetching hat worn over enviable blonde hair, and followed closely by a tweedy gentleman, obviously younger, and obviously besotted. She arranged herself at the table next to mine thereby providing me with a observation point that I took full advantage of. Indeed it was difficult to take my eyes off her. Laughing frequently, with twinkling eyes, she seemed both enormously interesting and interested at the same time. I wanted nothing more than to scoot my chair up to her table and l talk to her all afternoon. I wanted to follow her home. As I watched her I realized, that although obviously older than myself, I could not begin to pinpoint her exact age, nor was that even remotely of interest where this woman was concerned.

And, as I sat there sipping Darjeeling and studying her, I began to feel like myself again, realizing afresh that age is of no matter in the true world. Life was a gift, pure and simple; a sublime journey of learning, giving and love, and it was meant to be lived, full tilt, for as long we are blessed to be here. In short, I got over myself, and went on to enjoy quite a jolly holiday.

I have often wondered who that lady was and where she might be now. She gave me quite a marvelous birthday present that day.
I can still hear her laughter.

Foretelling

I heard the owl at midnight. Not the fairy trill of the Screech, but the oracular notes of the Great Horned that frequently spends his evenings in the invisible branches of the nighttime trees. He often calls to us of other worlds; his low, mysterious voice imparting wisdom we mere humans cannot yet comprehend. But in the morning, upon looking out the window at breakfast time, I understood the message he had perhaps been foretelling. For there outside, falling slowly from the skies like heavenly cotton... Snow. For the first time this year. Each delicious flake drifting down so casually, one’s eye could pick one out and follow it all the long way from grey sky to brown earth, never losing it in the crowd of its ivory brethren. Within an hour our world was iced like a birthday cake by the wizardry of a snowfall and our little cottage now sat squarely on the pages of a storybook. Winter laughed at Spring as we pulled on newly knitted hats and scarves and rushed out to play our parts in this pageantry of snow.

For after all, no one enjoys snow more than Apple!