A Handmade Life

A Handmade Life

Our recent spell of shockingly glacial temperatures saw us snuggling down in our beloved burrow, and quite happy to be doing so.  It is precisely in times such these are we ever so grateful for a nest that not only shelters us from the less than salubrious climate stalking the environs just outside our bolted door but nurtures and comforts us as well.  As the sun took flight and the temperature plummeted to record levels I reached for extra quilts on the closet shelf and as I spread them out atop the down comforter I paused to run my fingers along their tiny stitches.  We use these quilts every winter and I often forget that I actually made them myself.   

Not long after The Songwriter and I married, I became besotted with the idea of “creating” a home for us both.  No mere residence; much more than a simple house; I saw our cottage as an integral part of our lives together, a brick and stone representation of our personalities, our interests, our individuality, and our love.  Like Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant before us, we set about weaving our souls into the fabric of our home and now, many years later, we live in a highly personal pastiche in which we feel both understood and charmed.  There is a lot of us in these rooms.   I knitted the pillows that sit on the tartan chairs by the window.  The Songwriter made the front porch gate... a lovely addition to the face of our house, but crafted chiefly to contain Edward and Apple on sunny days when they like to sit out front and watch the world go by.   A friend has painted furniture here, paintings, even murals on some of the ceilings.  He recently painted our interior doors with scenes from our travels.  Like I said, a highly personal place.

I credit the love that I have for my home for teaching me the value of a handmade life.  For there is such a joy to be found in the creation of beautiful things, whether it be needlepointed pillows, knitted slippers, an apple pie with the first new apples of autumn, or handmade Christmas cards; joy that cannot be matched by the wares offered up in the toniest store. This joy is given freely to the creator of such things, and when one surrounds oneself with these handmade creations, one feels a delight unmatched.  

Over the holidays I paid warm visits to the homes of several good friends and so enjoyed seeing their personalities reflected in their homes even as mine own is reflected in mine; their paintings hanging on the walls, their framed photography on the mantels,  their handmade holiday decorations on the trees.   Though our styles are sometimes wildly different, I always feel thoroughly comfortable in surroundings so personally created.  In an age such as ours, when so much technology threatens to depersonalize the culture, it is reassuring to know that we can close our front doors and create the world of our dreams right inside our own homes.  A handmade life is attainable for each of us and I highly recommend it.

And as you can see.... Edward loves to nap amongst the quilts just as much as we do.

The Weather

The Weather

My father liked to watch the weather.  Please don’t mistake this beloved habit of his with watching the weather”man”, or as he or she prefers to be called, the meteorologist.  You know, the chap on television news who tries with utmost conviction and gravity of expression to convince his audience that any rainstorm just might hide a hurricane and dark skies could portend the apocalypse easy as not.  No my Father had little confidence in these learned souls.  He simply walked outside and studied the clouds.  

“Those are snow clouds", he’d tell me as my eyes followed his pointing finger up to a  glowing grey sky full of ponderous clouds that seemed to be concealing something, as though crowds of performers were silently gathering behind the folds of silver theatre curtains waiting only until their numbers were such that they pushed through, rushing out to fall on the stage of the world.  Droughts worried him, wind fascinated him, and he simply loved the cold.   I can see him in the favourite soft grey coat he always wore when I was little, a coat too heavy for cool weather, a coat only pulled out when the conditions turned arctic.  He’d stamp his feet, clap his hands together, as he made his way outside in the cold, returning red-cheeked and happy.

Such is the mystery of inheritance, I suppose, because I cannot deny, even as I pile on another knitted shawl and one more pair of socks, that my heart skips a beat whenever  polar air pierces the Mason-Dixon line to visit the South.  It’s a rare thing, after all.  We Southerners could fairly be described as having a rather hysterical reaction to any forecast of authentic winter weather.  Schools close right down, for days, at the merest dusting of snow.  The most microscopic measurement of ice on the roads completely erases any ability we may possess to safely operate an automobile, and before the weather hits we all head to the market, en masse, to strip the shelves of those things we feel we cannot successfully exist  without.  We put on quite an entertaining show.

 So naturally, yesterday when the meteorologists trumpeted our forecast of “the Coldest Weather in Over a Decade”, we joined our friends and neighbours at the market for our own “essentials”.  The Songwriter gathered the ingredients for his famous chili.   I scampered up and down the aisles pulling down clove-scented bubble bath, tangerine tea, bouquets of fresh roses, Gruyere cheese, and apple-flavoured dog bones.  

Essentials, don’t you know.  

We arrived home just as the first pinpricks of sleet were pinging the pavement.  I wound the most delicious lavender wool into balls for a new sweater.  The Songwriter stacked firewood.  Edward and Apple curled up in favourite chairs.  Extra quilts were put on the bed and hot water bottles were filled and buttoned up tightly in their cashmere covers.  And then, we waited.  Waited for the needles of glassy sleet to rattle and tingle at our windowpanes.  Waited for the polar wind to sing its high-pitched songs round the eaves of our bedroom.  Edward sighed. We heard the owls call out in the darkness.  

Perhaps a long walk tomorrow?

I do have my Father’s old grey coat, after all.

Is it winter where you are?

A Brand New Year, For Edward

A Brand New Year, for Edward

In the fair sea of mediocrity on which I generally sail, there are a few superlative islands that are mine alone.  I can make outstanding pie crust from scratch, for instance.  I have an excellent memory, a stellar eye for colour, and an above average capacity to ferret out the humour in most situations.  I can touch my nose with the toes of my right foot, a feat that used to be easily accomplished with the toes of my left as well, before the necessity of the November left hip replacement.  Hopefully I will be equally proficient on both sides before long, though I freely admit this is a decidedly useless talent and one I would hardly miss.  All things considered though, I am a remarkably average person.  Not exceptional in any way.  Which is why I am often humbled in the face of the love of my dog.

It is said that dogs choose their owners.  This was certainly the case with Edward and me.  The Songwriter and I had seen his photograph on the rescue website, looking a bit scraggly and thin from his weeks on the street, and made an appointment to meet him posthaste.  When he trotted round the corner and right up to me, our eyes met and ... well, don’t let anyone tell you there is no such thing as love at first sight.   He moved in that night and has been by my side ever since. 

 When I came home from the hospital in November, he padded down the hall after me, a look of concern on his furry face, and took up his position as my shadow.  If I got up, he got up.  If I left the room, he left the room.  He would approach any chair or sofa on which I perched, gauging whether or not there was room for us both.  Upon deciding there was, up he would come, turning round once or twice before lying down beside me with his head in my lap. When I walked out the door and down the drive to get into the car, he watched from the window, a look of frank disapproval on his face.  Apple checked on me frequently; Edward never left my side.  Now that we’re out on walks again, his spirits are noticeably higher, his worries are gone.  

Five and a half years ago, when I began this blog, I was admittedly rather shy about the process.  So I hid behind Edward.  He was, after all, privy to my musings about the wisdom of the undertaking.  I asked him point blank on several occasions whether or not it was a good idea.  He always looked at me kindly and smiled.  A confidence booster if ever there was one.  Quite fittingly, I named the blog for him and never really looked back.  He continually gives me stories and laughter, hope and enthusiasm for life.  All of which one needs to write, I assure you.

It is, therefore, only fitting that as the ashes of a tired year drift off on the midnight wind and so many new days fall round us like blessings, I should say a holy thank you for the incomprehensible love of a dog.  No one who has ever experienced it can truly explain it.  I only know that when one is blessed with that singular warmth and devotion, one sees the world in a convivial light.  Nothing is ever as bad as it seems when your dog smiles at you.  Nothing I have ever done in my life makes me deserving of that sort of love, but oh, how grateful I am for it.

The photograph above was taken a couple of days ago when we stopped to rest during a walk at the park.  I sit down, and Edward sits down.  Isn’t he just the handsomest fellow?  As sweet as soul as ever walked the earth.

Edward and I are marching into a new year

 with joy and sparkling anticipation for all the wonders to come. 

 Come join us!

 Our sweetest wishes for a Happy New Year for all of you.

A Form of Courage

A Form of Courage

Throughout the whole of this year, people have been calling me names.  Not exactly a assortment of pejoratives, it’s true, but their combined chorus has been unsettling nonetheless.  Words such as “brave” and “strong” have been flung my way, not to mention “tough” and perhaps worst of all....”stoic”.  Hardly compliments a girl wishes for when daring to imagine all the ways she may be seen by others. 

  I suppose when one looks at my past year..... which began with burying my Mother on New Year’s Eve and included the cleaning out and selling of my family home, a trip to the faraway Scottish island of Mull where The Songwriter broke three bones in his ankle, and concluded with me receiving a hip replacement in November... well, one could perhaps surmise that anyone who completed a year such as this one without totally going off the rails is deserving of these exalted labels.    

But I feel neither worthy nor accepting of them.

While it’s true that the experiences of this past year have caused my coffers of empathy to enlarge dramatically, I truly don’t believe I am due any undo merit for surviving them.  When one is in the midst of any sort of difficulty, and I feel I can now say this quite empirically, one never feels particularly brave or heroic; one just keeps putting each foot in front of the other, gratefully accepting help when it’s offered, praying constantly, and wailing occasionally.  There exists no well-drawn road map or magic incantation to levitate you over your trouble; you must hack your way through to the other side.  Brave?  That’s a laugh.  Strong?  Hardly.

But just the other day I came across a quotation that made 

my newly acquired labels just a bit more palatable.  

“Happiness is a form of courage”. 

Deep in the corners of my heart, I know what that means.  Having spent a good deal of time wondering why some people seem to be innately happy, even when things are bleak, whilst others find clouds in the center of every single silver lining afforded them... I have come to know that happiness is more than genetically obtained.  It is, at its core, a choice.  Through the years I have come to recognize a certain kind of melancholy as a herald for its darker kinsmen of depression and negativity and therefore avoid it whenever I can.  Yes, I am one of those people naturally inclined towards positivity, but more often than not I simply choose to be happy.  And here’s the remarkable thing.... if one chooses happiness time after time, one’s soul begins to open wider with each choice until the positive aspects outshine the negative in nearly every situation.  Was I unnerved by our dramatic experiences in Scotland?  Well, sure.  But how much worse could it have been?  How thankful I am that The Songwriter didn’t break something more vital than an ankle.  Was I a bit shocked when the doctor told me that the only way to erase my sudden and incredible hip pain was to have the whole thing replaced?  You bet your boots I was.  But I left his office overwhelmingly grateful that there was something that could be done.  No longer conscious of the choice my soul was making, I found I was happy.

It was starting to rain yesterday as I placed a bouquet of holly upon my parent’s grave.  This is the first Christmas without my Mother and both she and my Dad adored this time of year.  I can see them clear as day... Mother baking in the kitchen, Daddy singing as he brings in another armload of firewood.  In the happy childhood that was mine, Christmas shines as the happiest time of all.  Because I miss them, it would be dangerously easy to allow nostalgia to melt into melancholy, sadness following close behind.  Which do I choose?

 Knowing my parents are not really there on that cold, rainy hill, I left my holly in their sweet memory, pulled the hood of my coat up against the chill, and headed home.  Later that night, as I made my way to bed, I paused at the newly created gallery of family photos that line the passageway and my eyes came to rest on a favourite photograph, one I needed to see.  Taken when I was around fifteen years old, I am seated with my parents in front of the Christmas tree.  My father and I are chose together on an ottoman, his big bear paw of an arm around my shoulders - my Mother is just behind us in the chair.  We are all three laughing.  And there.  Right there.  That is what I choose to remember.  Floodgates of gratitude and love open in my heart as I savour all the merry Christmases that have been mine to enjoy, and once again, I make that choice to be happy.

This is my wish for you in this Christmas week.  May you choose happiness every chance that you have.  May you make this choice so often, it begins to weave a tapestry of golden light in your soul; more beautiful that you can imagine, stronger than you’d dream possible and warmer that all the joyful memories that beg to be remembered.

A Most Happy Christmas to you all!

The Last of Books at Christmas.... Finishing the List

The Last of Books at Christmas.... Finishing the List

The weak winter sun has managed to break through the morning’s grey sky.  A single beam of its light pierces the bookshop window; a swath of pink gold illuminating the way to the children’s book section.  You check your list once more.  Only two more people to buy for, and they are two of your favourites.  Then you’ll gather up your purchases and head to the little cafe on the corner for a restorative lunch before heading off for another one of your best-loved Christmas chores... Gift Wrapping!  

But first.... those last two people on the list.....

Henry, Who’s Just Begun Reading on His Own, 

but Still Likes to be Read to Every Now and Then

He’s been read to since his first day on Earth.  Goodnight Moon.  Where the Wild Things Are.  It was just several months ago that his mother caught him reading by himself one afternoon in his little rocking chair by the window.  She tiptoed away to call you.  Ah, another reader in the world.  Cause for hope and celebration.  Henry was fun to choose for this year.  You think he’ll adore this selection and you hope he’ll let you read at least one to him.

Tell Me the Day Backwards

by Albert Lamb

Mr. Wuffles!

by David Wiesner

The Dark

by Lemony Snicket

Fog Island

by Tomi Ungerer

________________________________________

 Your Friend, Caroline, Who Was Serious When She Told You

 She Was Leaving Town for Christmas

It was over a late lunch on a particularly hectic, particularly rainy day in October when she told you she had booked ten days in Belize and would fly out the evening of December twentieth. 

 “But what about the tree?  Your Christmas cards?  

The parties?  The presents?”, you’d sputtered. 

 “I’m taking the year off”, she'd said flatly. 

 She’d smiled so serenely, you knew there was nothing you could say to change her mind.  And really, who are you to try?  Caroline has had a pretty raucous year, and maybe this is precisely how she should spend her holiday, even if it does sound ill-advised and slightly treasonous to you.  Well, you searched to find the books perfect for this type of escape and you think you’ve done pretty well.  You’ll ship these to her hotel in Belize to be waiting for her to flip through by the pool. 

 What was that.....a touch of envy?

No.  Couldn't be.

Debutantes 

by Diana Oswald

All the Time in the World:  A Book of Hours

by Jessica Kerwin Jenkins

The Goldfinch

by Donna Tartt

Beauty at Home

by Aerin Lauder

Books At Christmas.... Part Three

Your Friend, Katharine, Who Always Gets You Into Trouble

Nobody ever believed you when you were little, but any bad thing you got caught doing was always her idea.  Teachers separated you in class; both of your mothers were called into the principal’s office more than once.  Even today, you would hesitate to sit next to Katharine at a wedding or a funeral, for without a doubt inappropriate laughter would ensue.  You thought perhaps she’d mellow when Harry came along.  But no such luck.  Her hilarious take on life had only doubled.  She’d married someone just like her.  Truth be told, though, you’re lucky to have them both.  Two friends guaranteed to make you grin every time you’re with them are a treasure indeed.  They’ll love these books, and probably read them aloud at your next dinner party!

The Most of Nora Ephron

by Nora Ephron

The Asylum

by Simon Doonan

The Moth

Edited by Catherine Burns

Holidays On Ice

by David Sedaris

___________________________________

Your Niece, Tessa, Who Shares Your Love of Britain

She’s the niece you can count on to get up with you at two am to watch the Royal Wedding.  Like you, she always found Elizabeth I much more intriguing than George Washington and when she hit her teenage years, it was a poster of Jane Austen she hung in her room.  Framed, too, not stuck up with push pins.  Tessa was serious about her passion.  She has vowed to name her first child, Bronte, be it boy or girl and she has a definite opinion on who made the better Darcy, Colin Firth or the chap in the movie. The two of you try to make it to London to Christmas shop once a year; you’ve lost her in Hatchard’s more than once.  You had to choose carefully here, but you think you’ve nailed it.  You know these books are for her.

Longbourn

by Jo Baker

The Angel of Charleston

by Steward MacKay

The Time Traveler's Guide to Elizabethan England

by Ian Mortimer

September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

_________________________________

Last Installment Coming Next...

Children's Books and Pure Escapism!

Books at Christmas, Part Two

Books At Christmas, Part Two

Your shopping bag is getting full, two people done.

Now... further down the list.....

Your Friend, Marianna, Who Loves to Bake at Christmas

She still sends out formal invitations.  Often handmade with her own whimsical drawings inside, these invitations are both coveted and collectible.  Dinner at Marianna’s is an event not to be missed.  Warm and informal, with emphasis on friends, family and really good food. Marianna is a happy cook, whose good humour and light seem to infuse her food.  She taught you what to do with saffron and why it’s important to always have your ingredients at room temperature before you bake a cake. We all pray to make her Christmas list, for this means we’ll receive a box of holiday treats unsurpassed by any professional cook. Homemade peppermint bark and fudge - chocolate truffles, gingersnaps. All treats from Marianna’s kitchen.  You are fortunate in her friendship.  

She’ll love these new books!

The Beekman 1801 Heirloom Dessert Cookbook

by Brent Ridge, Josh Kilmer-Purcell and Sandy Gluck

Wintersweet

by Tammy Donroe Inman

Sweet

by Valerie Gordon

Southern Biscuits
by Nathalie Dupree and Cynthia Graubart

___________________________________

Your Friend Sally, Who Loves/Lives to Knit

You taught your friend Sally to knit at your kitchen table one rainy afternoon three years ago.  Since that day you’ve had occasion to think perhaps you created a monster.  She found her passion that rainy afternoon and the most gorgeous pieces have flown off her wooden needles in the months and years since.  She quickly advanced from mittens to gloves, from sweaters to coats, and has recently begun knitting cashmere throws that are simply swoon-worthy.  The two of you can sit for hours, needles clacking away, in the most salubrious silence.  Though recently she's begun to talk about getting some sheep of her own.  Maybe you DID create a monster.  Ah well, it’s a treat to have a knitting friend.

She’ll be crazy over these lovely new books.

Tudor Roses

by Alice Starmore

Woodland Knits

by Stephanie Dosen

Adventures in Yarn Farming

by Barbara Parry

Knitting Yarns  - Writers on Knitting

Edited by Ann Hood

Part Three Coming Wednesday!

Books At Christmas

Books at Christmas

The cold presses against the kitchen window, causing the steam from your coffee cup to whirl and dance in the warm air.  Yes, not only a heavy coat today, but gloves, boots and shawl to boot.  You smile to yourself in happy anticipation.  No better weather for the task at hand.  Placing your carefully curated list in your coat pocket, you give the dogs a treat, tell them to enjoy their naps and set off into the wind.  The ground, still silver plated from last night’s frost, crunches beneath your feet.  It will be hours yet before the chilled December sun manages to soften the landscape.  Pulling your coat up tighter at your neck you follow the pavement into town.  Across the green you can hear the music of ten o’clock choir practice - “the holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown”-  the beautiful sound seeps under the stained glass windows and oaken doors to drift freely in the morning air, bringing to each ear a memory, a hope, a shiver of unexpected happiness.   You can see the big green tree in the city square now, its fat red and gold balls swaying in the wind.  Swags of garland drape the tiny lanes, streetlight to streetlight.  Snowmen made of light stand guard round city hall.  And there, just off to the right, your destination awaits - your pot of gold, your Wonderland.  The Bookshop.  The shop you love more than any, especially at Christmas.   For is there a more satisfying activity than Christmas shopping for the ones you love? 

 And is there a better gift than a book?  None more individual, more imaginative, none that brings so much for so long, to so many.  To give a book is to give ideas, travel tickets, laughter, joy, thought, enlightenment - oh, the list can go on and on.  Books never wear out, never lose their ability to transport.  Oh, some can be the wrong fit, which is why one must put thought and consideration into each purchase.  But that’s what is so much fun.  

The bell on the green door jangles as you enter.  The orange cat on the counter jumps down to thread his way through your legs while you take a measure of the place.  There is a faint wisp of Nat King Cole drifting along from some back room.  You pull out your list, loosen your coat, and begin the best shopping trip of the year!  Happy Christmas to All!

For Great Aunt Octavia

Great Aunt Octa taught you that everyone can wear red lipstick, and should.  She impressed upon you the importance of a good bag, told you that not everyone is a hat person and that good manners are the most significant characteristic of a woman.  Always.  Octa lived in London in the sixties.  She heard Jimi Hendrix at the Bag o’Nails.  She wore Mary Quant dresses and worked the scarf department at Liberty.  She knew Grace Coddington as a model. After marrying Uncle James and moving to Virginia, she set about creating a home that, though decidedly un-Southern, remains to this day the most fascinating place you’ve ever visited.  You still escape there for the occasional rejuvenating weekend.  Always interested, always individual, always just outside the box, Aunt Octavia will love these books.

Darling Monster

the Letters of Lady Diana Cooper to her son, John Julius Norwich 1939-1952

An Exuberant Catalog of Dreams

by Clive Aslet

Dior Impressions

by Florence Muller

Francois Halard

__________________________________

Great Uncle James

You could perhaps be forgiven for occasionally thinking Great Uncle James is a bit of a grump.  It’s true that he doesn’t suffer fools gladly.  He finds current pop music stupid - his word, not mine -  greatly prefers Gosford Park to Downton Abbey,  and wouldn’t know a Kardashian if he fell over one.  Dinner conversations round his table center on the events of the day; you are often asked your thoughts about international affairs before the salad course.  He refuses to eat brussels sprouts, thinks Jello is “unnatural” and insists on sleeping with the window open.  But if you succeed in making him laugh, which is not as difficult as you would imagine, his laughter is loud, warm and infectious.   

Uncle James loves his Norfolk Terrier, Martin, and strangely enough, Uncle James loves kids.  His own, those of his nieces and nephews, neighbours, you, and your friends.  As long as you can remember, he has gathered you all up to read aloud, cracking open his latest find with a wry smile and launching into a marvelous story in which each character has his own voice and personality, provided by James of course.  He taught you to love stories like candy.  And this year at Christmas, his house will be full of children.  They will all love these books!

Journey 

by Aaron Becker

The Collected Stories of Roald Dahl

I’d Know You Anywhere 

by Nancy Tillman

The Illuminated Adventure of Flora and Ullysses

by Kate DiCamillo

__________________________________

A personal note....

Thank you all so much for your kind words and best wishes following my last post.

I'm happy to report I am moving along like a champ.

Decorating the house, running errands.  Amazing, really.

Edward is a constant presence at my side...

 He sits beside me, sleeps beside me, watches intently as I go out to the car. 

 If I get up to leave the room, he gets up to leave the room.  

Truly a comforting chap.

I am walking fine, using a rather fabulous cane when I'm outside... one that I just may keep as an affectation when I no longer need it.  I ordered it from Italy... ebony wood with a ivory-coloured rabbit's head on top.  The rabbit has gold-green eyes.  I mean really, how can I give this up??

Stay tuned... many more books to come!

Thinking Beautiful Thoughts

Thinking Beautiful Thoughts

Once upon a time there was a little girl who was fascinated by the story of Peter Pan.  She particularly adored the old production of the play that still aired on television annually and every year she would watch, eyes wide, as Mary Martin, in the role of Peter himself, would line up the Darling children on their wide windowsill, instruct them to “think beautiful thoughts” and jump out into the night air.  Every year the little girl stared as they flew, (THEY FLEW) out over London, taking a left at the north star and going straight on till morning. Straight on to Never Never Land and all the unfathomable wonders it held. 

One hot summer afternoon, this little girl stood atop a stone wall roughly as tall as her house.  She looked out past the rolling hill beneath her to the tops of the trees beyond.  She thought, quite clearly,  

“I’ll never know if I don’t try”

 and then, she jumped.

No, she... or rather I... did not fly.  I broke my left leg in three places.

This past April, many years later, I went for a run on a South Carolina beach with Edward.  We ran, not like marathoners, but like kids...  jumping sea walls and splashing through tidal pools.  I felt like a million bucks.  Thirty minutes later, I swung my leg over a bicycle and...ow, Ow, OW!  Thinking  I had sustained a pulled muscle, I tried to ignore the pain for several months, limping my way through dog walks and shopping trips in April, limping along the streets of London in May, finally going to the doctor in June.  He declared me to be “too young” for the problem to possibly be related to my hip, but did x-rays and a MRI anyway, the results of which were revelatory, and sobering.  My right hip looked like Vitruvian man, it was so perfect.  It practically glowed.  Whereas, my left hip?  Well the curvature of my left hip resembled a serrated knife.  It was an utter mess.  It is remarkable that I knew nothing of this before April, but I’m happy I didn’t.  The cause?   Sad to say, that innocent, though ill-fated, attempt at flight when I was six.  

So when The Songwriter and I returned from our overly dramatic trip to Scotland, with his ankle in a cast, we visited an orthopaedic surgeon recommended by our stateside doctor who added when he referred us, “Now, this is the fellow I’d want to do Pamela’s hip when she decides she’s had enough.” Little did he realize, I had already had enough and would honestly have gone ahead right then with the surgery, had The Songwriter been his usual bipedal self.  But as he was to be, in the immortal words of Peter Cook, a unidexter, for the next six weeks, I was sentenced to wait awhile.  For the past few weeks we have presented quite a humorous display - him on crutches, me limping like a pirate - as the Tweedledee and Tweedledum of the orthopedic floor.  As our surgeon said, “You know how some couples who’ve been married a long while start to look alike?  Well, you two are taking it one step further.”  Sigh. 

I am happy to report that The Songwriter is healed and perfectly ambulatory now.  He can drive; he can shop for groceries; he can take out the trash... (yippee!). Which is why.... believe it or not....I am writing this from a fairly comfortable hospital bed with a fairly unoffensive view of the city.  In my tartan nightshirt and green pashmina, I can happily report that I am the proud owner of a shiny new titanium hip.  I KNOW!  Crazy, right?

Fortunately for me, I was deemed an excellent candidate for a fairly new procedure called “anterior” hip replacement.  Unlike traditional hip surgery, no muscles are cut during the anterior and this enables the recovery to be relatively painless and much, much faster.  Seriously, the first thing I noticed upon waking up from surgery was that the excruciating pain I’d been experiencing for seven months was gone.  Marvelous! (An interesting side note:  Martha Stewart had this exact same procedure several years ago.  She’s quite a bit older than me and she was back to work in five days!  So I have no excuses. )

One thing I have noticed over the past several months is how devilishly distracting pain can be.  Deadlines have whizzed past my head, uncatchable.  Emails have languished in my inbox, unnoticed.  My writings here on the blog have been much sparser than I like and I’m grateful you all have stuck with me, graciously commenting and writing each time I posted something new, even though those postings were few and far between.  Well, things are looking up now and I promise to be much more available.

I am due to go home tomorrow and will give myself over, quite willingly, to the kind care and attention of The Songwriter and Edward.  Apple, who has had her own joint surgery this year and who taught me how to be a good patient, will come in from squirrel patrol to check on me as often as she can, I’m sure.  Edward will not leave my side.  I plan to do some light reading, some gentle walking (huzzah!), and some deep sleeping, all the way till Thanksgiving.

I have much to be thankful for.

As do we all.

See you soon!

xo