The Low Country

The Low Country

It isn’t the light, seeping through the tops of the trees like honey,

 gathering in golden puddles here and there amongst the shady pools of the pines.

  It isn’t even the fragrance: the tea olive, the jasmine, the sea.

  No, it is the Sound that transforms this sandy pathway through the maritime forest into a transport to myth, a passage through legend.  Heralding a storm, the wind blows in, threading through the trees in blue-grey ribbons that twist the palms and palmettos into a raspy rattling orchestra, ever increasing in volume, a deafening crescendo of forest music. 
 I close my eyes and turn to meet it face to face as a gift, a blessing.

Strains of ancient melodies are heard as it passes, 

low pitched as murmurs,  lyrical notes of the Gullah and the Owl. 

We do not hear these sounds at home.

 The big white dog, his fur ruffled, stops suddenly,

 one front paw raised as a finger to his lips. 

Hush! 

 There, through the trees, a family of deer, wide-eyed and pure,

 stands frozen in our gaze.

  Eyes meet, chasms breach, then as suddenly as age,

 they disappear into the crowd of gnarled trunks and paper leaves.  

Just under the sand, dazzling green lizards zip away on thoroughfares only they know, 

a glimpse of emerald here, and there.

We do not see these sights at home.

They call this land the Low Country, a region that sits serenely in the palm of the earth’s hand, so close to the shallows of the sea that grasses and salt water intertwine like clasped hands.  Here, ballad and rhyme rise up through the very ground one walks upon.   Mystery becomes fable; fable becomes truth.  Almost without cognition, one senses the fragrance of the air enter the body like an idea.  It winds and flows through the soul - slowing, smoothing - till peace becomes the order of the day.  

 Our walks become longer and longer. 

 We dine on fresh raspberries and cheese.

We know we shall return to the world of tension and technology before too long.  

But not now.  

Not now.

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Edward, Apple and I have just returned from a week long escape while the floors of our cottage were being re-done.  A messy business and one ill-suited to life with two big furry dogs, one of whom is recuperating from knee surgery.  Apple is doing quite well and a hearty thank you to all who have inquired about her.  I took her on prescribed therapeutic walks on sandy pathways three times a day whilst we were gone; Edward, naturally, required much longer ones.  This meant, of course, that yours truly was taking six walks a day and is now in fine fettle herself!  Below is a photo of Apple the day her stitches were removed.  Very happy girl.

What Do We Do?

What Do We Do?

Thursday evening, following a long day of gardening, we decided to forego a home-cooked dinner and head over to our neighbourhood pizza parlor, an establishment whose dress code would graciously welcome our scruffier than usual appearances.  A tempting spinach salad had just been sat down in front of me when something on one of the ubiquitous televisions hanging round the room ensnared my eye.  Looking up I saw the two photographs for the first time.  Two young, very young, men in baseball caps who bore more than a passing resemblance to any one of the college students sprawled in the seats of the dining room in which I now found myself.  The expressions on the faces of these two young men in the video now playing over and over seemed calm, almost bemused, as they walked through the crowd of children and parents, lovers and friends, carrying their homemade instruments of horror as easily as lunch sacks.  

Suddenly, my tasty spinach salad lost its charm.  I let my gaze wander the room, stopping here and there to linger on the innocence of the children, the warm communication of families, the laughter of the young.  And I thought, not for the first time, sadly, what do we do about evil?

Learning more about the two young men who assembled and placed the bombs on the pavements of Boston and destroyed the lives of so many, one discovers lives not unlike those of the people we see everyday.  Their friends are shocked.  Their teachers flabbergasted.  Their uncle is on television wishing he could kneel before all the victims and beg forgiveness for his family.  The more we hear, the more stridently our questions demand to be answered.  How can we make sense of this?  What do we do about evil?

Security is a word oft spoken these days.  Here in the States, we have a governmental department devoted entirely to Homeland Security.  We gladly have our handbags checked, we obediently take off our shoes.  But as anyone who has ever made their way through the throngs at an international airport can tell you, security, though worked for and hoped for, can never be guaranteed.   Indeed, these days it so often seems we reel from tragedy to tragedy like drunken men with nary a clue what to do. Though it seems to me we should have evolved far above and beyond the Wild West days, there are still those who say we would all be safer if we were all armed.  At the other end of the spectrum there are those who simply refuse to go anywhere outside of their comfort zone at all, missing out of so much of what this marvelous world has to offer them.  Either choice is unacceptable to me.  

Throughout this long, heartbreaking week I have felt the pull of despair.  In a world where young men can blithely stroll through a crowd and sit down a bomb beside little children without pause, how is it possible to hold back the darkness?  We look, I suppose, to those who ran not from but towards the bomb’s concussion to help the wounded.  We take heart by our President’s words ... “We also know this — the American people refuse to be terrorized.  Because what the world saw yesterday in the aftermath of the explosions were stories of heroism and kindness, and generosity and love:  Exhausted runners who kept running to the nearest hospital to give blood, and those who stayed to tend to the wounded, some tearing off their own clothes to make tourniquets.  The first responders who ran into the chaos to save lives.  The men and women who are still treating the wounded at some of the best hospitals in the world, and the medical students who hurried to help, saying “When we heard, we all came in.”  The priests who opened their churches and ministered to the hurt and the fearful.  And the good people of Boston who opened their homes to the victims of this attack and those shaken by it.  So if you want to know who we are, what America is, how we respond to evil — that’s it.  Selflessly.  Compassionately.  Unafraid.”

The human heart is not designed to comprehend evil. When we see it rise up before us as we did this week in Boston, in such a malignant, unholy fashion, we recoil, as well we should.  But no credit, no good, can come to us if we stay in that horrible place of fear and disheartenment.  We must look for, and fight for, the good and the beautiful, the joyful, the sweet.  And we must bring those qualities with us into those places where they are hardest to find.  Even in the smallest decisions, we must choose light over darkness.  If we are to have any hope, we must choose love over hate.  Every time.

“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it--always.”  

Mahatma Gandhi

Sainthood?

Sainthood?

When one considers the fraternity of Saints, it is rather astonishing to realize the roles that have been played by animals.  I turn your attention to Saint Jerome.  It took many, many exalted accomplishments for him to achieve his august status.  His voluminous writings included a translation of the Bible and earned him recognition as the patron saint of librarians, a notable distinction indeed.  Still, in paintings, he most often shares the canvas with a lion, for famously, Saint Jerome was said to have helped an injured lion by removing a thorn from its paw.  From then on, perhaps understandably, the lion refused to leave his side.   Paintings and sculptures of Saint Francis invariably include an animal or two, and rightfully so.  He is said to have convinced a wolf not to eat some villagers by successfully negotiating a deal under which the imperiled villagers would feed the starving fellow on a regular basis.  He even preached to the birds.  And they listened.
Dear Saint Brigid was followed everywhere by an adoring cow, 

and Saint Francis of Paola resurrected his pet trout, 

a feat which raises quite a few unrelated questions.

Now, as we were best friends for seven years before we married and have been married long enough to make lying about my age a tricky thing, I can truthfully tell you The Songwriter, though the best person I know, is no saint.  However, after the experiences of the past few weeks, I fear the animals may be conspiring to nominate him.

There was the incident with the wren’s nest which I related here.  (There is also a rather infamous story involving an opossum which I included in From The House of Edward here.)  Then there was the morning last week when, taking a break from a busy afternoon, he ventured down to the mailbox only to be met by an obviously lost, obviously scared, white chihuahua.  Back in he came, for a piece of chicken and Edward’s lead, hoping to entice and capture the little fellow.  No such luck, but he continued to follow the tiny dog up street and down for quite a long time until he managed to locate the much-relieved owner for a very happy ending.

All these incidents pale in comparison, however, to yesterday’s event.

  See if you don’t agree....

The day dawned sunny and crisp, the very definition of Spring.  The Songwriter opened the back door for Edward to venture out on his first morning foray into the garden and had barely closed it behind him before a commotion of theatrical sonorousness reached his ears.  Edward was sounding the alarm from far back under the trees, at vociferous decibels that threatened to waken the dead.  Hurriedly finding his shoes, The Songwriter ran out to investigate.  He found Edward staring up into a walnut tree, a look on his furry face of triumph and horror combined.  Following his gaze, up, up, The Songwriter easily located the problem.  The neighbour’s black cat. In the crook of a limb, impossibly high.  Satisfied that he’d done all he was supposed to, Edward trotted back into the house at my call, leaving The Songwriter to deal with the problem.

It didn’t take long to see that no amount of coaxing was going to convince the cat to budge.
It was obviously glued to the spot by the sheer terror of the altitude.
  Leaving it alone for an hour or two did not work.  He found it just as he’d left it. 
 It was clear other measures were needed.  But what?

Busy with my own chores, I glanced out to see him standing at the base of the walnut tree, clearly befuddled.  Next thing I knew, thumps and rumbles were coming from the hall closet and he soon emerged carrying a voluminous tote bag and a rope.  I didn’t dare ask. A few moments later I peered out a window to see the thirty foot ladder resting against the walnut tree, but again, I simply couldn’t bear to investigate further.

A while later, when The Songwriter was serenely eating his lunch,
 I peeked out once more to see a rope dangling from the limb just below the cat’s perch.
Attached to the rope was the open tote bag.
  The idea was ridiculously clear, ridiculous being the operative word.

Or, so I thought.

An hour later, I passed the window again and peeked out.  

The cat was gone.

I went to tell The Songwriter who calmly strolled outside.  

He made his way back to the base of the tree,

 took hold of the dangling rope

 and proceeded to slowly lower the tote bag. 

 Surely not, I thought.

  But about nine feet from the ground, up out of the bag popped the sleek black head of the cat.  It looked around in an amazement that matched my own.  The bag sat down gently on the ground.  The cat jumped out.  With a tip of its hat to The Songwriter, it sailed over the fence to safety.

Sainthood?  Probably not.

But prize-worthy, one must admit.

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Thanks so much for all the sweet inquiries about Apple and her knee.

I am happy to report she is doing very well.  The pain from the surgery has subsided, she’s moving much easier now and is back to her usual happy, optimistic self.  She will be wearing her injury collar for one more week when the stitches are scheduled to be removed, but she doesn’t mind that so much.  We chose to use an inflatable collar instead of the dreaded plastic one.  I highly recommend it if you have an injured dog.  You can find one here.  All in all, the surgery could not have gone better and we can clearly see she will be her old self in a few months.  But, NO jumping till then!

xo

Painting above:

Saint Jerome and the Lion by P.J. Crook

Birthday Icing

Birthday Icing

Edward is sad because Apple feels bad.

Thanks so much for all your sweet letters and comments about Apple.  I am happy to report that she sailed through the surgery like a champ and is now back at home recovering.  She’s snuggled into a huge, soft-sided crate in our bedroom and we are taking turns sitting with her.  She’s in a bit of pain but that is to be expected.

I spent my birthday Sunday icing her knee, which I’ve been doing all day today.  In fact, I’ll be doing this for the next five days.  Then we’ll switch to heat compresses.  They’ll be plenty of time for a birthday celebration later.

All this from chasing squirrels.  I’m afraid I’ve rather gone off those creatures.

xo

The Athlete

The Athlete

 Famed swimmer Diana Nyad was once a student at Emory University, but was expelled for jumping out of a fourth-floor dormitory window wearing a parachute, an incident which proved a fairly accurate forecast of her future career. In 1979, she swam from Bimini to Florida and in doing so snatched the world record for long distance swimming sans wetsuit.  It is a record that still stands today.  She holds another record for swimming around Manhattan Island.  It took her seven hours and fifty seven minutes to do so.  In spite of these phenomenal feats, since turning sixty (sixty?!) Nyad has thrice attempted to swim from Cuba to Florida only to be hampered by lightning storms and jelly fish stings that caused a flare-up of her asthma.  (Asthma?!)  

In the 1996 Summer Olympics, tiny gymnast, Kerri Strug, helped her team win gold by famously performing a second vault despite having severely injured her ankle during her first one.  Needing to land on both feet to secure her team its medal, she limped to the end of the runway, ran like the wind to the vault, jumped, twirled and twisted high in the air and did indeed land on both feet, though instantly hopping onto one as she saluted the judges.  The gold medal secure, Strug was carried off the mat and straight to hospital.

Having been born without an athletic gene in my body, I find this pertinacious focus, this sheer physicality, really quite remarkable.  Individuals with this type of wiring ignore obstacles that would turn me right around.  They push through pain that would send me, whining, back to bed.  Every single day, I witness a version of this plucky athleticism up close.  Not in the mirror, mind you, but in the indefatigable spirit of Edward’s best friend, Apple.  

She’d only been ours for a couple of weeks before she shocked us by climbing up an oak tree after a cat.  She runs full out, a black furry flash streaking cross the back garden any time a squirrel even considers a trespassing foray inside her domain.  Unlike Edward, who saunters along on walks like a gentleman in a park on Sunday afternoon, Apple pulls The Songwriter along at a clip, straining at the leash as if on an urgent mission the nature of which only she is aware.  She sleeps soundly each night, on her back, utterly exhausted by her own endurance.  However, like the aforementioned athletes above, sometimes such dauntlessness brings with it a risk for physical injury absent in the more sedentary lives of those fireside types like Edward and myself.

So here I sit, writing this tribute as Apple is, at this very moment, in surgery to repair a torn ligament in her knee.  A burst of speed, a violent pivot, all in pursuit of the dreaded squirrel.  She limped in last week on three paws.  X-rays.  Diagnosis.  Surgery.  We are grateful a procedure exists to repair this injury. We are grateful that our vet is an orthopedic specialist.  We are grateful that her prognosis is good.  She should be back to normal, God help us all, in three months.  But oh, those three months.  No running, no jumping.  No rough-housing with Edward.  But we’ll get her through it.  

There is no more strenuous Olympic event than the heptathlon consisting as it does of seven (!) extraordinary physical challenges rolled into one.  Shot put, javelin throw, hurdles. Long jumps, high jumps, races.  Last year in London, the gold medal for this event was won by Britain’s Jessica Ennis who had, only four years earlier, suffered a broken ankle that threatened to end her chances completely.  But following rest, rehabilitation, and that sheer determination unique to the athlete, the gold was hers.  I’ll tell Apple all about Jessica when she comes home tomorrow.

Nests

Nests

It was a wind much more suited to the barrens of January than to the first full week of  spring.  It pushed me up the front porch steps like a noisy crowd and continued to whip me around while I fumbled, regrettably gloveless, for my keys. From just behind the door, I could hear the happy snuffling of two furry dogs waiting to greet me as I reached to let myself in.  It was then that I saw it, nestled securely within the knitter’s wreath I’d made last year to brighten a winter's day.  A more perfect little house a hobbit himself could not imagine.  Wee round door, sturdy little roof.  I recognized it immediately as the well-crafted cottage of the wren.

It seemed the grey feathered couple had used our front door as a support and fashioned a home for themselves like none other I’d seen.  The wreath, being crafted of yarn balls, pine cones and moss, gave them ample and snug shelter from the weather in addition to  bestowing the sort of curb appeal sure to elicit envy in the robin and the jay.  Enchanted at the sight of such a beautiful abode, I stood there for a few long moments before I began to see the flaw in the otherwise sublime design.  Built as it was, squarely in the middle of our front door, wouldn’t it be slightly disconcerting, if not downright dizzying, to have one’s home hurtle through space each time that door was opened?

Later that afternoon The Songwriter and I sat discussing the problem.

Me:  “Well, I suppose we could always just use the back door for a while.”

Him:  “Not an option.  Besides, what about people who come to visit?”

Me:  “Perhaps they’ll abandon the nest.  They’ve already been bounced around a good bit today already”.

Him:  “She won’t leave it she’s already laid her eggs.”

Together, we ventured out on the porch.  The little wren, no doubt seriously harried now, once again flew from the depths of her cozy home as the door was opened.  Feeling like the worst of trespassers, the two of us peeked inside.  There in the light of a setting sun sat five tiny eggs, each one bluer than Wonderland.  Sighing, we stood back and stared at each other.

“Leave it to me”, said The Songwriter,

 as he set off to the back garden with a glint in his eye.  

An hour later, obviously feeling quite proud, he escorted me out on the front porch to inspect his handiwork.  The wreath had been moved.  Measuring carefully, he’d rehung it from a red wire securely suspended from the painted ceiling, at precisely the same height as before.  With the brick wall as its new backdrop, the nest was more protected than ever, even if the wreath looked a tad eccentric hanging there. 

 We waited to see if the wren would return.  

The wait wasn’t long.  

Watching from the window, we saw her fly in as soon as we went back indoors. 

There are many squirrel nests in the tall trees that encircle our cottage, much to Apple’s chagrin. 

 A family of owls frequents the back garden.  Their offspring, furry-feathered and strange,
rock back and forth on the poplar limbs.

Rabbits nestle deep down neath the ivy; the bandit Raccoon burrows nearby.  

And now a family of wrens are at home, warm and dry, on the porch.

  I thought of them all as I snuggled down in the sheets last night.  Rain was pouring down; an occasional rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.  Edward heaved a heavy sigh as he placed his big head atop my feet.  Sound asleep and no doubt dreaming of the squirrels, Apple grumbled softly from her spot in the window seat.

So many creatures call this place home.

Happy to share my nest,  I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

And I bet I wasn’t the only one.

A Happy Easter Weekend

“But friendship is precious, not only in shade,

but in the sunshine of life;

and thanks to a benevolent arrangement of things, 

the greater part of life is sunshine.”

Thomas Jefferson

Edward and I wish you all a very Happy Easter weekend!

A List For Spring.... Has Anyone Seen It?

A List for Spring....

Has Anyone Seen It?

Today I wore a coat the colour of a Springtime sky.  In this part of the country, in any other year, this final week of March would call for a coat made of linen. But not this year.  Though its colour said Spring, the coat I wore today was made of warmest wool and sported a flamboyant fur collar (faux fur, naturally).  I paired it with a grey turtleneck sweater and grey woolen trousers, grey socks and grey oxfords.   And I still shivered as I ran from place to place.  For though the calendar emphatically tells us it’s Spring, the weather declares it a liar.  

In any other year, the trees would already be wearing the golden green dresses of Spring.
Azaleas would be blooming; windows open wide. 

 But not this year.  

Outside the wind is howling; the temperature dropping like a stone.

  There is a roaring fire in the fireplace; a mug of hot cocoa by my side.  

There is a forecast for a dusting of snow; an extra blanket on the bed.

Tell me.  

Has anyone seen Spring?

If you, like me, are clad in flannel and snuggled down for another cold and wintry night...

If you think Spring is nothing more than a myth...

Here’s some new favourite finds to, hopefully, make you smile.

Bundle up, and Enjoy!

1. Garden

Normally the stone urns in the back garden would already be overflowing with blowsy new ferns. 
 There would be alyssum in the window boxes and the hydrangea bushes lining the drive would be full of new green leaves. 
 Instead, the palette of winter still colours the land.
  Grey trees, grey ground. 
 No matter - I’m using these extra cold days to dream up new ideas for
 the Spring that will surely come soon.  

Ideas like the one above.

Don’t you just love that?
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2. Hats

A couple of years ago Macy’s closed their hat department here in town.  A lot of women were simply appalled.  I counted myself in that number, even though I have to admit that I rarely wear a dressy hat, something I find regrettable. (I do wear sun hats, of course, big wide-brimmed numbers that I love.  Strangely enough, I find these at my dermatologist’s office.  She has the best hats.)  I adore hats, especially extravagant ones with feathers and such, but really, where would I wear one?  In my dreams I wake every morning and place a delightfully bizarre hat on my head like the one above, one designed by the milliner extraordinaire, Philip Treacy.  Has there ever been anyone more creative?  Treacy’s hats always seemed so perfectly suited to the designs of Alexander McQueen.  They have that same ability to push the boundaries of fanciful right off the mountain of spectacular.  Perhaps I couldn’t get away with donning one of Philip Treacy’s creations for a run to the farmer’s market, but now at least I can have an entire collection within the boards of a glorious new book of his work.

(Oh, and it’s worth noting that the complaints of local women convinced Macy’s to reopen their hat department last Spring.  So maybe I’ll be a hat wearer yet.)

Find the new book ... HERE
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3. Amazing Handbags

It seems a rare thing these days to find something unique. 
 Something you’ve not seen before; something beautiful, something extraordinary.
  When I saw these new handbag creations by designer, Kristine Johannes, my heart stopped. 
 Each one is a work of art. 
 Not only would they be a joy to carry,
 but I can see a collection of them lined up on an antique table, 
reflecting sunlight and candlelight like prisms.  

Utterly modern, with a timeless beauty, they could easily become a passion.

They are all so gorgeous, I had the hardest time choosing one to feature.

See the collection for yourself, HERE.
See Kristine's brand-new video for Barney's HERE
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4. Keeping Time

It goes so fast, as we all know.

Shouldn’t we keep it as magically as we can?

Watch time fly with this lovely carousel clock.

Find it HERE
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5. Bob and Sophie

Like me, a lot of my readers are well acquainted with two very special, very furry, sheepdogs who used to reside in the deepest part of France.  The adventures of Wilf and Digby were faithfully recorded on a daily basis by their witty and devoted master, Angus on his popular blog.  It was always my first stop every morning.  When they left us, Digby first, and the gallant Wilf a couple of years later, I along with many others felt their loss in a significant way. Such is the power of friendship between the like-minded within the blogosphere.  Fortunately, Angus continued his delightful writing at a new blog entitled The Rickety Old Farmhouse, giving us a window into his wonderfully quirky French village.  And now I am so happy to report that two new Polish Lowland Sheepdog puppies are scheduled to arrive at The Rickety Old Farmhouse on the seventh of April, something that makes me endlessly happy, particularly as that happens to be my own birthday!   These two are brother and sister, christened Bob and Sophie.  If you are followers of Angus, this news will tickle you as much as it does me, I’m sure.  

If you’ve never visited before, now is the perfect time. 

 Set your watches for April 7!

You can find Bob and Sophie at their brand-new blog.

Find Them HERE
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6. Good Ol’ Freda

A couple of weeks ago, on a balmy Saturday night around ten pm, if you happened to drive down one of my city’s more eccentric streets, you would have seen yours truly sitting cross-legged atop a stone wall outside a fairly grand church, an unusual sight to be sure.  The Songwriter and I were there waiting to see an entry in the city’s annual Film Festival.  The schedule was running late, but I’m so happy we waited, for the movie, Good Ol’ Freda, was a wonderful experience.

  Good Ol’ Freda is the story of Freda Kelly who, at age sixteen, was often in the crowd of girls watching The Beatles’ lunchtime concerts at The Cavern in Liverpool.  One year later she was employed by the band.  For eleven years, Freda ran their fan club, acted as their personal assistant and secretary and became as trusted as family.  Though this is a fascinating tale of a halcyon time in our culture, it is ultimately a portrait of a woman who refused to sell her story for fame and fortune, choosing instead to hold her secrets close and remain loyal to the members of a band she worked for and loved.   The movie, like Freda Kelly herself, is joyous and uplifting.  I cannot recommend it enough and encourage you to see it if it comes to your town.

Read More HERE.
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7. Poems to Learn by Heart

When you were little, did you memorize poems?  I know I did.  Isn’t it odd that the words we memorize as a child seem to stay with us forever, floating back whenever we have need of them? Perhaps that’s why we say we know them “by heart”, for they do seem to reside there, in the deepest part of ourselves.  

Whenever my Father was complimented on the beauty of his garden he would respond with “A thing of beauty is a joy forever”, calling forth the words of Keats into the springtime air.  And just last night, as the March winds blew the wind chimes into wild crescendos and sent the thorny branches of the rose bush to clawing the windowpanes, the words of Robert Louis Stevenson traveled the long distance from my childhood to the forefront of my mind...

 Whenever the moon and starts are set 

Whenever the wind is high, 

All night long in the dark and wet, 

A man goes riding by.

Late in the night when the fires are out, 

Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Caroline Kennedy has published some delightful poetry compilations over the years and I’m happy to say she has a new volume just out this week.  Poems to Learn by Heart is a collection of wonderful poems perfectly suited for memory.

Find it HERE.

  For the child in your life, or for yourself, 
wouldn’t it be nice to know this one by heart....?

I’d Love to Be a Fairy’s Child

by Robert Graves

Children born of fairy stock

Never need for shirt or frock,

Never want for food or fire, 

Always get their heart’s desire:

Jingle pockets full of gold,

Marry when they’re seven years old.

Every fairy child can keep

Two strong ponies and ten sheep;

All have houses, each his own

Built of brick or granite stone

They live on cherries, they run wild -

I’d love to be a fairy’s child.

Happy Spring to you all!
I'm sure it will be here soon.

Ballet for Martha

Ballet For Martha

The Appalachian Trail traverses over two thousand miles of the eastern United States, criss-crossing quiescent mountains who hold their secrets close, revealing little of their history save a melancholic beauty that settles on the mind like the mist that drapes their pines.  The threshold of the trail is not far from us; we stop there nearly every Autumn on our annual foray to the mountains.  Much like Dorothy with one ruby-slippered foot poised above a yellow road, Edward and I have stood staring down this mysterious leafy tunnel as far as our eyes can travel, till all its scarlet gold coalesces in the distance to a fiery, beckoning gem.  Occasionally hikers pass us, all freshly pressed and smelling of soap.  I can only imagine the adventures they will encounter before, and if, they manage to arrive atop Maine’s Mount Katahdin at the end of the trail.

Being somewhat familiar with this part of the country that bears the name Appalachia, it is difficult for me to conjure up a piece of music that more accurately illustrates a landscape than Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring.  I have often imagined Copland wandering this very same trail in the months of March or April when all around him drifts the golden green of spring.  Did he transcribe the bird song?  Did he hear the mountains sing in chorus?  He must have done, for to hear this work is to see, and experience, the countryside for which it is named.

Or so I thought.

Truth is, Copland wrote this piece of music never knowing the title at all.  He wasn’t thinking of Appalachia, he was merely composing a ballet for his friend, Martha Graham.  Indeed, his title for the work was Ballet for Martha - he only found out the name of the ballet the night before its opening.  It was to his great amusement that for years and years afterwards, he continued to be praised for so accurately capturing the spirit of a land he never gave thought to while composing his Appalachian Spring.  Call it serendipity, call it the Unseen Hand.  Call it the shenanigans of fate.  It is difficult to ignore the invisible assemblage that often orchestrates our days.  How little we see.  How little we know.

Just last week, a favourite neighbour came over for a visit and long chat.  Over tea and brownies, we discussed a cornucopia of subjects.  Being fifteen, her views and opinions were of delightful interest to me and I was tickled to see how closely entwined our conclusions were.  She shared with me how so often, when circumstances change or delay her plans, she wonders if perhaps there is a reason.  Was she spared an accident by being a few seconds late?  Did she happen upon a new friend by a slight altering of her schedule?  I loved it that she considers ideas such as these for it means she is living life with open eyes; open eyes that know, without seeing, that there is a benevolence surrounding us, orchestrating our lives for the good.  

If you’ve never been to Appalachia in springtime, 

close your eyes when you listen to this.

You’ll see it plain as day.

Easter Shoes

Easter Shoes

Although The Songwriter is currently in the market for a new car, this does not mean the purchase of one is in anyway imminent.  At present, there is not one rolling the roads here in the states that he actually cares for.  We sit at traffic lights watching the current crop fly past, utterly disenchanted.  He says that they all look the same.  He’s right, it’s quite a homogenized bunch.  For me, the woefully uninspired choices in colour  are the most frustrating.  Silver, silver, champagne, white.  Occasionally a red one floats by, but then we’re back to silver, silver, champagne, white.  One might as well be colour blind, my pistachio green Fiat notwithstanding.  

Colour works a particular sort of magic in my soul,  perhaps because I’ve always been one who thinks in pictures.  There’s a wonderful quirk of brain chemistry called synesthesia in which humans tend to involuntarily assign colour to numbers and, while I don’t consider myself one who is afflicted/blessed with this condition, I must admit the number five has always been as yellow as an egg yolk to me.  More than scent, more than sound, colour illuminates my memory as effectively as a time machine.  A special shade of brown conveys me back to the creaky wooden floors of my elementary school as I stand looking down at them in the lunchroom line.  There is also a certain shade of pink and honey that, even if I encounter it in an autumn sunset, forever speaks of Easter.

These evocative Easter colours are shyly emerging all around me at present and were obviously in my mind last week when one of my favourite bloggers, Vicki Archer, did a delightful post on white pumps which are, apparently, the shoe du jour.  Gazing at that charming white footwear, I was immediately transported back, back to a little shoe shop in my childhood.  It is the Saturday before Easter and as my mother pulls back the wooden door, a little bell signals our entrance.  We are on our annual foray to buy Easter Shoes, a tradition as aeonian as chocolate bunnies and church.  My dress is white this year and we are here to purchase white shoes to match.  The salesman is young, even to my eight year old eyes.  I stand in a little metal contraption that measures my foot, then sit as he places said foot inside a white, pointed-toe, kitten-heeled shoe.  Now let me admit right off.... I have always had long and slender (alright, skinny) feet.  Even so, I do not appreciate the laughter that ensues when this upstart of a shoe salesman sees my foot in that long white creation.
 “Wow!  Looks like she’s wearing skis!”, he roars.
  To this day, I’m slightly peeved at my mother for joining in the giggles
 and I remain a lady who steers well clear of white pumps.

Whatever our education or exalted station in life, are we all still shadowed by words spoken in childhood, words that retain their power to unconsciously provoke pavlovian responses and alter our behaviour without our concert or consent?  I fear this happens more often than we realize.  When I see a reed thin lady choosing clothes to cover non-existent thighs, I know she was a chubby child.  Whenever I’m around someone whose reticence to share their ideas borders on the fearful, I know those ideas were not cherished, were perhaps even denigrated, when they were small.  Those of us who arrive at the station of adulthood without this type of baggage should kiss the ground upon disembarking, for I believe it’s a rare thing indeed.

To be honest, I quite like my feet these days. High arched and bunion free,
 they work exceptionally well with rarely a complaint and look quite nice 
when freshly pedicured and painted. 
 My height has finally reached a point where their length makes sense.

  But still... I cannot shake my aversion to white pumps. 

 Especially at Easter.

Wanderlust, Featuring an Edward Film

Wanderlust

There is a marvelous malady afoot in the world, particularly virulent in Spring.  One’s susceptibility is greatly increased if one is also possessed of a certain strain of curiosity, the type of curiosity that pulls one towards windows during thunderstorms and causes undo fascination with forests, rainbows and ships.   If one wishes to avoid infection, it is imperative that one refrain from all music and poetry.  Any watching of Enchanted April is strictly verboten.  Books pose a definite risk, and fairy tales must be avoided at all costs.  Keeping thoroughly apprised of the news helps, and doing one’s taxes has been known to render one totally immune.

  But be aware.  If, as the dreary grey days of Winter dissolve into all the gold greenness of Spring, you find yourself sitting in traffic, lost in a daydream of white gardens... if, when you close your eyes you can almost feel a sea breeze twirl through your hair... if your eyes start to ache for the sight of a meadow and your heart fairly breaks at the sound of an owl..  well, you my friend just may have the very first signs of Wanderlust.

As one afflicted with all the classic symptoms myself, I come to tell you that there is no cure.  It returns every Spring without fail and the only treatment is the necessary indulgence of travel.  The trip you must take need not be extravagant nor extended, but it’s a trip you need, and fast.  You must feel beach sand beneath your toes, you have to breathe fresh air.  You need to gaze at the waves of daffodils in St. James Park or stroll beneath the cherry trees in Washington DC.  You need to ride the Dumbo ride at Disney or gallop a pony down the beaches of Mull.  Trust one who knows, left untreated, Wanderlust can spread and become chronic.  Ignoring the condition will only make matters worse, leaving one at serious risk of boredom and irritability until, eventually, one loses the capacity for rational thought and becomes quite dreadful to be around.

 If you see yourself in the words I have written,

 go straight to your desk and dig out your passport.

  Call a friend, book a seat. 

 Get out of town before it’s too late.

It is almost Spring after all.

“Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land,

 grew especially strong in spring.” 

Vladimir Nabokov

Find Edward's Book HERE.

What Do We Know?

What Do We Know?

When I was little, one of the more exciting experiences known to happen in school was the fire drill.  We never knew when the alarm would sound;  in a morning English class, an afternoon Biology lab - or, hope upon hope, in the middle of a particularly difficult Math test.  Much like Gabriel’s trumpet, without warning it would blast forth from some unseen source, eliciting responses from every soul within earshot.  Up we would spring from our desks and out of the door we would file, one by one, as docile and obedient as a row of baby ducks.  We’d proceed out to the playground where we’d form orderly lines, presumably safe from whatever harm was afoot.  Occasionally we would participate in what our elders dubbed “Duck and Cover” drills.  These were necessitated by the what was universally perceived as the increasing threat of nuclear war.  It was determined by the experts that by merely crouching underneath our desks with our heads touching our knees we would be totally safe from a nuclear attack.  Unfathomable, I know, but we ducked and covered anyway.  So much for the elevated intelligence of human beings.  

The ads I’ve shown here are real ones, and from not that long ago.  Hilarious now, but perfectly sensible at the time.  And it’s sobering, even as we pat ourselves on the back for our culture’s great strides in knowledge, to note that only this week a well-known televangelist here in the States encouraged one of his flock to “pray over” clothes they  purchase at Goodwill stores, just in case a garment could possess demons in the warp and weft of the fabric.
 (You can read his full exhortation here.)  
One can only wonder how backward we will seem to future generations.  When the polar ice caps and the great bears who live there are only memories, will our heirs shake their heads at those amongst who today insist on refuting the science of global warming and its causes?  Will we one day discover that it wasn’t such a brilliant idea to inject
even a modicum of botulism into our foreheads in order to
paralyze wrinkles that are insignificant anyway? 

I suppose I’ve always been naturally skeptical.  I look at advertisements with a jaundiced eye and whether they flow from the lectern, the podium, or the pulpit, I’ve found it’s always beneficial to question the words I hear. I've learned it's always advisable to do my own investigation, to turn over the stones in the pathway myself in a continuing quest for the truth.

It’s disconcerting to think back on assumptions I’ve made that turned out to be entirely wrong, but little by little I move forward, step by step the light shines a bit brighter.  Someone wiser than I once said when we know better, we do better.  Such an affirming quote.  In the humbling light of history it has to be the height of hubris to think we have it all figured out.  But just as I now know that the ingestion of lard is not a guarantee of happiness or health and that DDT and babies do not make a good mix, I also know that my clothing cannot be a harbor for demons.  So I guess I'm moving forward.