MISS MOOX: paper

~Paperwhites~
Blooming in the kitchen window. From my sketch pad...
Hoping you all had a very Merry Christmas!

I've heard about photographers getting into trouble for photographing buildings and other public spaces under the Homeland Security Act. Some have debated the actual legality of this. I always wondered if it would ever happen to me. Well, today, it did.

About two or three miles down the road from where I live is a spectacular power station. Apocalyptic buildings, a railroad track running into it, steel structures, towers, multiple lines—the works. I'd often thought while running past it what a wonderful photo opportunity it would make, particularly at sunset as it's silhouetted by the gorgeous colours of the sky.

Today, boredom (due to lack of a job, again), looking through some of my old film scans, and a brilliant sunlight combined to hatch a plan. I'd buy some colour film and take my lovely old Canon AE-1 out for a long-overdue expedition to the power station and shoot in the hour or so before sunset. I was a little wary of shooting in the area, realizing that I might get into trouble, but as there were no signs up forbidding photographs, I figured that I could always plead ignorance.

So the plan was executed; I bought the film, headed out, and got several shots which hopefully will be as fantastic as the viewfinder promised. I worked my way down the road, shooting various vantage points as I went, all the time half-expecting some public service employee to zoom out in one of their official trucks, bark at me, and confiscate my camera.

Sure enough, I'd gotten to the point at which I couldn't go any further without trespassing, when a grumpy gray-haired woman guarding the gate shouted, "You're not allowed to take photographs." Figuring my time was up, I shot one more and started walking back to my car. I'd gotten all the shots I wanted anyway.

As I walked back down the road, a car approached, slowed, and pulled over to the side of the road. A big, pleasant-looking man in a green uniform got out.

"Hello!"

"Hello."

"I'm sorry, but you're not allowed to take photographs of the station. Homeland Security and the Coast Guard regulations. You can shoot down the road and that way, but I'm going to have to ask you not to take any photographs past this point." He was kind and almost apologetic, touching my arm placatingly at one point as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know, I won't do it again," I said sincerely. It wasn't really a lie; I'd already gotten the photographs I wanted and had no need to go back.

"I'm going to have to get your name," he continued, pulling a piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket.

"What are you going to use it for?" I asked warily.

"I have to write a report," he replied. "Don't worry, we're not going to use it for anything but that. I have to show it to PSNH, and they're the only ones who are going to see it."

I've never been tempted so strongly to tell a lie in a long time. But I told him the truth, and watched as he scrawled it in faint pen lines on the graph-lined paper.

"OK, you're all set, just don't take any photos here anymore," he said as he went to leave.

I babbled apologetically, "It's just an art thing, I didn't mean any harm by it, I promise I won't do it again." All of which is the truth.

"It's OK, don't worry, just don't do it again."

He left and drove off, but not without driving by my car, turning around, and driving past it again. Getting the license plate number, maybe? Oh, well, I won't be back there again taking photos. I just have to hope the ones I got today will be good enough that I'm not tempted.

But I'm left wondering about the actual legality of forbidding people to take photographs of public places, particularly when no warning signs to the effect are posted. Maybe I'm going to have to look that up...

I'm very pleased to announce that my POP-UP SHOP is now open!
I've decided to sell a carefully curated set of limited edition screen prints I made earlier this year in celebration of surviving to the end of 2012! I don't usually get very personal here but it's fair to say that 2012 has been a year of two very distinct halves, both personally and professionally. There were some really rather grim goings on in the earlier half, which have thankfully been over shadowed by a wonderful last few months.
Anyway, onto the prints! All designs feature either one or two key colours and are printed onto beautifully thick 300gsm Snowdon cartridge paper. They're all completely made by hand and are in very limited numbers. Once they're gone, they're gone! So, I hope you find one you like or that you might like to give as a gift perhaps?!
The shop is only open for a couple of months and after that I'm going to launch my new branding, website and direction for 2013. It'll be a bit of a departure from what I've been doing lately which I am both scared and incredibly excited about, but I can't wait to share it with you all! Thank you so much for your continued support, and normal blogging service will resume shortly. Ha!

Two scents that remind me of Virginia living at Christmas time...
PaperwhitesandBoxwood.
Paperwhite bulb on the kitchen window in yummy colored glass stones.
((Narcissus papyraceus with glass stones from Michael's Craft store)

I have fallen in love with my landlady's cat, something I not only intended not to do but actively avoided.

He's a sleek, slick, deep orange tabby, with base fur a tawny ginger and darker, burnt-orange stripes. His eyes are a startling warm, intense golden, almost orange, and when he looks at you, it's with adoration.

I hardened my heart against loving him because ever since Mugsy, the Best Cat in the World, died earlier this year, I'd pretty much decided I'd never let my heart get wrapped around another cat again. With their tiny short lifespans and predisposition to early death, it's simply too heartbreaking. Although I'd longed for a cat of my own for years, I finally resolved I'd never get one. Too much trouble, too much sad.

Then my landlady brought James home.

A few weeks earlier her elderly tortoishell female was put down due to weakening health. Although she was a nice enough cat, she was shy and firmly attached to her owner, and we'd never particularly connected. I urged my landlady to get another cat as soon as possible, and she was determined to do so when the grief had worn its edge off. Finally one day I came home, and there was James.

He was five months old, skinny and bright-eyed, and wary as all-get-out. He hopped away from me as I tried to woo him closer, and stared out of enormous eyes. When I finally coaxed him to allow me to pet him, he was friendly and purry, and submitted to being flopped upside down on my lap. As I rubbed his stomach, he purred ecstatically and wrapped his paws around my hand. I was astonished and amused: most kittens would have been spurred to violent kicking. He was all love.

Although he was very nice, I steeled myself against any emotional attachment. Not only would I be moving out, I didn't want the heartbreak of loving and losing another cat. We played on the rare occasions when I was home, I dragging long shoelaces across floor and furniture and he jumping and pouncing. We played chase games: I'd creep intimidatingly up on him as he stared out of wide eyes and finally ran. When I came home at night, he'd run to greet me. My landlady told me that as soon as he heard my car in the driveway, he was off like a shot. When I got up in the morning, he'd be there, purring enthusiastically and begging for a snuggle. If one was not forthcoming, he'd lick my toes.

He's a bit of a terror, rampaging throughout the house at night. Yesterday morning I found a mutilated paper towel roll on the floor, half of it unwound and all of it decorated with little claw punctures. He'd made sure that it was well and truly Dead before giving up on it.

So despite my limited time at home, I'm already loving him. And I'm sad at the thought of leaving him in a couple of weeks when I move out. Despite my resolution, his warmth and brightness and unreserved, unsolicited love have stolen their way into my heart. Little bastard.

Cats formed the shape and backdrop of most of my childhood life. The succession of felines who came and went were nearly as much a part of my emotional landscape as my siblings, and became my beloved, and often closest, friends. None of them, however, in terms of sheer influence, scope, and longevity, compared to Fluffy.

Fluffy showed up when I was five years old, a tiny morsel of black-and-white fur found as a stray and presented to my family by a friend. I clearly remember her arrival, the doorbell ringing and the man standing on our doorstep cupping the wee kitten in his hand. My excitement knew no bounds. Some time before, my cat Muffy and her son Tigger had disappeared when we left for vacation and I still mourned their loss. I was thrilled for a new cat to take their place.

At the beginning the baby was so small that my parents were afraid they'd lose her in our enormous house; so they confined her to a wire dog crate they'd borrowed from a friend. This was Fluffy's home for the first few days until my parents grew more confident that she'd be safe navigating the expanses of our home.

I recall kneeling in front of the crate and inspecting my new companion with adoring eyes. My mother asked me, "What do you want to name her?" and I promptly replied, "Fluffy." In my not-so-imaginative five-year-old mind, this was the perfect name for a cat.

When she was released from her cage, poor Fluffy became the object of my passionate and rambunctious love. She was subject from the beginning to being picked up and dragged around heedlessly by whatever portion of her anatomy was handy, at my whim and despite her vigorous struggles. My parents' friends tell of arriving one day to see me carrying Fluffy by the head, her entire body dangling. My mother attempted to teach me better cat-handling techniques, but to no avail. I loved Fluffy, and poor Fluffy was treated in much the same way as my stuffed animal collection.

My mother has pictures of me and Fluffy when we were both kittens. In one, I’m sitting on the couch, smiling triumphantly. Fluffy’s on my lap splayed out on her back, my hands clutching her chest. I’m looking supremely happy. Poor Fluffy was probably feeling anything but.

Fluffy survived, but sad to say, her personality underwent an unalterable warping as a result of my treatment and my father's abusive animal-handling techniques. She became unpredictably vicious, biting and scratching to defend herself from unwanted touch. You could sometimes, very carefully, pet her, but her tolerance would quickly turn and she’d snap. The top of her head was about the only place you could safely stroke her, and that only for a time.

Once when I was about five, I was carrying her bundled in my arms up the stairs; she decided she wanted out and bailed, leaving kick-scars from her back feet on my chest that remain to this day. Matching stitch-shaped scars on both my thumbs still remind me of her. She was doing only what she had to do to survive: learning coping techniques to defend herself from a child who wouldn’t learn anyway else.

Despite this, Fluffy was a valuable and much-loved member of our family. On warm summer evenings, we'd often take walks. Fluffy would follow us, trailing behind several feet and making side-excursions to sniff out interesting possibilities. Despite the fact that she took pains not to come too close, she always tailed us the entire route and home again.

Fluffy was a fierce and inveterate dog-hater, immediately routing any canine who dared to invade our yard. A force to be reckoned with and a no-nonsense defender of her territory, she intimidated even the biggest dogs.

Fluffy grew from a tiny kitten to a large and imposing cat. For most of her adult life, she was rather overweight. When she sat, her tummy spilled over her feet. She was strikingly black-and-white marked, with huge golden eyes; she had presence. When she simply sat in a room, you were aware. We were homeschooled, and Fluffy spent much of the schoolday tramping across or lying on our papers as we worked, biting if she was disturbed. Our childhood friends were rather in awe of her, as were we. She commanded respect.

She was a member of the family, pure and simple. My brothers could scarcely remember life before her; my sisters were born into a family where Fluffy occupied her stately and matriarchal place.

Over the years, Fluffy tolerated with varying degrees of hatred other cats that we introduced. The new cats, especially the male kittens, always tormented her, chasing her and batting at her tail as it hung temptingly off high surfaces. Many of these cats came and went; we didn’t have much luck with the additions, but Fluffy remained.

Fluffy had some rather odd habits; among them, a taste for earwax. She'd frantically and unceasingly lick your ears if you presented them to her, a scratchy and uncomfortable sensation. She also had a passion for green beans, spaghetti sauce, and most especially, Saltine crackers.

As she got older, Fluffy developed a strange quirk that I’ve never heard described anywhere else. She'd suddenly begin meowing frantically, a rapid-fire series of desperate cries that meant only one thing. She'd then rush up to the nearest person and flop on her side for a tummy rub. Normally to touch Fluffy's tummy was to invite death. But in these moods, the harder you massaged her stomach, the happier she was. She'd lie still as her body rocked back and forth and every once in a while utter contented little squeaks. My theory was that she was undergoing some sort of delayed maternal delusion, and the tummy-rubbing, to her, simulated suckling.

But my best memory of Fluffy comes in her most un-Fluffy-like moments. Normally she was a terror, difficult to touch and impossible to pick up. She bit, scratched and hissed when her autonomy or personal space was threatened. There was one exception.

When one of us children was crying, Fluffy invariably sensed it. She would rush to us and lie down beside us, peace restored for the moment. During those times, we could pet and snuggle her without fear. She seemed to understand emotional sorrow, and in her cat-wisdom, was trying to comfort her charges.

Fluffy developed stomach cancer when she was about fourteen. Normally a well-padded and imposing figure, she dwindled to a skinny frame with stick-legs and a sad flap of a stomach hanging down where there used to be a roll of fat. She became weaker and sicker, and the treatments our veterinary clinic offered had no effect. To this day my sister speaks with rage about it. She’s learned that clinic has a reputation for malpractice, and is convinced Fluffy's life could have been prolonged had we taken her somewhere else.

At the age of fourteen, when I was nineteen and just beginning my second semester at college, Fluffy had to be put to sleep.

My mother took her; such was her grief, she had to have her mother accompany her for emotional support. Fluffy was literally and truly a part of our family, and her physical and personal presence had carved out an enormous niche in our home and our hearts. Life without her was almost unthinkable.

I still wish, when I think about it, that I could have been there to say goodbye. At the time, I was building a new life and hardly thought about what went on at home. But perhaps it was easier that way. I don’t know how I could have handled being at the side of my longest-standing friend when she had to die.

When I went back home to visit, something was different. A tangible presence was gone. I kept expecting to see her black-and-white form cruising the carpets or sitting on the table, her favourite perch despite persistent efforts to train her out of it. I would have given anything to be able to pet her and have her snap at me, feeble and few as her efforts had become in her older years. It didn’t seem right; the house was emptier.

That feeling persists to this day. When I visit home, it’s not quite the same. I half-expect to see her, but she’s not there. It’s as if the passing of Fluffy, coinciding with my move away from home and into a different life, symbolized the passing of an era. My childhood life, my childhood home, are no longer. They’ve gone, and the ghosts of memory remain only. Largest among them, and most fondly remembered, is the ghost of a rather portly, rather grumpy, but oh-so-dearly-beloved black-and-white cat. Fluffy.

Yesterday I was working at a friend's farm. As I cleaned the horse stalls, I started thinking about my relationship to horses, about the enormous part they played in my childhood.

Growing up, I was a horse fanatic. It began when I was about two or three, when my mother told me about the horses she'd had as a child. From that moment, my passion for horses was ignited.

My first actual exposure to horses came when I was about five years old. My father took my brothers and me to the pony ride at the carnival. When I was asked which one I wanted to ride, I pointed. Not to the one standing directly in front of me, but to the very tallest horse standing just behind him. As I rode around the ring at a walk, I felt like the king of the world.

Unfortunately, for most of my growing-up years, my parents did not have the money for lessons. My longing for horses had to be confined to the realm of imagination. I checked out all the horse books in the library: Misty, Flicka, John Steinbeck's red pony, and the illustrated factual books about horses were my friends. I collected Breyer model horses and dreamed of a real stable full of such beauties as my friend and I acted out imaginary scenarios with our plastic steeds. I cut thousands of pictures of horses out of magazines and taped them all over my walls. I subscribed to Horse Illustrated. I read about riding techniques till I knew everything about how to handle a horse except the feel of one beneath me.

Finally when I was nearly twelve, a friend of my mother's mentioned a friend of hers who had a pony. He was rather old, but she thought the owner would be willing to let me ride. The answer came back: Sarah was glad to let me come over and give me a few pointers.

That was one of the most exciting days of my life. Finally! My mother's friend brought me and took along her camera: there are pictures of me, looking stiff and awkward, holding the horse's head and looking back over my shoulder as I ride him.

Sarah's pony was a good first taste, but ended up being unsatisfactory. It was a distance, I couldn't travel there myself, Sarah didn't have a lot of time to spend with me, and the pony was rather elderly and stiff. I never got beyond a trot and my legs swung wildly as I tried to post, far off the beat.

But it was a kind gesture and an opening to the world of horses.

For my twelfth birthday, my grandmother gave me the most priceless gift she could: a series of eight riding lessons at a local stable. My then-best friend Kathleen and I went together. Somewhere, I have pictures of us standing mounted in the middle of the ring, smiling triumphantly beneath our helmets as the rest of the class cantered around us. We were never deemed advanced enough to go faster than a trot.

That taste of riding was sweet but all-too-short. I begged for lessons but my parents couldn't afford either the money or the time. I contented myself again with reading, collecting, and dreaming. One day, I'd have my own horse. One day, I'd be able to ride as much as I wanted. I read tack catalogues obsessively and mentally outfitted my future horse in all his gear.

When I was fifteen, my younger sister began taking lessons with a friend who had a horse. That was the last straw. My younger sister, who had no real interest in horses except copying me, got to ride and I didn't! This time, I succeeded in being persuasive. I started lessons at Toraj Stables, the same place I'd gone when my best friend and I were twelve.

For four years, I rode at least once a week. When I got my own car, I was completely independent. I began working at the stable for a couple of hours early each morning before my "regular" job, mucking out stalls and feeding and watering to pay for lessons. In addition, it gave me a bit of extra income each month and meant that I could ride whenever I wanted.

I was a barn brat. I rode a lesson at least once a week; but at the end of the week, I'd take my favourite horse, Lucky, a big red chestnut Quarter Horse gelding, out on the trails for a wander. During lessons, I rode English. For trail rides, I slapped a big Western saddle on Lucky and took off. We'd roam the extensive acres of fields and orchards and watch wildlife and feel the sun on our backs. We'd ford streams and push through treelines and rocks. We'd climb hills, Lucky's back working hard. We'd pass migrant fruit pickers and wave hello.

And at the end of the ride, the biggest treat: a long, smooth, grassy stretch running along a field of apple trees. Lucky knew what this meant and became fidgety as soon as we reached it. I'd give him his head, kick his sides, and kiss. Off he'd tear, his Quarter Horse hindquarters working like pistons to thrust and drive, legs flashing, head down, mane and tail flying. I'd stand up in my saddle and lean forward as he sprinted at his fastest gallop, hooves thundering, grass whispering as we passed, again, feeling like king of the world. Finally at the end I'd slow him down gradually to a gentler canter, break him down to a trot, and as we reached the edge of the stable property, a slow walk to cool down. He loved it and so did I. I was free.

I groomed horses. I was the first to discover our broodmare's tiny chestnut baby standing in her stall the morning after she was born. I got kicked, bit, and stepped on. I fell in love and had my heart broken. I learned to communicate with horses and rode a mare named Suzy better than her owner did. I longed to buy King and was deeply saddened when he went away. I cried when a beautiful two-year-old that I'd been working, the first horse to ever buck me off, had such bad leg problems that she couldn't be ridden anymore. I loved my horses. They were the best part of my life, the ones who accepted me as I was, the ones who gave me a feeling of power and relationship.

When I went away to college, it spelled the end of my riding adventures. Toronto, like any big city, is not extraordinarily amenable to riding. I had no spare time as I threw myself into curricular and extra-curricular activities. Riding became something that happened, at best, once or twice a year. Something that had been an enormous part of my life passed away, just like that.

It's been seven years now since I left home, seven years since I have ridden regularly. The horse-bug has subsided. I doubt now I will ever own one of my own. Despite living with a horse-owning family for six months, I saddled up only a few times. Horses have become something I love but do not feel compelled to spend time with. When I visit the farm now, I nuzzle and pet and talk to them. They are my friends. But I don't need them anymore.

I still love to ride. One of my greatest pleasures is a leisurely trail ride through woods and fields. I love the beauty of horses. I still collect lovely photographs of horses, this time as desktop wallpapers or Flickr favourites, not tattered cutouts on my wall. Horses will always be a part of my past and a big element of who I was growing up. I will always appreciate them. But the horse-craziness has gone away. Maybe that's sad. Maybe, it's just part of growing up.

Last night, I took part in the Global Night Commute, organized by Invisible Children. The purpose of the event was to raise awareness of the nearly 20-year-long rebel war in Northern Uganda and the horrific toll it has taken on the civilian population, of which 1.7 million people are displaced; 20-50,000 children have been abducted and forced to serve as soldiers and sex slaves; and 130 people die each day due to violence.

Each night, thousands of children commute on foot for miles from their homes in rural areas and sleep in city centres and "safe" areas to avoid abduction, only to repeat the commute the next morning. By doing the same for one night, thousands of people across the US, Canada, and several other countries including Ireland and Singapore, hoped to draw attention to the issue and force the hand of their governments to act.

I took part in the march in Durham, New Hampshire, on the University of New Hampshire campus. We met in a parkinglot on the west edge of town. As the time approached, busloads and carloads of people began accumulating, clutching backpacks and sleeping bags. By 7:00 we'd gathered the 200+ who'd signed up for the event. Most were UNH students; some were from local high schools; a few stragglers showed up from elsewhere, including the four from my church who took part. A couple of people had walked all the way from Dover, a distance of ten or twelve miles, starting their walk at 1:00 that afternoon.

After a few organizational remarks and a reminder about why we were all there, nine slow shots from a starter pistol set us off, and we started walking. The two-mile route mapped out for us wound around the centre of Durham. Two hundred plus people walking attracts a lot of attention; we made a long parade. People in passing cars stared, waved, yelled, honked their horns; a few asked what we were doing. A police escort watched over us and blocked off traffic till we passed.

Once we'd arrived at the designated spot, a grassy lawn in front of one of the UNH buildings, we threw down our sleeping bags and marked out our spots. The sun was going down and it rapidly grew chillier. Volunteers handed us each a stapled bunch of papers including instructions and three blank sheets: one for a letter to be written to President Bush; one for a letter to our Congressman; and one for an art project to be included in a yearbook-type of publication about the event. My two friends and I wrote our letters but opted out of the art project, for lack of enthusiasm and lack of light.

A video clip was shown; an informational presentation; a couple of people spoke; and in the end the Invisible Children documentary was played again. At one point the organizer of the event got up to warn us that the temperature was forecasted to drop below freezing that night. Did any of us want to sleep on an indoor track that was made available to us? A few tentative hands went up; the body elected to stay where we were. The feeling seemed to be that we'd committed ourselves; we might as well go the whole way.

As the night came and the chill grew deeper my friends and I cuddled down into our sleeping bags and snuggled together for warmth. A kind friend from another group lent us a tarp to spread under us, warning that the ground would get very wet. We struggled with our sleeping bags, tried to find the most comfortable and warmest position, talked and laughed, and eventually, as it grew late, fell asleep.

The best of us slept lightly. It is never comfortable sleeping on the ground or in a constrictive sleeping bag at any time. The high school and college kids laughed, talked, played baseball and guitars loudly till very late. I woke up a few times during the night and opened my eyes only to realize with chagrin that it was still dark and there were more hours to endure. My toes froze. My hips grew alternately sore as I rolled from side to side. It's a wonder any of us slept at all. It was a long night.

But we endured it. As the sun came up the next morning and the sky lightened from black to blue we woke groaning with cold, stiffness, and tiredness. We realized that frost was covering our sleeping bags, our backpacks, and even our pillows where our heads hadn't lain. Eventually the whole mound of people other than us had gotten up, packed up their sleeping bags and tarps, and sleepily stumbled off home. Finally Kyle, the lone guy in our number, bravely got up, sprinted back to his house, got his car, and drove back to give us a ride back to the parkinglot where we'd left our cars. We drove off our separate ways to shower and change and (in my case, at least) sleep another couple of hours before meeting up again for church.

And that was that. If it makes a difference, I'm glad I slept out one night in weather far too cold for any sane person to do so out of choice. One night of discomfort is nothing compared to what the kids in Northern Uganda suffer every night; and we had no fear of being abducted or marauded by any but rowdy college students. I'm thankful to have had the chance to take part, and I hope and pray it makes an impact that is felt permanently and significantly in Uganda.

Top: Frost on my backpack

Bottom: Frost on my pillow

The Round-up:

• Food - 3.5 out of 5
• Decor - 2.5 out of 5
• Service - 3 out of 5
• Total - 9 out of 15

+

Having given myself a week off for an impromptu holiday in July, it appears my blogging hiatus lasted somewhat longer than the predicted seven days. But I shan't apologise because it was just what I needed: a few months to really get on with some work and to enjoy what little summer we had here. As this is my first post back after over three (three!) months away, I was going to share some photographs from our summer, mainly taken on film, but having got them back from the lab there were weird lines all over the images. So, while I wait for them to be rescanned, here is a Most Wanted post of all the things I think are perfect for these last few days/weeks of Autumn. Think cosy self indulgent evenings spent reading in your favourite chair, drinking spiced tea and eating something terribly rich, probably involving cheese...yes? I think I would actually kill (you heard me) for any of the above. KILL. That's how much I want them. Anyway, here are the goods:
1 Timeless Blanket from Seasalt Cornwall
2 Winter edition of Acne Paper all about Manhattan, from Très Bien Shop
3 Glasses from Lunettes Kollektion
4 Sweater by Isabel Marant
5 Moon Phase Stud Earrings by Erica Bradbury from Cisthene
6 Holly Pleated Dress by Charles Anastase
7 Thumbprint bowl by Object & Totem
8 Paulistano Chair 04 from I/Object
9 Hand made leather backpack from The White Pepper
10 Aran Knit House Sock from Toast

PS Thanks to everyone who has stuck around during my break and I very much look forward to catching up on all your blogs really soon!

Welcome Back...
Yes, it's another episode of my "Cottage Tour"! 


"There is room in the smallest cottage for a happy loving pair."
Friedrich Schiller

"Just as there comes a warm sunbeam into every cottage window,
so comes a loveborn of God's care for every need."
Nathaniel Hawthorne

Vintage Toys that have lived their days outcheerfully in the hands of a little child.

By the sea...By the sea...By the Beautiful sea!

"I can envision a small cottage somewhere, with a lot of writing paper, a dog and a fireplaceand maybe enough money to give myself some Irish coffee now and then..."Van de Geer

Creative Cottage Ideas

Just in case it rains...Brightly Colored Umbrellas At the Foot of the Stairs

"There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever before."

Come Fly With Me!
Kite Flying is a favorite past time on the Oregon Coast.

HURRY BACK! THERE'S MORE TO COME!
Blessings, Carolynn xoxo
"Let the heavens be glad and let the earth rejoice; and let men say among the nations, The Lord Reigns." I Chronicles 16:31

My darling friend, Jann, at "Have A Daily Cup of Mrs. Olson" features each week
"Share Your Cup Thursday". I posted and hope you will pop over and say hello to her!www.jannolson.blogspot.com

I added this post to "Feather Nest Friday" on www.frenchcountrycottage.blogspot.comI love following this beautiful blog...and, I know you will, too!
I just love visiting www.fishtailcottage.blogspot.com and I know you will, too!I posted on her "Cottage Garden Party".
I have discovered the most beautiful blog. Lynnie of "Vintage Gal Style" is new to the blogging world...like me.I hope you will stop over and say hi. She is having a lovely giveaway and I'm sure you won't want to miss it!

www.vintagegalstyle.blogspot.com

.

It's fair to say I am obsessed with jewellery. I used to own far too much of the stuff and ended up giving it all away as I went through one of my periodically ruthless spring cleans. I don't regret it because it was mainly just rubbish costume jewellery, once dubiously made and now tangled into a mass ball of broken beads and tarnished chains. I realised that I felt infinitely better about starting from scratch where I could support independent businesses who really love and care about what they make. And I don't think that things like this have to be expensive or designer or whatever. One of my favourite bracelets was found at a homemade fair in my local town for £5. It has a small gold woven chain with sparkling emerald like stones adorning the top, fastened by a simple golden lobster clasp. I try to look for pieces which will transcend future trends and last for years to come thanks to their timeless, understated elegance & undeniable craftsmanship. Which brings me to the beautiful pieces above! I have fallen in love with each and every one of them and believe them all to be made by wonderful indies, so without further chat from me, here are the goods:
1 / Arrow Ring from Paper & Chain2 / Dia Ring from Two Hills3 / Chevron Necklace from Paper & Chain
4 / Gold Dipped Bar Bracelet from Ayofemi Jewellery
5 / Zebra Jasper Fan Necklace from Deuce Fashion
6 / Fay Necklace from Elephantine
7 / Rough Diamond Earrings from Lex Luxe
8 / Terrestrial Agate Cube Necklace from Is Was And Will Be
9 / Alain Earrings from Elephantine
10 / Rosy Stone Bracelet from Ayofemi Jewellery

For lack of better things to blog about, I am going to include some snippets of older writings, things hammered out on a whim when something struck me and worked its way round in my mind till it demanded to be spilled out on paper, or computer at least. Before I had a blog, they lived as miscellaneous and unrelated snippets on my computer's hard drive. Now, they exist as miscellaneous and unrelated snippets on Blogger's servers' hard drives, for all the world to see, or at least those bits of it that happen upon them.

Upon meeting a fat white cat in the dark

The cat “mrrp”ed at me loudly and in a friendly manner, staring full into my face with wondering and pleading eyes, so I bent down and talked to it gently. It approached, and I moved to stroke its head, but with the ingenuity that un-introduced cats have it ducked and managed to keep its nose just barely touching my hand, like a security guard frisking a suspicious-looking customer. After it had satisfactorily sniffed me it pushed its head against my hand in a very warmly accepting way; then in the sudden way such cats have turned and began nosing around the foliage again as if on urgent business.

I spoke softly to it again, and in the sensuous and tantalizing manner of a cat it turned its back and began winding its way slowly, tail up, back into the gate leading to its home. I stopped and stood up, explaining to it that I couldn’t follow it, much as it seemed to be indicating to me it would like me to. I left it there, stroking its head on the gate and waving its tail pensively, to go about its fat-white-cat ways unhindered.

Written on a dreamy summer day

Made the long road trip from New Hampshire to Toronto yesterday. The drive was supposed to take 9 hours. It took me 13. Part of it was an unplanned, nearly hour-long stop at a roadside garage in Quebec, just over the border, to get my car window fixed. It had come off the track and was stuck about three inches open, and it had begun to rain. . .the mechanic, a gentle, patient man with very weathered hands and a little more English than the girl at the front desk, deftly fixed it. Albeit a long break for a very animated conversation between him, the girl, and a man who came in with a briefcase, on an unknown topic that seemed very important. My French is non-existant enough that I couldn't make out what it was, but I finally had to reluctantly interrupt to let him know that I had a long way to go and needed the job finished. . .

That part of Quebec, just over the border, is incredibly beautiful, with a sparse, flat, severe beauty. The transition from Vermont mountains to paper-flat Quebec farmland is fairly abrupt. The landscape starts looking more "Canadian", in a way I can't describe. Then just over the border begins long flat fields of corn, dried to brown now it is nearly winter, and bent trees bowed over in long submission to the prevailing winds, like old ladies with a permanent stoop. The farms are marked out by a cluster of barns and houses, with a characteristic blue-green roofing, in the midst of the fields. Little shops and auto repair places, like the one I stopped at, occur with regularity. It is a wild, beautiful, character-ful place. Driving along listening to soulful French tunes on the radio only added to the atmosphere.

The border crossing was so remote there was only one station open and two cars ahead of me. My passport wasn't even asked for. The customs officer, obviously battling between his desire to be friendly and his need to keep an official formidability, told me in response to my inquiries that yes, there was an information booth there, but that it was only open in the summer.

The rain began just over the Quebec border, and continued the whole way to Toronto, with more or less severity. In Montreal and for a ways beyond it was so incredibly forceful I began to think on the evening news we'd hear that Montreal had been washed away in a monsoon. We were forced to slow to a crawl by blinding sheets of rain pounding on the windshield and great lakes of water filling up the roads. The whole rest of the drive was a long and undifferentiated nightmare of going on and on in the rain, the cars spraying it up in white mist on the highway so visibility was severely reduced. Still I kept to about 120 km/hour (75 mi/hour) in a desire to arrive as quickly as possible.

It's difficult to describe the feeling crossing over the Canadian border. Like coming home. I was so happy to see Canada I pumped my fist in the air and blew a kiss to it. It does feel like home; I'm an alien in my own country and at home here, though I don't belong. Hopefully that will change. . .

Along the main stretch of road where I live, a man walks. Nearly every day I see him, usually on my commute to work in the mornings. His regularity almost makes you think he has somewhere to go; his demeanor makes you question.

He is tallish and whip-thin and slightly balding; every few seconds he turns to the traffic and glances back with tormented, questioning eyes. As if he is looking for something. Or someone, perhaps. Someone who might stop to care about his plight or to pick him up or to answer the questions of his past.

He is always clutching a lidded paper cup of coffee in one hand; his other hand swings free, along with his legs; everything about him swings with his long, purposeful stride. His skinny legs swing out from his pelvis and give him the look of a man on a mission. Somebody has given him an enormous wide yellow jacket with a reflective stripe on the back, to make him more visible to the long rows of traffic that pass him every day. An act of kindness, it only serves further to mark out his vulnerability, his difference, his inability to care for himself, his desperation. Cloaking him with pity.

Sometimes I see him paused by a roadside tree. He is carefully examining the leaves and branches with great intensity and an almost scientific curiosity. As if he were a horticulturalist probing them: for what? Signs of rot? A need for pruning? I have seen him do that, too, with great deliberation, deciding by some mysterious process what bits of growing tree need to be lopped off and performing that service. Did he work in an orchard or a greenhouse in some past life?

I wonder about him. I wonder where he lives. Do people take care of him? Does he have a family? What made him the way he is? Was he born simple, or was it an accident? What are his thoughts? For in my experience such people very often have something driving them. Haunted by a fear or a hurt that they cannot forget, something in their mind goes twisted and takes over. Why does he walk? For what is he looking when he continuously glances back as if he were searching for something, or merely going to cross the highway, but never does? What is his name? Is he just simple, or autistic? I guess I will never know. Or if I do, will it merely strengthen the curiosity and pity with which I view him, and then cause it to dwindle and grow less until it dies out to nothing and I merely think, "Oh, there's what's-his-name" as I pass him on the street.

I don't know. Maybe I will never know. But until or unless I do, he stands in my mind along with all those other curious, pitiable figures I have seen, mainly on the streets of larger cities, mumbling or crying or shaking out their inner hurts. The core of pain has grown and taken them over till it has eaten them out from the inside like a geode, leaving not sparkling crystals but the ruined, burnt-out shell of a man or a woman. Barely human, they nevertheless exist, until death snatches what is left that he has not already claimed. Maybe injury or a fate of birth has contributed to their doom. Who are they? Were they once somebody's daughter, somebody's precious, cared-for, wanted baby? Were they once someone's wife, someone's father, someone's brother, someone's aunt? Who knows them and who looks out for them?

And more importantly: does God care? Does he see that they exist? Does he want them, as he seems to want everyone else? Can he help them? Can such ruined shells ever be restored to what we term humanity? Can his love penetrate even the most devastated outside and re-create by some miracle the structure that was long ago destroyed? I don't know. I don't know if I will ever know. I only hope, and wonder.