Watch out! There are blackbirds about!
Friday, October 24, 2014
I laid this wool rug from Dash and Albert in my entryway some years ago and another smaller one in the powder room around the corner. It is called Cat's Paw. I suppose it is evidence of my hubris that I think it should be named something else. When I walk on it, I imagine I am crossing a brook of clear, sibilant water and smooth stones downstream from the village bridge where trolls hide in the shadows; or that I am simply strolling along the shores of Lake Michigan on a quiet summer afternoon.
I would, therefore, be more disposed to identifying my carpet as Brookstone, Shingle or even Troll Foil. On the other hand, if Dash and Albert are thinking Snow Leopard, that's a cat's paw I can live with.
As I am so fond of wood, stone and tile, the only other carpet in my house is in the family room.
While this one does not kindle my fancy as wildly as the carpet in the entryway, still, if I were the Person In Charge Of Labels at Home Depot where we bought it, I would have named it Pea Stone or Garden Path. Then again, I could imagine myself running with the reindeer in the far north, or hunting foxes and wolves in the mountains of Mongolia with a golden eagle on my arm. Yes, that carpet is definitely the color of Reindeer and the Altai Peaks.
Surely, I cannot be the only one who thinks about these things.
Tundra Nenets reindeer herders by Bryan and Cherry Alexander
Reindeer photo by Lawrence Hislop
Friday, October 17, 2014
Punkybean doesn’t like spiders. I don’t blame her; neither do I. But she loves stories. Me too. She asked me to read a picture book to her when I was over for lunch one Sunday afternoon, so we cosied up on the couch and read Sophie’s Masterpiece by Eileen Spinelli.
Sophie is not an ordinary house spider; she is an artist, albeit a misunderstood one. No one living in Beekman’s Boardinghouse stops long enough to see the wonders she weaves; they are too biased against spiders to notice.
When we finished the book, Punkybean and I decided that not all spiders are scary. If we ever meet one who wears socks as charming as the eight Sophie made for herself, and can spin a coverlet from strands of moonlight and starlight, snippets of pine, wisps of night, old lullabies and playful snowflakes, then she must be worth knowing.
Just wait until my little granddaughter is old enough to read Charlotte’s Web.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
I went to the library today for some books to read on an upcoming trip. Lo and behold, I stumbled into the last days of the Friends of the Library sale. I checked my purse but I only had ninety cents in cash; so even though the books were delightfully inexpensive, I only came home with two. I mentioned to my husband that I might stop by the library tomorrow afternoon to pick up one or two other books I had left behind for lack of sufficient funds. Even though it was dinnertime, he insisted we drop everything and return to the library immediately. An hour later, I walked out of the building with a smile on my face and four more books.
"That was romantic," I said to my husband as we walked to the car. "I would rather get a bouquet of books than a bouquet of flowers."
"I know," he said, smiling. "I know you."
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
My red hair has faded to the color of pale champagne and my once creamy complexion is embroidered all over with spots and freckles. Slender is something I suspect will be restored to me only when it no longer matters.
The bloom may be off the rose, but when I saw this picture in a magazine a dozen years ago, I recognized myself in the expression on the young woman's face and the attitude of her pause. When I read a book, I often look up between pages and paragraphs to think about what I have just read, to glance at the world, to see if what I am reading has changed the way I view it.
And the roses, climbing up over the wall to catch a glimpse of what lies on the other side: the garden, the weeds, the lone lovely girl, and the book...ah, yes, the irresistible lure of the book. One solitary bloom has lost itself, literally and literarily in the pages of the book. That is me too. The metaphorical me.
So I matted and framed the magazine page and hung it beside my desk to remind me that, even though my grandchildren do not recognize me in the photos I show them of my younger self, I am still the same girl.
Rose by Edith Prellwitz