The Tour

On Tour

The Songwriter, brave soul that he is, takes on the duty of driving our rental car whenever we are in Britain.  This is no small feat, I assure you, for as we all know, the British insist upon driving on the left side of the road.  This means that in addition to driving on what we Americans consider to be the “wrong” side of the road, one must adjust to the driver’s side of the car being switched to the passenger side.  This also means the driver is shifting gears with his left hand. To us, any of these situations is disconcerting at best, all of them together can occasionally be a nightmare.  Through the years we have worked out a system of sharing this uncomfortable experience.  While The  Songwriter grips the steering wheel, unblinking, and negotiates the narrow lanes and roundabouts, it is my job to scream “CURB”, or “HEDGE” or “WALL” whenever he occasionally veers too close to the side of the road.  I have also perfected a siren call of “LOOK RIGHT!” upon the approach of any intersection.  I perform these duties very well, without fail, all the while offering encouraging and complimentary comments about his efforts.  (I also frequently dig my fingernails into my seat cushion but have no illusions that this activity either adds or detracts from our motoring successes.)  Happily our system seems to work, for we have had no incidents in our travels, although a morning rush hour foray into the center of Bath once bore a strong resemblance to two unhinged individuals in a clown car, that city being much larger and entirely more populated than we’d counted on.

We endure these little adventures in mobility not because we have a low threshold for excitement, but because we are ill-suited for group activity, a fact that was lit in neon for us on this most recent holiday.   Having been in Sussex and Kent for awhile, we traveled up to London for the latter part of our trip.  Now of course, Mr. Johnson was correct when he uttered those famous words, “When one is tired of London, one is tired of life”.  There is so much to do and see in the old city that one never needs to consider any sort of “side trip”.  But we were seduced by the words, “Lunch in the Cotswolds” and as our adventurous spirits are not capacious enough to encompass the possibility of driving in London proper, we decided to do something we’d never done before.  We decided to take a tour.

So, freshly scrubbed and sharply dressed, we boarded a large tour bus with a large group of other people.  Wedging ourselves into our bright blue velveteen seats, we immediately noticed our knees were now positioned roughly in the vicinity of our chests and a frisson of worry ran up our spines.  Not wanting to point this uncomfortably obvious fact out to each other, The Songwriter made a weak joke about the Magical Mystery Tour while I did the same about Agatha Christie... “Wonder which one of them will commit the murder?”, I giggled feebly.  

It was about this moment that we noticed our tour guide climbing aboard.  A tall man, sporting a straw hat, he looked harmless enough.  Appearances can be deceiving, however, and despite an overwhelming lack of encouragement from his captive audience he began an incessant stream of verbiage consisting primarily of bad jokes, gripes and self-serving stories that increased in obnoxiousness with every bend in the road.  We were not out of London before I decided it was going to be me who committed the upcoming murder, for I wanted to kill this man.  

Staring forward as though drugged, our fellow passengers sat stock still in utter silence as our guide droned on through hill and dale.  The villages we were scheduled to stop in were obviously welcoming of large tour buses which meant nearly every building was dedicated to the tourist trade and chockablock with souvenir shops of every shape and size.  We were allowed to disembark at these places only after being given the precise time we were expected to return along with a stern warning as to what would happen if we were late.  I am afraid it was shortly after the first stop that my rebellious spirit took hold.  As we were expected to follow our straw-hatted Moses through the town like a brood of newly hatched ducklings, I naturally positioned myself at the end of the line in an effort to better enable my escape.  One town saw me heading to the train station at a clip with The Songwriter fast on my heels.

“We can’t just get on a train!”

“Well, why not?  What are they going to do?  Arrest us?

“They’ll wait for us.  We’ll hold up the whole tour! 
 We can’t do that to those other poor people.”

Realizing he was right, knowing I’d been beaten, I limped back to the bus where I endured the praise of our leader for my prompt return.  As I swallowed an urge to laugh maniacally, I silently vowed a return visit to see the Cotswold region properly and slept the rest of the way back to London with my knees tucked up under my chin like a bat.  We both laugh now when we seen the photos of me taken on that day.  The look in my eye escalates from amusement to irritation, from irritation to mutinous animosity at an alarming rate.   

A wasted day?  Not in any sense.  Sometimes it is beneficial to be reminded of something one already knows.  While neither of us is in anyway shy, we both delight in each other’s company and crave the freedom that traveling alone offers. Tour buses are not for us.  We know that now.  Sure, driving presents a few unique challenges.  There are Highland cattle that sleep in the middle of the road on the Isle of Skye.  We frequently get stuck behind a flock of sheep, lazily strolling en masse down a one track road.  And of course, we get lost occasionally.  But that’s all part of the fun. And anyway, how lost can one get in England and Scotland?  One is on an island, after all.

Every Now and Then, the Bluebells Wait for You

Every Now and Then, the Bluebells Wait for You

Like most people of romantic bent, I fell headlong in love with the Merchant Ivory film interpretation of E. M. Forster’s wonderful novel, Howards End, the first time I saw it.  Every frame, whether verdant or urban, enchanted me. Vanessa Redgrave’s long white gown trailing through the evening dew in the opening scene.  The charming rooms of the Schlegel sisters' home in Wickham Place.  Poor Leonard Bast, influenced by George Meredith’s Richard Peverel, walking all night through a Spring carpet of bluebells stretched out on a forest floor, a forest that “drooped glimmeringly”.  As a child of the American South, my Springtime carpets have always been green.  The limes of new moss; the emeralds of clover.  Seeing a shady forest blanketed in blue was something straight out of fairy tale to my mind.  Could it be real? I could not empirically say.  

Though prevalent in an English spring, bluebells are early bloomers and as my plane followed the moon across the Atlantic in the middle of May, I had no hope of seeing them.  They would have already flamed and gone, remaining but one more of those memories of imagination not unlike Scrooge’s door knocker or the celestial pathway to Neverland, just a wonderful snippet that sits in one’s mind and often seems more tangible that fact.  

But my journey by plane, tube, train and car led me to a magical place.  Through a diamond shaped window in my charming bedroom, I could see an Elizabethan tower presiding over a legendary garden, a garden in which the footsteps of literary giants once pressed the grasses and climbed the tower to a room full of books and ideas.  The wind beat the windows as I slept that night, blowing any remnant of the commonplace away like the ashes of a cooled fire.  I awoke to the beckoning call of the garden, dressed quickly and headed out under a sky full of rolling clouds..

All morning long I wandered through rooms of green, along great swathes of yellow and lime.  I entered a walled garden of bridal gown white, emperor tulips nodding in the wind.  I was lost in daydream when, out of the corner of my eye, just beyond the garden wall, I spied a pathway.  Prone as I am to drift apart from the others, to duck under fences and wander away, naturally I followed it.  A grey farm dog ran past me, looking over his shoulder as he went as if to say, 
“This way.  Come this way.”  
The birds sang a lyrical welcome as I went.  Crossing meadows and rounding past ponds, I followed magpies over wooden bridges that lay like cupped hands cross rippling streams.  I strolled past the lambs of a new season and ducked under willows only recently dressed in ball gowns of green till, suddenly, tall trees closed in around me and everywhere, everywhere, I looked was blue.  It was just as I imagined, just as I dreamed.  Bluebells.  In every corner of the forest, waving in the wind a greeting of memory, imaginary and real, ancient and new.  I stood, transfixed, and laughed.

“It’s been a late Spring here”, my innkeeper told me later.  “We thought they’d never bloom.  It’s lucky for you that you came when you did.  Any earlier and I’m afraid you would’ve been disappointed”.

Sometimes the sights we dream of seeing are just outside our reach.  On the banks of a country river, we look round for Ratty and Mole, but find they’ve sailed round the bend just before we arrived.  If indeed Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane exists in a London borough, I have no confidence we’d find Mary Poppins minding the children inside if we knocked on the door, even if the wind was blowing in from the East.  But I’ve found it best not to give up hope, for every now and then the seasons and stories combine and conspire to surprise.  Every now and then, the bluebells wait for you.

I stayed here and it was wonderful!

Explore. Dream. Discover.

Explore.  Dream.  Discover.

In the upcoming days the curtains I pull back at dawn will reveal unfamiliar landscapes. 
 A tall tower standing in the middle of an ivory garden.  

A simple bedroom where the sheets are “stretched tight and the bed is narrow”  

and the lyrical language of its revered inhabitant 

still dips and swirls in the springtime light.

I shall wander through family house in the country

 in which an entire movement of art was born and nurtured.

I shall spend an evening with Peter and Alice, released now as they are from the pages of childhood.  I shall have breakfast with a Provencal princess, one who generously shares the essence of her French life with beauty and wit.  I shall wander London bookshops with a novice novelist.  

And I just might be offered a magic wand.  

This of course, I shall have to decline, for I already have one of my own.

I am off to pick up the stones on a new road,

 releasing new stories and hearing new songs.  

I shall return soon.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor .Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” 

Mark Twain

Through the Window

Through the Window

Except for one unfortunate and blessedly brief anomaly when I was about eight, I have had long hair all of my life.  Therefore I know the value of the six week trim and follow that schedule religiously.  Upon making my latest appointment, I put the phone back in my pocket and could almost swear I heard my Mother’s voice once again. 

“You’ve made an appointment at the salon”.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to get it styled this time?”

Sigh.

“Styled” was my Mother’s little euphemism - slightly snarky, but ever hopeful - for a haircut that would, finally, yank me from the brink of contumaciousness and plop me solidly down in the clover of risk-free respectability.  Really, who could blame her? When she was young hardly any woman over forty had long hair and, if they did, it usually came with some sort of iconoclastic t’shirt and often without the appropriate ladylike undergarments.  It is laughable to think of any of my schoolteachers with long and frequently windblown hair such as mine is now.  But then, I dare say few of us resemble our schoolteachers these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I know full well that I’m getting, ahem... older.  Everyone is, after all.  But I’m grateful that the oft unspoken, but still ironclad, rules that governed my Mother and her friends have for the most part been jettisoned along with eight-track tapes and girdles.  My sartorial choices have infinitely more to do with personal taste than any sort of age restriction and I never turn down any experience just because I think I’m too old.  Case in point... last week, upon returning to town from our little sabbatical whilst the floors of the cottage were being redone, I found myself barred from the bedroom because the hallway floors were not quite dry.  What to do?  The Songwriter took Edward and Apple out into the back garden to bunk down in the studio but somehow that just didn’t seem all that comfortable to me.  I was tired, I’d been driving for most of the day with two large dogs in the car and I knew my soft, lovely bed was just out of reach.  So, just as I would have done when I was sixteen... I carefully crawled inside the newly budded rose bush, jimmied a window and climbed up, up and in.  Never gave it a second thought.  Never once considered such an activity might be ill-advised till I told several people the next day who, upon hearing of my adventure, laughed just a little too loudly for my liking.  Let them laugh.  I slept soundly in my own bed and climbed out the window next morning fresh as a daisy.

(Of course the really funny aspect of this story happened following a midnight phone call from The Songwriter who informed me that Edward had no intention of sleeping away from me.  So... you guessed it, in a few moments I spied at my window the happy, grinning face of a big white furry dog, framed by pink rose buds, as Edward was hoisted up and into the very same portal I’d tumbled through earlier.  Edward, of course, acted as though this were an everyday occurrence, calmly hopping up on the bed, placing his head across my ankles as usual and falling immediately asleep.  Dogs keep us young as well, you know.) 

In speaking about her new book, Living the Good Long Life, the uber-active lifestyle doyenne, Martha Stewart, tells us that seventy is the new fifty.  Of course, she’s seventy-one, so she would say that, I suppose.  But I do appreciate her attitude and have no doubt she has some wisdom to impart in this latest publishing venture.  For myself, I never really thing about age.  When I do, it’s rather stunning to realize that it’s happening in spite of my long hair and climbing capabilities.  Ah well, I still left the salon yesterday without resorting to any sort of “style” and from her heavenly portal, I have no doubt my Mother was still shaking her head in frustration.

Maybe when I get to be Martha’s age, I’ll just wear it up.

Find it HERE

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.

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

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.

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

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?
*************************************

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

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

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

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

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.
*************************************

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.