So Much Fun to Be Home... A List of Wonderful Things

So Much Fun To Be Home...
A List of Wonderful Things

Some years back, on a relatively ordinary afternoon, I received a phone call from a friend wondering if The Songwriter and I would like front row seats to a Rolling Stones concert that very night.  Calling down the hallway to him, The Songwriter yelled “Yes!” before I even completed the query.  Knowing they were famous for not taking the stage until around midnight, I asked The Songwriter if he’d mind if I brought a book to read during the opening acts.  I won’t tell you his reply; I’ll only say I went book-less to the show.  And even with the lateness of the hour, coupled with no satisfactory reading material, I had an absolute whale of a time.

I have sat on both the second and fourth rows of Bruce Springsteen concerts, events that always provide ample amounts of the sort of fun a person reasonably expects to be absent in adulthood.  Though my aversion to being flipped upside down forbade my participation in a ride on the Rock and Roll Roller Coaster at Disneyworld, I did manage to endure falling 150 feet once, and only once, on the elevator contraption in the aptly named Tower of Terror. 

 I say all this to make it clear that I know how to have fun like normal people.  However, as I drove home one afternoon last week in delighted anticipation of the night I had planned, it occurred to me, not for the first time, that there are many definitions of fun.  For as much as I enjoyed all the above mentioned experiences, had someone offered me enviable tickets this particular night I would have flatly turned them down, as I found my plans for the evening much too good to relinquish. 

My house was sparkling clean and full of flowers.  A big bouquet of orange roses filled the Woodland vase in the sitting room, while pink and salmon lace-edged tulips overflowed the cut glass bowl by the bedroom rocking chair.  There were Casablanca lilies in the blue Art Nouveau vase by the fireplace, their fragrance mingling deliciously with the faint traces of woodsmoke from last night’s fire.  I was in the middle of The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt’s latest Dickensian treat, as well as coming into the final stitches of a lace work shawl I'd been knitting and couldn’t wait to block and wear.  The weather outside, though only so recently glacial, was now in a full flirtation with Spring, enough so that I could open the windows and let cleansing breezes drift through the rooms, at least till the sun set.  No invitation could I possibly accept tonight.  Home was the only place I wanted to be, and I spent several long, blissful days enjoying its pleasures and having fun.

This happy hibernation gave me time

 to put together a list of my latest finds for you sweet readers as well.

  Hope you enjoy them all.

*****

 1. More Antique Pillows

In conversation with a client last week, I implored her

 to add some antique touches to her sparkling new rooms. 

 An inherited side table, an old painting. 

 A weathered plant stand in the corner, its patina slightly faded. 

 A stack of old books.

  Antiques give new rooms weight and wisdom.  They are items with experience; they have lived a little.  And just as these are the type of people one wants round one’s dinner party table, these are also sort of items that make a room interesting and inviting.

One of my favourite ways to add some warmth to a room is with antique textiles. 

 An old velvet sash used as a curtain tieback. 

 A faded French quilt at the end of the bed. 

 Or one of these fabulous pillows. 

It’s been rather amazing how quickly these disappear from my etsy shoppe every time I happened to find some more.  The ones I have now are perfect examples of what every room needs.  A bit Bloomsbury, made from antique carpets with utterly scrumptious colours, they add a cozy touch to a room.  I don’t have many in the shop, but each one is a treasure.

And as you can see above..... I kept one for my own bed. 

Find them HERE.
Monday morning update:  Only four left!

****

2. Yarn Bowl

 When The Songwriter and I go out to dinner we have, on several occasions, returned home to a scene as irritating as it is hilarious.  We get a hint something is amiss when we open the front door and spy the tell-tale trail of yarn.  Edward is greeting us as usual, tail spinning and head bobbing.  But Apple is hanging back a little, not exactly meeting our gaze, as though thinking deeply on something infinitely more important that our arrival.  I follow the trail of yarn to find a scene worthy of a dark comedy: yarn wrapping round chair legs, over sofa arms, and in several incidences, down hallways. Once, obviously in a fit of uncontrolled, exuberant mischief, she wound herself round a rocking chair, as tightly as a criminal in a straight-jacket, and had to wait there until we returned, no doubt enduring the disapproving gaze of the slightly older, and infinitely wiser, Edward.  Though she has also chewed up knitting needles and decimated patterns, it seems to be balls of freshly wound wool that attract her attention most completely.  

Therefore, how thrilled was I to open this present at Christmas!  As dear William Morris famously said, “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful”, and this yarn bowl meets that criteria handsomely.  Handmade, gorgeous in colour and form, it has little holes to put the yarn through so the ball doesn’t bounce out of the bowl as well as, hallelujah, a lid!

Though Apple seems a bit bored when we return in the evenings these days,
 I am absolutely in love with this yarn bowl!

Find it HERE. 

****

   3.  Sherlock

Three episodes?

Only three episodes??

Why, oh why, can’t this be on every single night?

****

4.  Bloomsbury at Burberry

With designs taken straight off the walls of Charleston Farmhouse, 

Burberry has entered the Bloomsbury world with an oh so tempting flourish.

Oh, my soul.

These bags.

I want every single one.

Find the entire collection HERE.

****

5.  Porter

Net-A-Porter has just launched a lovely new magazine.

Have you seen it?

The photos of Uma Thurman are so charming.

Find the magazine HERE.

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6.  A Chaise Lounge for Edward!

With this hint of Spring in the air, I naturally think about being outside a bit more.

Like me, Edward likes the shade much more than the sun,

so I think he’d adore this!

Find it HERE.

****

7.  Fanciful Chairs

And while we’re thinking of the outdoors...

How much fun are these?

Imagine a huge manicured garden, 

all formal green hedges and grass, no flowers.

Then imagine these chairs, in every colour, dotted hither and yon, 

as though put in place by a wizard on the ides of March.

Love them.

Find them HERE.

****

8.  Shop Dogs

Lucky me to belong to a book club in Nashville.  I try to attend each quarterly meeting,
 not just because I enjoy our all-classics reading list and delightful conversations, 
but because a trip to Nashville means I can spend an hour or so in Parnassus Books.

They have a sublime selections of books, it’s true.  

And the staff are always helpful and ready to tempt you

 with books you’ve never even heard of before. 

 But it’s the shop dogs that really make any visit irresistible.

Parnassus Books has a wonderful website now, 

with blogs from owner/author, Ann Patchett, staff recommendations
 and best of all, Shop Dog Diaries.  

You must visit and meet Sparky, shown above, as well as Gracie and Bear. 

And you’ll be hard pressed to find a more sincere and responsible shop dog than Opie, 
who has the distinction of penning the latest diary entry.

You will adore them.

Find the Parnassus Shop Dog Diaries HERE.

****

9.  Chicken in Milk

I found this recipe of Jamie Oliver’s last week and tried it for Sunday lunch.

With lemons, garlic, fresh sage and cinnamon, 

it is guaranteed to make your house smell so, so amazing.

And it is so, so delicious.

Find the recipe HERE.

****

 10.  The Grand Budapest Hotel

Simply cannot wait to see this movie.

See the trailer HERE.

See you soon with a new Winter Reading post!
xo

Painting above by Ellen Dora Nicholson

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Ice, Snow, Cake, and a Love Poem

Ice, Snow, Cake, and a Love Poem

Midnight.  Though Edward is inside now, worn out from playing out in the eerie light of a frosted white world, Apple remains mesmerized by the sizzling sound of ice as it needles down through the naked trees.  She stands, silent and still, at the far edge of the garden, her black form against the white like a small hole punched into a blank canvas.  She holds her  face up, listening, catching the ice in her fur then, without a second look, she bolts for the warmth of the house.  

We watched nervously as ice fell most of the following morning, as worried weathermen polished up rarely used words such as “catastrophic” and “historic”; as cardinals and finches, their feathers puffed three times their size, gathered on bare branches to wait their turn at the over-crowded feeders.  Falling trees knocked out power all around us, but by some fortunate quirk of fate, our little forest remained tall and sturdy; our lights never wavered.  And just as the weak, watery sun admitted defeat and slipped below the grey horizon, snow began to fall.  Fat wet cotton balls of snow, sleepy, silent snow, blanketing the sharp personality of the ice and sending us four off to bed. 

Two full days of hibernation when even we rebels obeyed the official warnings to “stay off the roads”.  Two full days when the fire roared in the fireplace as The Songwriter flipped pancakes and Edward snuggled next to me in the fat red chair, my book resting atop his furry back, his big dozing head in my lap.  I can think of many worse ways to spend a couple of days.

Because of this change in our schedule I was unable to make it to the little chocolatier I normally visit this week in February to purchase The Songwriter’s favourite chocolate cremes for Valentine’s Day.  What to do?  What to do?

This!

An utterly delicious chocolate cake with a Valentine’s surprise in the center.

So much fun to make, and utterly delicious as well.

You must try it!

Find the recipe HERE.

And because it wouldn’t be Valentine’s Day without a love poem....

Windchime

By Tony Hoagland

She goes out to hang the windchime

in her nightie and her work boots.

It’s six-thirty in the morning

and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest

tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,

windchime in her left hand,

hammer in her right, the nail

gripped tight between her teeth

but nothing happens next because

she’s trying to figure out

how to switch #1 with #3.

She must have been standing in the kitchen,

coffee in her hand, asleep,

when she heard it—the wind blowing

through the sound the windchime

wasn’t making

because it wasn’t there.

No one, including me, especially anymore believes

till death do us part,

but I can see what I would miss in leaving—

the way her ankles go into the work boots

as she stands upon the ice chest;

the problem scrunched into her forehead;

the little kissable mouth

with the nail in it.

Happy Roses Chocolate Kisses Valentine's Day to You All!

A Grey Day in February

A Grey Day in February

 This morning I peered out my kitchen window through the steam of my second cup of hot coffee at a grey garden overhung with a sky the colour of steel.  It is February now, the pinnacle of winter’s reign, with the festivities of December forgotten and a lemon-lime spring still a long way away.    It is that time of year when the landscape becomes a grisaille painting, all tree bark, dead leaf and frost, punctuated by the bony fingered hands of the hydrangeas forever reaching up towards the low-hanging clouds.   A long wintry walk with Edward notwithstanding, I know the pleasures of February are best found indoors, so I set about busying myself with some of my favourite wintertime tasks.  I kneaded bread, I baked a cake.  I knit the final stitches on a sweater the colour of lilacs.  I listened to an English mystery.   

And on this grey day as I worked contentedly away at these most quotidian of activities, the wonderful actor, and one of my personal favourites, Philip Seymour Hoffman, was eulogized at a funeral service in New York.  I’m not quite sure why his death has felt so unspeakably sad to me this week.  He was a rare talent, to be sure; anyone who has seen one of his performances could easily say that.  He had the ability to disappear into wildly divergent characters in performances that aided us all in better understanding of what it means to be human.  He was only forty-six, much too young, with three small children who need their father and who will miss him terribly.  And death found him through drugs, which is always tragic beyond measure.    I have never understood nor experienced addiction and can only imagine the horrific struggles he was evidently enduring in this, the grey time of year.  Reportedly sober for over twenty years, it seems even sadder that he slipped into the abyss after so long in the light.   

As my quiet rooms filled with the sweet aroma of baking bread and chocolate, I stood looking out at that grey sky, now tinged with the pale pink of a setting sun, and said a prayer for the family of a man I did not know.  I thought of those whose views are always grey, no matter the weather outside; those who cannot manage to climb out of a dark place despite their longing to do so. I said a prayer for them, too. 

I shall miss Philip Seymour Hoffman and the performances that could have been,

 even as I’m grateful for what he left us.

One of my favourite scenes from Doubt....

Just The Best Thing Ever... And An Edward Movie

Just The Best Thing Ever...

and An Edward Movie

Not very far from his doorstep, many cars are in trouble.  Some face the wrong way, some are headfirst into ditches.  On the major highways they are lined up like painted toys, one after the other, as far as the eye can see, their occupants trapped for hours and hours on end.  There are schoolchildren bedding down for the night in cafeterias and classrooms while frantic parents, quite understandably, rant and rave over the city’s apparent lack of preparation for an event such as this.  Neither paperboy nor postman will visit his house today.  But the big white dog knows nothing of all this.  All he knows as he lays snuggled down in his fat paisley bed is that this has been one of the best days he can remember.

He had noticed a subtle change in the light around eleven o’clock that morning.  He didn’t think the sun could be responsible for this, for it had been so feeble at dawn it couldn’t muster a ray to pierce the pale grey wool of the strangely low-slung clouds; couldn’t paint a single shadow beneath the silent trees.  But this unknown light became brighter and brighter as the hours went on; a clear clean light that drew The Lady and The Man to the windows and caused them to smile.   The big white dog could hardly contain his curiosity.

Then he spied them pulling on extra sweaters and scarves; The Lady putting on her wellies; The Man, his gloves.  They opened the mudroom door and stepped aside for the big dog to exit.  Cautiously, he eased his head around the doorframe.  The entire world was white.  And very cold.  Blinking, he placed one big paw atop the marshmallow porch.  Ooh, it felt wonderful.  Joy overtook the big dog.  He shot out into this pristine new world in an effusive burst of jumps and rolls.  Like a pioneer explorer on an undiscovered island, his paw prints were the first to stamp this new land.   He looked around for Apple, his furry black friend, and they began a wintertime dance that continued throughout the arctic afternoon, till they had chunks of snow on the pads of their feet, till their fur was chilled and their ebony noses were cubes of ice.  

For some this January snow caused problems that shall be talked about for years.  

But for one big white dog and his furry black friend, it was just the best thing ever.

Happy Anniversary

“Never love anyone who treats you like you're ordinary.” 

Oscar Wilde

Happy Anniversary to The Songwriter and Me!

You all have permission to raise a glass, buy armloads of flowers,

 and take the whole day off!

xo

A Spring-Green Leaf

A Spring-Green Leaf

We open the book in December.  Its silver-white pages tell the story of winter, tales of plunging temperatures and frosted windows, of heavy coats and blazing hearths.  Day after day we turn page after page of cold.  Sometimes the story gets scary: snowfalls become epic, the power goes out.  But generally the narrative meanders through its icy tale of frigid days and frozen nights in much the same manner as all the books of winter have done since time began.

But then, without warning, tucked in the middle of the book like a pressed spring-green leaf, comes a day when the sun rises, no longer pale and watery, but smiling like April. We wake to find a breeze rising up from the southland, shaving the chill off the air as it pushes every cloud from the sky.  We slam the book shut, afraid this wayward springtime breeze might lift the page and turn it once again backwards, or forwards, to winter.

Perhaps Mother Nature hides these days in our book as a recompense for August, when we are melted and drained by the heat.  Perhaps she means it as a blessing.  Or perhaps she just does it for fun.  Whatever her reason, it seems we have an obligation of sorts to enjoy the gift we’ve been given, to lift our faces to the light and walk for hours in the dappled sun someplace where Mother Nature’s handiwork can best be seen; someplace where the light scatters diamonds on the cold waters of the lake and the birds sit high in the trees, singing.  How could we do anything else with this day?

The page turned once again at midnight, as it always does,

 and we woke to the vengeance of winter.  

We put up our hoods and stacked logs in the fireplace. 

 The tea kettle whistled, the birdbath was frozen. 

 But no ice or snow, no frigid wind, could erase the memory of what we’d received. 

 The gift of a freshly pressed spring-green leaf,

 hidden right in the middle of a winter’s tale.

The National Holiday

The National Holiday

There will be no mail in my mail box on Monday. 

The banks will be closed and admittance to all national parks will be free. 

The kids get a day off from school.

  My country is pausing to commemorate the birthday of Martin Luther King Jr.

  Growing up in the southern part of the US, in the same city as Dr. King in fact, it is astonishing to compare our society today with that of my early childhood.  When I see documentaries of that not so long ago time, it is like watching films of another world, one I lived in, but was too young, too white and too sheltered, to have realized was in some corners so treacherous and evil.  When I see the fire hoses and police dogs, when I read the hateful rhetoric, it is stunning to see the changes Dr. King was able to bring about with his righteous, consistent message of nonviolence.  It is humbling to compare the hateful, angry faces of the men wielding the fire hoses with the silent dignity of those getting blasted off their feet.  Even with stakes as high as basic rights of human equality and worth, still Dr. King eschewed violence, saying, “Nonviolence is a powerful and just weapon which cuts without wounding and ennobles the man who wields it. It is a sword that heals”.   When we hold aloft the light of Dr. King’s remarkable accomplishments to illuminate our country’s almost casual relationship to violence today, it is a sobering sight indeed.

  

In this week leading up to the King holiday, in the state of Florida, one man pulled out a gun and fatally shot the fellow sitting in front of him at a neighbourhood theatre.  Seems the man was irritated that the fellow wouldn’t stop texting his young daughter during the previews of upcoming attractions and after a few heated words, when the father put his phone down and threw some popcorn at the man, the man pulled out a gun and shot, killing the father right in front of his wife who was seated next to him.  There is now speculation that the shooter will try to use Florida’s controversial, and some would say, notorious, “stand your ground” law as he’s saying he shot the man because he felt threatened.  If that story wasn’t horrifying enough, one of my own state senators is attempting to get a bill passed in our senate that would allow worshipers to carry guns into churches.  A more blatant oxymoron is difficult to conceive.  

Although it perhaps rubs against our national reputation, I have no problem saying I have zero affection for guns.  The gun lobby in this country is so frighteningly powerful it has consistently managed to derail any kind of regulation on guns, even following the horrifying gun murders of twenty schoolchildren and six of their teachers in Newtown, Connecticut in December of 2012.  There have been thirty school shootings in this country in the short year and one month since.  Thirty.  I cannot comprehend this, and if change cannot be brought about in any sort of effective way, I cannot comprehend the inevitable escalation of violence we are certain to witness, from our schools to our movie theatres, even to our churches.   

It has never been a secret that ignorance holds hands with fear.  This was true during the horrible days when Dr. King was locked up in Birmingham jail for preaching basic equality among human beings and it remains true today when a state senator feels his constituents need guns to feel safe in church.  As Barbara Kingsolver writes in her comforting book of essays, Small Wonders, “The people who said the sky would fall and God would weep if their sons and daughters had to sit in the same schoolroom as black-skinned children were wrong.”  The popular belief that nothing can be done about the proliferation of guns in our country might just be wrong as well.

 I freely admit I have no clear answers, or rather the answers I have are never the bombastic ones shouted at us by the people more certain than wise.  My answers, when I discover them, are the quiet ones found in the simplicity of showing kindness and love, as often and as much as I can.  I find a bit of sagacity in doing unto others as I would be done by, as far as my sphere of influence reaches.  Answers of comfort call to me from the soft susurration of wings that Edward and I were privileged to hear overhead as a triangle of Canada geese flew just above us on a cold and otherwise silent afternoon last week.  Like a blind man reading braille, my fingers trace the edges of a spring-green maple leaf, or down the crocodile bark of a pine tree, and find a bit of inarticulate wisdom there. I have lived long enough to know that God is in the details and the answers I find there continue to provide me with that elixir so vital to one of God’s children today, one Dr. King never seemed to run low on:  Hope.
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Barbara Kingsolver's book of essays, Small Wonders, can be found HERE.
An excellent, thoughtful read which never fails to bring me comfort.

No Regrets

No Regrets

Watching a late night talk show whilst knitting the other night, I looked up to see a beautiful young actress perched on a chair telling the story of her latest movie.  She was stunning.  But then I noticed a tattoo, and not a very good one, emblazoned on the inside of her arm.  A blight, at least to my eyes, and a distracting one at that.  I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever regretted getting it done.  But then, I noticed another on her other arm, so I supposed not.  As for myself, I cannot even imagine having something permanent etched into my skin.  Of course, this is coming from a person who refused even to have her ears pierced, so make of my opinions what you will.

Her tattoos got me thinking about regret.  We all have them.  I’m not talking about the big regrets that have lasting effects on one’s life, but the little ones that irritate and make us cringe just a wee bit.  You know, the “why on earth did I wear that to the wedding?” ones.  The “did I really say that?” ones.  The “why on earth did I waste X$ on that movie...those shoes... that mustard-coloured shirt?”.   I look at the dress that smiling woman is wearing in the top photograph and wonder if she ever regretted that one.

I began to look back over the last year and rather than focus on those things I wish I hadn’t wasted my time or money on, as is my wont I turned it around a bit and started to recount all the things I did not regret from the last twelve months. 
 Oooh, this was fun.  

Hope you enjoy it and will perhaps share with me those things you’re glad you did

... or purchased...

 or saw.

1.  The Perfect Coat

The photograph above was taken below Tintagel Castle, years ago. 

  Notice the long black coat, which I will say unabashedly that I loved.

See this photo, above?  

Some years later, on the streets of Edinburgh.

Yes, same coat.  

As The Songwriter and I tend to travel in the fall, I tend to reach for this coat and my passport simultaneously.  That is until this past trip to Scotland when it dawned on me that, if you only went by my photographs, you couldn’t tell which trip I’m on.  All of them look the same, because in each I’m wearing “The Coat”.  So... time to get a new one.  This proved much more difficult that I’d counted on.  I tried on coat after coat, in store after store.  I patrolled the online sites.  Nothing seemed to suit.  It needed to be warm.  Had to be waterproof.  Not too heavy.  And a coat with a hood was preferred.  Fake fur trim, a bonus.  Just as I was about to give up and take “The Coat” to the cleaners in preparation for our trip, a catalog arrived in my mailbox.  From a London shop called Poetry.  And there... on page three... was my coat.  I ordered it immediately and kept my fingers crossed that it would be as perfect as it appeared.  It was!!  I Adore It.....and if you remember.... on our wild Scottish adventure... I actually had to sleep in it for three nights, so it passed a rather strenuous test with glowing marks.

I just checked the website.... it’s still there.

Find it HERE.

*********************************

2. Redgrave and Dench

I was fortunate enough to see both these great actresses on stage in London this year.

Breathtaking.

************************************

 3. Pink Streak

In the summer, I had my long time hairdresser put a bright pink streak in my hair. 

Yes, I did.

Right at the back of my neck, a little on the right side,

 under most of my hair so it really isn’t visible unless I want it to be,

 which I occasionally do. 

It looks wonderful when my hair is up.

Always good to keep people guessing, don't you know.

***********************************

4. Those Boots

I’ve wanted a pair of Dubarry boots for ages.

Well, this year after a particularly prolific month of book sales, 

I sprung for a pair just like the ones above.

I swear ... what did I wear on my feet before I got these??

Love them.

So glad I got them.

******************************

5. The Cuckoo’s Calling

So happy I took this book on holiday with me in August.

It was the perfect beach read.

Creative, engrossing, entertaining.

Yes, J K Rowling is much more than Harry Potter.

Find it HERE.

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6. Scotland

Yes we had some wild adventures in Scotland in September.

(You can read about them HERE, if you haven’t already.)

But those adventures gave us both entrance into the backstage world of Scotland, one tourists rarely see.  We found the Scottish people to be the most caring, accommodating, and efficient souls.  They took such good care of us both.  From doctors to cab drivers, inn keepers to perfect strangers, we have never seen a country perform with such incredible kindness.  If our journey had gone as planned, we would have never seen this side of the Scottish people in such detail and I can only hope we Americans would be half as stellar to strangers as they.

We cannot wait to go back.

Oh, I stopped the car to have a conversation with the fellow above

on my solo journey back up on the Isle of Mull.

Gorgeous.

************************************

  

7.  Traveling, Once Again, With Wilmont

I’ve written before about Wilmont, our little stuffed monkey that, more often than not, accompanies us on our journeys.  That’s him above in a fabulous hotel in Scotland a few years ago.  Yes, he was with us on our Scottish adventure last year and Lord knows we appreciated his comic relief.  He provided a good bit of levity, even for the doctors and nurses who insisted on bandaging his leg to resemble The Songwriter’s cast. 

We left it on until The Songwriter was mobile again. 

Both he and Wilmont are now all healed and ready for another journey.

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8.  Knitting Wands

The haberdashery at Liberty of London is a place of great temptation to me. 
 Skeins of wool, unusual buttons, ribbons, fabric, needles, paper flowers, feathers...
 I could, and frequently do, lose my ever loving mind.  
And yes, I purchased these knitting needles that resemble magic wands.  

So happy I did.

************************************

9. Leaf Pillows

I finally sprung for the Cowtan and Tout tartan wool plaid 

that I’ve been drooling over for years to recover two of my favourite chairs.

  And so happy I knitted these two leaf pillows to sit in them.  

Find the pattern HERE.

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10.  Berwick Church
It was late in the day and we were getting tired.
We'd already explored Sissinghurst Garden and Monk's House.
Already wandered the rooms and gardens of Charleston Farmhouse.
So we almost didn't go to Berwick Church.  But I'm so happy we did.
Totally alone, we stood underneath the incredibly lovely wartime murals
painted by Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell.
Totally inspiring.
Totally amazing.
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11.  Taking it Easy

Everyone told me that having hip replacement surgery a mere eight days before Thanksgiving would mean a scaled down holiday for me.  I would.... the dreaded words... have to “take it easy”.  These admonitions were delivered with stern doubt.  Seems no one thought I possessed the ability to actually do as I was told.  Ha!  I slept, I dozed, I sat.  Yes, I still gave a few parties, but I actually ordered in fabulous cakes instead of making them myself.  I accepted help.  I read, I knitted, I watched The Bishop’s Wife.  I strolled, rather than charged, through the holiday season and I thoroughly enjoyed it.  And now, completely healed, I’m back to walking Edward at a fast clip, something he’s very happy about.

What DON'T you regret?