Lions and Supermodels

Like the bright golden ring on a carousel, fame is a most attractive thing to a lot of people; they stretch out their arms, grasping for it if ever it comes round their way. They never seem to consider that this elusive goal, once attained, can never be returned. For myself, immense fame has always seemed like a nightmare of sickening proportions; the worst sort of situation in which to be stuck. I feel this way for many reasons, the chief of which is that fame would snatch away one of the more delightful activities I know of: the observation of other humans. For when you are the one constantly being watched, it is impossible to indulge in the study of others.

While sitting with a mug of tea at a sidewalk cafe, peering over a magazine in a crowded airport lounge, or from behind dark glasses on a north-bound train, I am often happily fascinated just considering the people around me. There are few more interesting ways to past the time than contemplating the behaviour of one’s fellow humans when they are unaware they are being watched. I imagine them standing in their closets deciding on the clothes they are wearing, I mark the books they are reading, I study the way they interact with one another. It is so entertaining to conjure up their fictional backstories in my head, often populating entire Agatha Christie novels with the unsuspecting souls around me.

Sometimes, after an afternoon of this sort of observation, I begin to think that being human in this day and age just seems like so much work, especially when compared with those creatures residing in the animal kingdom. Let’s face it, forget the latest cellphone or laptop, disregard the hairstyle or the shoes - whether fat or thin, short or tall, no one is ever going to be as impressive as a Lion no matter what one does. A Polar Bear will always trump a supermodel for sheer beauty and magnificence. Animals just are. They have no need of embroidered clothing or bejeweled stilettos, they require no make-up, wish for no ornament - they could care less about twittering, and no amount of air-brushing or photoshop could ever improve on the purity of their splendid, individual beauty.
Perhaps animals are on earth for more that the whims of man.
Perhaps they have much to teach us.

I must go now and attempt to pretty myself for the day.
Edward, of course, woke up pretty.


"But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds of the air, and they will teach you: or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish of the sea inform you. Which of these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In His hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind."

Job 12: 7-10

Summer Reading

Whenever I find a cartoon particularly funny, it is usually because I recognize a bit of myself within it. For instance, I have always loved an old New Yorker magazine cartoon of a fellow reading at the beach. Clad in the requisite attire of shorts and flip-flops, he is squinting up at a stern policeman standing over him who says, “I’m sorry, sir, but Dostoyevsky is not considered summer reading. I’ll have to ask you to come with me.” This in turn reminds me of the afternoon I was approached by an overly gregarious chap as I myself sat seaside, reading Edith Wharton. “Whatcha readin’?”, he inquired, displaying a rather alarmingly white smile aimed in my direction. “The House of Mirth”, I replied. With a crestfallen change in expression he said, “Oh. A real book”.

Both of these examples, one imaginary and one quite real, pretty much sum up my difficulty with what is often called,“summer reading”. Time spent with those books generally considered to sit squarely in that category is, to me, rather like being stranded in the shallow end of the pool, with no waves and no challenges. Pleasant enough, but rather uninspiring.

Books are like people in a way. You spend time with them - sometimes an afternoon, sometimes a week - and some even accompany you on your summer holiday. Occasionally, some books become so beloved, they are invited to reside in your library or on your bedside table, never far from reach, a veritable part of the family. Not unlike people, books have definite personalities. Some are secretive, as if reluctant to reveal their deeper meanings until one gets to know them a bit better - some are witty, some are strange, some whisk the reader away to another country, another world. Some change your mood. Some change your mind.

Every year, I greedily await the summer reading suggestions published in newspapers and magazines. I listen eagerly for every summertime book review broadcast on NPR. While I may not be reading textbooks in summertime, I still long to be dazzled by unique imaginations and to occasionally paddle around in the deep end of the pool. From under my sun hat, I still look for stimulating conversations with the books I chose to read, even if those conversations take place in a hammock in the garden, or on a beach chair with the sound of the surf in my ears.

Here is my list, a baker’s dozen of my favourite summer books, each one read during the summertime of a year past and each one more than worthy to be tucked in with the Vogues and Verandas on the way to the beach.
Oh, and don’t be shy....please share one of yours!!

1. My Family And Other Animals by Gerald Durrell
2. How To Make An American Quilt by Whitney Otto
3. Moon Tiger by Penelope Lively
4. A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving
5. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
6. A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
7. Harry Potter by JK Rowling
.... every summer, by tradition, I would leave for the beach on the very day the latest HP was released, just to sit by the sea and escape all alone to Hogwarts. I do so miss those new Potter books!
8. To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
9. Jonathan Strange And Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke
10. The Shipping News by Annie Proulx
11. The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffennegger
12. The Prince Of Tides by Pat Conroy
13. And, I am currently reading Behind The Scenes At The Museum by Kate Atkinson.
How about you?

Another Summer

Darkness came late last night, as though the entire hemisphere was too excited to sleep. The skies stayed awake in celebration of another infant summer, with its happy row of terracotta days stretched out as far as the eye could see. Morning’s pink and glistening dawns, lemonade dew shimmering on the garden floor and towhees splashing in the warm stone baths. Noontimes of warm breezes, long hours spent beside an open window with a beguiling book, hopelessly lost in the words on the page. Chinese lantern evenings, honeydew melons on tuberose tables and strains of Gilberto on the honeysuckle air. And the beach. Forever the beach, with its tropical zephyrs known to whisk away all serious thought leaving only the sweet repetition of wave after wave of smiling joy.
May we all make it to the beach this summer.

Beach Sand
by Raymond A. Foss

Maybe it is the memories
the change of pace that brings us there
the sense of vacation
maybe the smell of the place
the sights of the gulls, the dunes, the grasses
but oh it is the feel of it,
the crunch and slide of it
the feeling of beach sand
so different from dirt, soil, loam
no, not earthy, moist, rich,
but oh so granular and gritty
even when wet,
moveable paper spreading under toes
sliding beneath the soles
smoothing my skin
clearing my mind
unburdening me of the rest
drawing me to the tactile, the feel
of beach sand



Painting at top, The Beach by Peder Severin Kroyer

The Influence of Gardenias

They are the creamy conjurers of memory, summoning lazy walks in white linen dresses beneath trees hung heavy with moss. They call forth the night gardens of childhood, all dark velvet and sprinkled with the winking orange of fireflies. They lead back to the sound of cicadas, nature’s discordant orchestra, on hot evenings in June. Their fragrance, sweeter than the other flowers, so sweet it is almost gothic, fills the room, floods the senses and brings with it the extravagance of dreams. They are imbued with mystery, they are beautiful, they are the most enchanting of all the summer flowers.
They are Gardenias.
I have kept bowls of Gardenias on my bedside table all this week and my dreams have echoed the influence of their sorcery.

If you wish to escape to air castles far above the clouds or visit empyrean forests made of moonbeams and sand, then sleep with Gardenias beside your bed. If you desire to remember who you once were or to observe your future self, clad in feathers and white roses in a weathered cottage by the sea, then sleep with Gardenias beside your bed. If you have ever wondered how it would feel to follow a silver bear down a pathway of emeralds, or converse with a impeccably dressed tiger on a rooftop in Greece; if you want to know where the butterflies go when the wind is high...then by all means, sleep with Gardenias beside your bed.

Cut Gardenias only last a couple of days so their effect will be limited, which is probably best.
If they lasted any longer one might be tempted to live in one’s dreams.

Edward ... Inside On A Hot Afternoon

Toadlike, almost sinister, the hot day squatted atop the ivy-covered cottage, claiming the afternoon for its own and bringing with it a muggy June air thick enough to grab up by the fistfuls. The blue flowers bowed their heads low, in prayer for a cooler hour. The old trees napped. Like the singing steam from a tea kettle, the sultry heat pressed in against the windowpanes and inprisioned the big white dog in the coolness of the sleepy shady rooms of the house.

All during the many crisp delights of the other seasons, the big dog knew this day would come. Summer days like this one made his fur feel heavy. He glanced over at his people, still placidly reading in their favourite chairs. He sighed, louder this time, but all he got in return was a smile. Well after all, he thought, what could they do?

Turning back to the window, the dog noticed the long-fingered shadow of the fir tree in the garden had now disappeared. Looking up, he saw charcoal skies beginning to gather overhead, advancing from the west, as though a cavalry of windgusts had been sent from on high to blow this still unpleasantness to the sweltering hinterlands. He listened. Yes, he could just hear it, far off in the distance - the booming sound of their hoofbeats of thunder. It was time to take cover. He hopped up next to the lady, circled a few times and lay down with a satisfied plop. She patted his head absentmindedly. The rain began to fall, weighty wet drops that hit the ground with a sizzle, slowly at first, then in a torrent of silver streamers that washed away even the memory of the oppressive afternoon.

The big white dog laid his head on the lady’s knee.

He was happy now.

Rydal Mount

Come with me.....

It is an enthusiastic Virginia Creeper that encircles the house like a necklace of fire, its royal gemstones of flaming leaves set aglow by the crystal clear September sun. Though inside all is still, and hushed, one can yet sense the vivacity of ideas that once played through these rooms. Was it not just yesterday? It seems as though the great poet himself has only just retreated to the garden, jealous of his privacy.

Shadows waltz at the peak of the house, where his study shimmers in the gold of the afternoon. A gathering of bluebottles convenes on the wide windowsill, arranging and rearranging themselves like floating calligraphy; mere ghosts of the letters he once captured to paint his exalted stanzas of light. They beat against the glass in their desire to be released - to fly past the garden, over the lake and out into the world once more.

Peace floats on the very breeze that wends its way through his garden - one follows it down shaded pathways, past romantic vistas of green and blue, to the tiny stone Summer House where an ever open window frames an unequaled view of Eden. One can only imagine the courage it took to create verses of beauty in the presence of such abounding competition from Nature herself. Artists both, perhaps they chose to work in tandem, Nature’s splendour inspiring the words that served to describe Nature’s splendour, each one magnifying the magnificence of the other, each one enriching the bounty of the known world.

“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings:
it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility”
William Wordsworth

My late afternoon view from the Summer House window
at Rydal Mount, Cumbria
Home of poet William Wordsworth

Painting above: View From Rydal Park, by Francis Towne

Umbrellas and Bumbershoots

To walk down the street, under an umbrella, in the rain, is a decidedly pleasant activity for a human being. There are few more satisfying sounds than the pop and the patter of raindrops on a sheltering umbrella. Of course the choice of umbrella is vital to the enjoyment of a such a walk. No puny popup thing will do. A capacious, old-fashioned creation is required for the ultimate experience and I am indeed fortunate to have the most perfect one imaginable. A gift from the Songwriter years ago, it is big, black and British-crafted, with a carved wooden rabbit head for a handle. Mary Poppins’ talking parrot umbrella would be my sole competition. The only trouble is, I nearly always leave it at home, sedentary and dry, in the umbrella stand in my entry hall. For much like Marianne Dashwood, I always think it won’t rain, and then it always does.

So as usual, I left the house one day last week without my rabbit head umbrella. And, as usual, it rained. All day. Not a deluge, but a soft and constant shower, warm wet silky drops that seemed to melt into the pavement with nary a splatter. It was actually quite refreshing and on more than one occasion as I made my way to and from various shop doors, I lifted my face to the grey sky above just to feel a touch of the falling elixir on my skin.

It is always amusing to watch Americans in the rain, and that day was no exception. There they were, huddled in ovine fashion under store awnings, peering up with furrowed brows, anxious for any sign that this wicked substance descending from the unfriendly sky was subsiding. Women held their handbags over their heads and ran squealing for their cars, while men simply hunched their shoulders, lowered their heads and quick-marched along with a martyred air. One would think battery acid was falling from the sky instead of innocent droplets of water.

One of the many reasons I love to travel in Scotland is the mercurial nature of the weather. While a sunny day is lovely, I do not in the least mind the rain, and I adore the wind, which is ideal because in Scotland one often experiences all of these conditions in the short span of an afternoon. I once sat in my car on Portree square taking in the scene around me as a gentle rain began to fall. There was a fellow perched on a nearby bench reading the newspaper. Hatless, and with no umbrella or raincoat, he calmly continued to read as the rain gathered strength, the wind blew and the skies darkened . Only when his newspaper became so wet that the pages began to shred did he fold it up under his arm and saunter off at a casual pace through the storm.

Of course I once visited Glenfinnan during rain that was akin to being shot full in the face with a fire hose. I was laughing so hard at my predicament that I wasn’t able to run properly for shelter, and of course I had left my umbrella, once again, at home. Which was just as well, for no umbrella would have been up to the task that day.

Perhaps a bumbershoot??

One Whole Year!

I can hardly believe it, but the calendar does not lie. Today is the one year anniversary
of From the House of Edward! Amazing. I actually planned this blog to focus more on my design work, but instead found it to be a welcome diversion from my design work. So much so in fact, that I have come to relish my writing here on an equal level. Life is certainly not a straight line. It curves and spirals and surprises.
I send my most sincere thanks to all of you who visit here. I am constantly grateful for your sweet comments and e-mails of encouragement. You are most generous and I am tickled beyond measure to know you enjoy your little holidays here.

So, I invite you to join Edward and I in our celebration of one whole year! Raise a glass or pick up a favourite book, eat some ice cream or fill a vase with flowers, listen to - or sing - your favourite song. Or just give a dog a hug!
And Happy Anniversary!!

The Fifth Element

It was a linen shirt, long sleeved and whisper pink, and I stood in Macy’s considering it on a quiet Thursday afternoon. Gradually, almost unconsciously, I became aware that I was swaying ever so slightly to music. Then I heard, pouring from the store speakers like rivulets of honey, the familiar strains of Aretha Franklin’s, Baby I Love You. I looked around me and observed the delightful spell being cast from this marvelous sound. A flawlessly coiffed elderly lady in a St. John suit was strolling through the handbag department, her steps in perfect time with the song. The young woman behind the counter was casually bobbing her head back and forth to the rhythm, while a delivery man entered from outside and immediately fell into leisurely step with the seductive beat as he made his way up the store aisle. It was incredibly entertaining to watch, as everyone in sight was reacting to this infectious old classic without even being aware of it. Such is the power of music.

Music is as much a part of our lives as breathing, even though we hardly know it most of the time. Every one of us has a personal soundtrack that has accompanied our days; a musical fingerprint of our lives, unique and specific. Like magic, whenever I hear Dionne Warwick’s, Do You Know The Way To San Jose, I am once again in the back seat of my family’s leaf green Pontiac during a sunny morning on my way to school. Joni Mitchell’s, Carey, always sends me to the beach and I am a little girl desirous of my very own Mary Quant lipstick every time I hear Donovan sing Jennifer, Juniper. Coldplay’s, Speed of Sound, whisks me off to Regent Street in London. Astrid Gilberto means summer and, of course, Christmas just doesn’t exist without Perry Como or Nat King Cole. For me, James Taylor is high school afternoons and Leonard Cohen’s, Sisters of Mercy, is newlywed bliss. And incidentally, if you ever wished to know what a childhood summer felt like in the southern United States, then pour a glass of sweet tea and listen to the soundtrack of To Kill A Mockingbird by Elmer Bernstein. You couldn’t get closer with a time machine.

There can be no denying the remarkable ability of music to communicate more profoundly, and often with more clarity, than words could ever hope to do. Music seems divinely capable of reaching that inarticulate part of the soul where only the deepest feelings and most heartfelt memories are found. The unscaleable majesty in Saint-Saens Organ Symphony #3, or the near visible beauty of Debussy’s Clair de Lune. The visceral grief in Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings or the sheer happiness of The Beatles I Wanna Hold Your Hand.
It is almost as if God himself intended music to be the fifth element, -surely as basic as air or water, fire or earth- for after all, did the angels not announce the birth of Christ with song?

June Is Bustin’ Out All Over

March went out like a lion
Awakin' up the water in the bay;
Then April cried and stepped aside,
And along came pretty little May!
May was full of promises
But she didn't keep 'em quick enough for some.
And the crowd of doubtin' Thomases
Was predictin' that the summer'd never come

But it's comin' by dawn,
We can feel it come,
You can feel it in your heart
You can see it in the ground
You can see it in the trees
You can smell it in the breeze
Look around! Look around! Look around!

Lyric by Oscar Hammerstein


“I love my life!”

Sentiment by Edward

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