The Pleasures of a Summer's Day

The Pleasures of a Summer’s Day

The rays of an afternoon sun slip down through the magnolia tree, sliding over velvety leaves to land in bright yellow puddles beside the row of blue hydrangeas.  Like long golden fingers they reach in through the windowpanes to paint waltzing light on the walls of the drowsy rooms.  A wooden dog mannequin sports a newly knitted sweater, wearing a barely perceptible smile on his face.   The bounty of the garden simmers on the stove.  Fresh green beans.  Fresh peas.  Wicker trays sag under the weight of a just-picked harvest of cherry red tomatoes and fuzzy peaches.  A serene angel sports a summer bow round her waist as she guards the entrance to the sleepy sitting room.  A big white dog naps beneath the piano.  A mockingbird sings a song from its perch in a chartreuse fern.  Breezes blow in through an open window.  A crystal vase rests atop a stack of new books, gently holding its treasure of fresh gardenias.  Their fragrance fills the rooms.  

A wind chime shudders, sending fairy music through the air.

Eyes close.  Shoulders relax.

Such are the pleasures of a summer day.

Here at The House of Edward. 

Tell me, what are you enjoying this summer day?

I Wish I Hadn't Looked

I Wish I Hadn’t Looked

Like most women around the world, I recoiled when I saw the now infamous photographs of Nigella Lawson with her husband, Charles Saatchi’s, hands around her throat at a London restaurant.  The look in her eyes made my blood run cold and caused me to mutter under my breath that I would kick the man to the curb without pause.  Who could look at those pictures and not form an opinion of similar intensity?

The media, vociferously outraged on Ms. Lawson’s behalf, proceeded to plaster the pictures over every outlet available to them all the while declaring her to be “a very private person”, an admission that perhaps served to highlight the disingenuousness of their concern.  They trailed the culprit as he sauntered into Charing Cross police station to accept his official caution and one could almost visualize the salivation of editors as they reprinted his far less than contrite explanation of the event.  Later in the week, photographers aimed their lenses at each item removed from the house when Nigella packed up and left, paying almost comical attention to her collection of cookware.  As a perhaps fitting coda to this hideous episode, Saatchi, ever the gentleman, chose to announce his decision to start divorce proceedings from his wife in The Daily Mail.  

I certainly have no great sympathy for Charles Saatchi in this cringe-worthy affair.   Domestic violence is a scourge and it is difficult to see those repugnant photographs and not label them as such.  But in their laughable pretense of concern for Nigella’s well-being, haven’t those who chose to cover the aftermath of this story in such invasive ways grasped this private woman around the throat as well?  And am I not culpable for reading and looking? 

If one happens to glance at what passes for news these days, one cannot help but witness the dark warnings of celebrity, even as one is encouraged to believe in its allure.  A starlet, obviously suffering serious mental health disorders or addiction is followed by cameras night and day in the hopes of catching her stumbling in the shadows, her blue wig askew.  Mug shots are featured, calls to emergency centers are played back ad infinitum.  All the while tut-tutting and shaking their heads, the media wallows in every weakness, every sin, every tragedy. And everyone is diminished.

My heart goes out to Nigella Lawson.  I cannot imagine how dreadful her days are at present.  Perhaps there are those women who found the courage to flee abusive relationships as a result of her pain.  One can certainly hope for such a outcome.  But for the woman herself, I cannot help but think her humiliation in the face of this 

unasked-for and invasive notoriety must be acute.  I remember seeing Diana, Princess of Wales, with her hand up to her face in an ultimately futile effort to protect herself from the ceaseless, unblinking pursuit.  Fame is a monster which, once beckoned, cannot be tamed.

And once again, I wish I hadn’t looked.

Safe and Sound

Safe and Sound

We were almost home when we saw her, walking slowly down the yellow line of the road through the rising steam left behind from yet another violent, yet transient, thunderstorm, the sort that pelts this part of the world in the dusks of July.  A German Shepherd of magnificent countenance, she was obviously tired and obviously lost.  Without a word, The Songwriter immediately pulled our car to the side of the road and I opened my door.  Leery and frightened, the big dog veered away when I spoke and continued to make her way down the busy street, cars swerving to miss her as they passed.
    

We carefully followed, making her nervous enough to eventually lope into the front garden of one of the houses lining the road.  I got out to follow.  Dressed as I was, all in white with a pink scarf around my throat of Isadora Duncan proportion, I was hardly prepared for a ramble through the muddy gardens of strangers, but looking at the poor creature I couldn’t help but see Edward or Apple, lost and afraid.  Do Unto Others, after all.

Success proved elusive, as she stayed twenty paces ahead of me despite my encouraging pleas for her to approach.  Finally, I decided to stop trying to convince her of my trustworthiness.  Leaning against a mossy pine tree, I turned my back and quietly began to talk to her, about the weather,  about the sweater I was knitting.  I mentioned the approaching night and the rabbits in my back garden.   I told her about Edward.  After three or four minutes, I felt a wet, furry head rub against my white trousers and, still not making eye contact, I reached down to scratch the tired girl behind her ear.  I felt a collar, and then, mercifully, a shiny metal tag on which was imprinted a phone number.  Relaying this to The Songwriter who’d been hiding behind a nearby house, a call was made, a reunion facilitated.  Such a joy to hear her worried owner call her name - “Maggie!” - and see her run to safety.  

When the next angry thunderstorm pounded our roof at midnight, I lay there listening to Edward and Apple breathing softly, safe and sound, and thought of big, tired-out Maggie, happy that she too was safe and sound.

But the white trousers were trashed.

A Tale, and a List, of Summer Books

A Tale, and a List, of Summer Books

Chapter One
Pink dusk was falling by the time Maria drove down the winding, rutted drive to Aunt Leila’s. Rolling down the windows to breathe in the dawn of a summer night, she'd felt her shoulders relaxing with each bump and bounce the old Rover endured.  This was the perfect spot for a summer holiday.  It always had been.  A rambling old house nestled into the cove where waves the colour of mermaid’s eyes licked a rocky beach and salted sea breezes blew through the always open windows.  Alice, Amanda and Anne had been arguing in the back seat (they’d been arguing since the car pulled out of the drive) and Maria chuckled a little to herself as she visualized their reaction to Aunt Leila’s lack of modernity.  She was prepared for the wailing when her daughters discovered the old lady had no internet and only spotty phone reception.  In fact, the only television was a twelve inch black and white that her aunt plugged in when a storm was blowing to see if evacuation was recommended, though to be honest, she’d never known Aunt Leila to heed a single one of those warnings.  It had been so late by the time they’d arrived, Maria and her girls had just tumbled straight into bed.

Now it was morning and Maria lay, as cool as a cat in the starched linen sheets, waiting.  It was already past nine, and she’d heard nothing from the girls. No expected declaration of boredom.  No histrionics, no arguments.  Maria sighed, and stretched.  Swinging out of bed, she felt the coolness of the wide wooden floors on her bare feet as she cracked open her bedroom door and gazed both ways down the hallway.  The old stairs creaked as she went down.  She paused for a moment to listen again.  All was quiet.  She walked through the fragrant sitting room where a tall glass vase held an armload of lilacs and into the sunny kitchen where she found Aunt Leila reading the paper at the polished wooden table.  

“Where are the girls?”, Maria asked.

“In the library”, said her aunt with a sly smile....

Perfect Summer Holiday Books to Capture
 Even the Most Distracted Imaginations:

The Great Unexpected 

by Sharon Creech

Splendors and Glooms

By Laura Amy Schlitz

Captain Scurvy’s Most Dastardly Pop-Up Pirate Ship

by Steve Cox and Nick Denchfield

How to Teach Your Children Shakespeare

By Ken Ludwig


Chapter Two

Peeking through a crack in the library door, Maria was astonished to see all three girls engrossed in their reading, little Alice curled up with Leon, her aunt’s placid old dog.   Shaking her head in disbelief, Maria tiptoed down the hallway to the bath. 

There she found a stack of enticing books, some cool lemon water and a bottle of Aunt Leila’s homemade bubble bath.  Maria could not believe her good fortune.  Which book to choose?

Summer Books to Get Lost Inside:

Independent People

by Halldor Laxness

The Professor of Poetry 

by Grace McCleen

The Golem and the Jinni

by Helene Wecker

Homemade Summer
by Yvette Van Boven

Chapter Three

Downstairs in the kitchen, Leila sat down her tea cup and listened.  All was quiet, blessedly quiet.  She could make her way to the studio now without interruption.  Pulling on her boots, she opened the back door and followed the pathway up through the garden, pushing back lilac blossoms as she went.  Ever vigilant, Leon heard the familiar click in the door that no one else heard and wiggled out from behind Alice to follow Leila.  He was beside her by the time she pushed open the weathered studio door.  She paused a moment before the painting by the window.  Still not quite right, she thought.  Too much teal.  Ah well, she would finish it later.  Right now she wanted to read.  Running her long index finger along the spines of her books, she wondered which one to spend the afternoon with.  Let’s see... maybe this one?

Summer Books to Inspire:

Daily Rituals, How Artists Work

by Mason Currey

E. B. White on Dogs

Edited by Martha White

Tell About Night Flowers

Eudora Welty’s Gardening Letters, 1940-1949

Selected and Edited by Julia Eichelberger

The Charleston Bulletin Supplements

by Virginia Woolf and Quentin Bell

Chapter Four

With everyone reading now, Leon breathed a long deep sigh and turned three times in his bed beneath open window.  He could hear the splash and shush of the waves.  He loved that sound.  Somewhere off in the distance, well over the back of the hill, he thought he heard the bleats and baahs of the neighbour’s sheep.  He thought of Pip the border collie and chuckled softly to himself as he thought of him racing back and forth beneath the sun in his eternal chase for those sheep. 

 Ah, thought Leon, much better to be the dog of a reader.

Especially on a summer’s day.

Chapter Five

.....Meanwhile...

 through a small round door under the third lilac bush from the sea path, 

far down below the floor of Leila’s studio,

in a house whose rooms are always chilly, always cozy, 

a badger sits reading his own special book by the light of a flickering candle.

Edward and I are happy to report that a brand-new shipment of 

From the House of Edward is almost ready. 

 For those who’ve been waiting a couple of weeks, watch your mailbox...
 it will be there soon.

  And for those who’ve yet to get one of your own, now’s the time!
Find it HERE

The wonderful illustration of the badger is by artist, Kevin Nichols.
You'll read more about him soon!

***********

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What We See... A List For Summer

What We See....

 a List for Summer

The wonderful British writer, John Lubbock, once said that “what we see depends mainly on what we look for”.  A brilliant observation and one that, if taken to heart, can ease someone's journey through life by illuminating all that is splendid and good along the way.  It is indeed my experience that if I set out each morning expecting to discover beauty, navigating each bend in the road with my eye out for the delightful, well, that’s generally what I find.  Indeed, these expected surprises are, as is the title of one of Mr. Lubbock’s more well-known works, The Pleasures of Life.  

This particular summer is proving to be a glowing example of this approach to life for it seems that everywhere I turn lately, I am finding serendipitous joy.  The flowers in my garden have never been so lush, the vegetables are growing as though bewitched.  There are bluebirds that dip and dive in front of me as I stroll through each morning making me feel a bit like Snow White.  The normally hot humid summer of the South has ceded control to a much more temperate cousin who is blessing us with breezy, gardenia-scented afternoons perfect for open windows and the occasional nap.  The sunlight slides through the windows like honey.  Even Edward, generally a melancholy critic of summer weather, is blissful. 

So, it is time for a list of summer things.  

Seven small delights that have captured my imagination lately.

  I hope you enjoy them.

As usual, there are links included for your further exploration.  Have fun!

1. Wings

Artist Susan Hannon creates the feathers for these magnificent wing sculptures

 from the pages of old abandoned Bibles.

  They take my breath away.

See more HERE

2. Tents

Confession:  I’m not much of a camper.

  Maybe I’ve never given it a chance,

 or maybe I’m too addicted to hot baths and too leery of bugs.

  But this tent could, just possibly, change my mind. 

Isn’t it amazing?

Find it HERE 

 3. Pillows

Even though these days, I only lazily wade through the shallow end of design, I do still take on a client or two and therefore I occasionally come across incredibly beautiful things - things I cannot resist, things I like to share.  Recently I discovered a new source for perfectly exquisite pillows made from antique rugs and, no, I could not pass them up.  I even picked up a few to make available in my etsy shoppe.  They have wonderful colour, delicious texture and are blessed with a reasonable price point as well.  

Come take a look.

There are only a few available now, but maybe more later.
(Update:... Only two left!)

Find them HERE

4. Goats

In spite of the hurly burly, speedster pace of modern life... or perhaps because of it... a delightful change seems to be taking place.  More and more people, in unexpected corners of unexpected cities, are returning to a handmade life.  More families are cooking and baking.  More people are growing their own food.  Knitting classes are overflowing.  I have several friends who keep their own chickens and, as a grateful recipient of just laid eggs, I can tell you this is a very good thing indeed.

  One of my more irresistible neighbours has just added to her urban farm by four.

  Four miniature goats by the name of Oscar, Otis, Elmer and Gwynnie Dulcinea.

  They arrived looking eerily similar to tiny, hooved puppies and have now grown into the cutest creatures one could possibly imagine and will soon be helping out in the cheese and soap department of the farm.  

I spent an afternoon with them recently and fell utterly in love.  

Sadly, after a talk with Edward and Apple,

 my idea of adding them to our own household was firmly voted down.

But you can read more about getting some of your own HERE.

5. Bracelets

The Victoria and Albert Museum is a must see whenever one is in London. 

 This in inarguable.  

But I’ll let you in on a little secret.  The gift shop there is to die for.

  The jewelry alone is swoon-worthy. 

 This last trip saw me leaving with three new bracelets in my bag. 

 I have a difficult time resisting bracelets.  I love them. 

I love the way they feel on my arm, the noise they make when they bump into each other.  

This is the one I’ve been wearing most this summer.
I found it at Anthropologie and

 no one can believe how inexpensive it was, so I decided to show you all and prove it.  

I’ve got the white one, but the blue or the yellow look equally tempting.

Find it HERE.

6. Paper Criminals

Patty Grazini creates whimsical, achingly imaginative, art out of paper.

Her creativity is inspiring.

The lady shown here is one in her series of New York Criminals,

 featured in the New York Times between the years of 1885 and 1915.  

This happens to be Mary Largo, Queen of the Beggar’s Society who was arrested for graft.  

Fascinating.

I thought you might enjoy this video of Ms. Grazini speaking about her marvelous work...HERE

7. Photographs

Large and unwieldy, it had always sat in my parent’s closet.  

We’d occasionally take it down and look through it, but hadn’t done so in years.

The big box of family photographs was legend in our family and naturally, it was the first thing 

I removed from the house in preparation for the estate sale last month.  

When I finally saw my way clear to go through it all, what treasures I found.

  Ancient pictures, wrinkled and creased, that we managed to restore to original luster

(like the one of my Father and me above).

Old negatives, never before seen, that, through the magic of a scanner, were released from their spell of silence. 

 Unable to once again imprison these back in the box where they’d lain for so many decades, I decided to create a new gallery of sorts in the hallway leading to our bedroom.  We set about finding equally memorable photos from The Songwriter’s family and framed them all.  It’s such a treat for us both to see these lovely faces smiling up at us each day, reminding us, sweetly, of the arc of life.

Surely there are some old photos you’d like to frame for your own gallery.

I encourage you to do so!

That’s all for now, but stay tuned for a Summer Reading List

as well as The Best of London.

So much fun!

The Lure of British Books

The Lure of British Books

Barring one rather over-enthusiastic pat down at Boston’s Logan airport last year, I have never had an incident going through the security line before flying.  I take off my shoes.  I open my laptop. I make certain not to wear any jewelry that will anger the bells and whistles and, usually, everything is fine.  But leaving Heathrow a couple of weeks ago proved a mark on my previously unblemished record.  The problem?  Books.  My suitcase, which I always carry on to avoid those irritating lines at baggage claim, was incredibly heavier than it looked.  The security fellow lifted it up and his expression changed from helpful to suspicious in a twinkling.

“It’s books”, I admitted, feeling unpleasantly conspicuous.
“Really?  A walking book mobile, are you?”, he replied, narrowing his eyes.

  In an instant I was being moved to one side where I watched in abject horror as he opened my case and began the hideous process of going through every item inside. Incredibly relieved that I’d patronized bookshops instead of Agent Provoctateur, I stared as he lifted the contents of my case up in the air, one by one, till he reached the double layer of hardbacks, neatly arranged beneath the pajamas and pashminas.  He looked up in amazement and I swallowed a strong urge to say I told you so.  He opened each book, rifling the pages.  People were staring.  The Songwriter was shaking his head.  An elderly lady standing next to me exploded in outrage on my behalf shouting, “Look at her!  Do you honestly think this is necessary?  Fascism!  That’s what this is!  Fascism!”  I smiled weakly and quickly sidled away from her so as not to make matters worse for myself by association.

But really, what is one to do?  Is there any city in the whole of the world with more enticing bookshops than London?  John Sandoe’s.  Hatchard’s.  Daunt.  Persephone.  Not to mention the literary treasures to be found in every single National Trust Gift Shop and art gallery in the land.  For anyone to expect a reader to leave Heathrow airport after ten days in the UK without books in their suitcase is ludicrous.  Of course, I did have fifteen in there.  But, well... you know.

Here are some of my recent finds.
 Resist them if you can.
(Just click on the photos to see more.)

Plus, from the wonderland known as Persephone Books,
I picked up this one and couldn't say no to this one.
Or this one.
Or this one.  Or this.
Sigh.

Caught in the act in Kent.

Keep Always

Keep Always

It wasn’t until about ten years ago that I realized my parents weren’t going to be around forever.  Oh, I’d been aware of that fact intellectually, of course.  But emotionally?  Practically?  I don’t think I’d given it a great deal of thought on those levels.  But around ten years ago it seemed doctor’s appointments were becoming more of a regular activity for them both and it slowly dawned on me that there was going to be a day, not long off, when I would be presented with decisions and responsibilities unique to the only child, not the least of which was what to do with their large, furniture filled home.

Daddy went first, five years ago. Afterwards, it was clear Mother had no intention of changing anything, or moving anywhere, so when we buried her on New Year’s Eve of last year, the house was as full as ever.  After the funeral, I locked the door with the intention of letting those decisions wait for a good long while.  It had been a difficult year and I thought the luxury of procrastination was one I both needed and deserved.  But each time I visited to check on the house, it seemed to look sadder than the time before and I soon realized this was not something I could put off for too long.  Knowing we were heading on holiday to the UK in May, I wanted to get this emotional chore behind me before we left as I didn’t want it looming up on the horizon as the plane touched down on my return.  The estate sale experts I enlisted told me to just to take the things I wanted and leave the rest to them so the week before leaving town, I tackled the task of gathering together the items that meant the most to me from our family’s house.  

My parents built this house, we are the only ones to ever live here.  My Mother hated change, of any kind, and when they decided to leave our home in the city and build this one further out, she was anxious about it.  So my Father took to sharing his excitement over the building process with me.  Each afternoon I’d wait till he got home from work and together we’d drive the seven or so miles to the site of the new house to check on the progress made that day.  Every nook and cranny was inspected and I could sense Daddy’s pride and joy in watching his new home take shape.  He’d never been much of a gardener before, but soon after we moved in, he became obsessed.  He found he had a knack for garden design and would frequently disappear into the woods behind out house, only to return a few hours later carrying a large poplar or sweet gum seeding over his shoulder.  He’d find the perfect place and proceed to plant these baby trees.  They are towering specimens now.  I would take them with me if I could.

I didn’t go trick or treating in this neighbourhood.  By the time I moved here, I no longer believed in the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny.  This was not the house of my childhood.  No, this was the house of my teenage years.  Dates picked me up at this front door. I left for my wedding from here.  The memories are sweet ones and they came flooding back as I walked from room to room trying to decide which items to take and which to leave behind.  Opening one cabinet in the sitting room, I found all the cranberry scented candles my Mother used at Christmas and suddenly I could clearly see her baking fruit cookies on Christmas Eve.  I found my baby clothes.  A lock of my own hair.  Inside a box of old photographs was an envelope with the words, “Keep Always” written across the front in my Mother’s hand.  Inside were the love letters my Father wrote to her before I was born.  He’d made them rhyme.  They are treasures richer than veins of diamonds to me. 

In the end I kept the lamp I was always warned not to knock over every time I ran through the house.  I kept the fine china. I’ll set my Thanksgiving table with it from now on and see their faces sitting there.  I kept the mantle clock that chimed every fifteen minutes of my childhood.  It rings outs from my library now.  In a favourite photograph of my Father and me we are visiting my great aunt at her home in the country and Daddy is sitting in her goose neck rocking chair, with one arm around me, smiling.  The photograph has sat in my bedroom for years.  And now the chair does as well; a continuance, a comfort.

In performing this task I only recently realized would one day be mine,  I discovered it is impossible to predict which items from lives gone will be imbued with memory for those who are left behind.  My Mother’s rolling pin.  My Father’s hats.  Two tiny bells that hung on the Christmas tree.  These are more valuable than paintings or silver.  These are the precious and the prized.  These are the talismans held close as I handed the key over and walked away.