garden gate

keyhole in garden gate, Dinan, France

In ten days, it will be Christmas morning!  This past Sunday, I went to the annual performance of The Singing Christmas Tree at the Orange Baptist Church.  My grandma started the tradition at Orange Baptist and was the director of the performance for 22 years.  She said the first year, people were lined up all the way down Main Street and around the courthouse, waiting to get into the church, and that even after they had violated fire codes with as many extra chairs as would fit in the aisles, and people standing, they had to turn people away, and that people were so excited, a reporter from the radio station came out.  Can you imagine!?  I guess you see lines like that for Justin Bieber concerts, but I can't help myself from getting carried away with the old-fashioned romance of the radio and so many people wanting to hear a choir singing carols in a church while assembled on wooden bleachers disguised with fresh greenery and formed into the shape of a Christmas tree...  Everybody together with the smell of matches and wood polish and that unidentifiable something that  can only be the scent of rituals being repeated for years on end. I've been to the performance almost every year.  And every year my dad whispers and squirms around like a boy the whole time, which is annoying and lovely all at once.  This year, the phrase from Deck the Halls... "fast away the old year passes" really struck me, and has been flitting through my thoughts all week.  I love that phrase.  It is beautiful, I think. Sometimes life has an unconscious pace that rolls along evenly.  And sometimes, there is a sensation of anticipation, that some unknown something is about to turn, change, tangibly evolve.  Lately I've had that feeling.  Maybe I'm just excited for no real reason, and that is good enough in itself.  But I love feeling like I do, like I'm approaching a garden gate, and can see just a little through the keyhole... wondering if the gate is locked or unlocked, if I have the key that fits in my pocket, or if I'm going to have to weld one, or if I'm just going to scale the wall instead of using the gate.   And I wonder how exploring the whole of the garden is going to compare with the tiny glimmer of a view visible through the hole.

for the birds

I saw the sun rise on Saturday morning before the Christmas market in town.  I stayed up way too late on Friday night trying to put the finishing touches on my wares, but even exhaustion couldn't curb my enthusiasm. Here is a picture of my little 'booth' at the market in the early morning light.  Wearing long johns under my  jeans, wool socks, two shirts, two sweaters, a vest and gloves, I manned my space for six hours.  My eyes were puffy and my nose was bright red... and my hairdo wasn't too attractive either, I realized after the whole day had gone by, but I had a really good time talking to market-goers and other vendors in the refreshing winter air, and I made lots of sales!!

Today I found this porcelain heart bowl at the Goodwill for 49 cents.  I filled it up with seeds and put it on the table outside the window next to my work space in hopes that it will lure some hungry birds for me to spy on!

feather collecting

chicken, turkey, hawk, turkey, duck, owl, peacock, woodpecker

I've been a real busy-body the past two weeks... doing my regular old waitress work, painting watercolors based on some ancient Islamic tile work and trying to compose a pattern from them for a lady's kitchen curtains, trying to re-create an out-of-print Moliere-themed fabric, making new pillow material for my own projects on Etsy, and getting ready to be a vendor at the Christmas Market that will be at the train station in Orange this Saturday.  I finally made bread (and already ate it up).  It has been magically warm the past few days.  The other night I had my door open for hours while I was at the sewing machine, listening to Chopin nocturnes, and I could even hear crickets singing outside in the darkness.  There were no bugs around to fly into the light, only a couple giant wolf spiders scampering across the floor, which don't bother me anymore... I got used to hundreds of them in my parents' basement during my childhood.  Yesterday while I was at my work table with the door open, I heard rustling and saw a flash of brown from the corner of my eye.  That scared me.  My impulse thought was 'rat'!  But the rustling was only the claws of a little bird on the floor, and he quickly excused himself back outside to the bushes.

good breakfast, good book

Most of the leaves have rattled down off the trees and it's getting pitch dark by five thirty.  It's almost time for pumpkin pies and snow and Christmas trees and parties where the fireplace is lit up and there's a great big pile of coats on the spare bed.  It's time to welcome winter and all the quiet and cold that comes with it, including rubbing globs of cream on chapped hands, getting used to going on walks when you can't hear very well because a hat or hood is rubbing your ears with the rhythm of your steps.  And in winter, warm food and good books become more important than ever.

Oatmeal is a common warm breakfast.  But I don't really like oatmeal very much.  Actually it's one of my least favorite foods.  I like thick slices of toast with butter melted into them in the mornings.  But since I have been lazy and haven't made bread, last week I put together pretty much the sum of all that was in my cupboard:  oatmeal (that I only had for the purpose of putting in bread dough), cinnamon, a granny smith apple, and maple syrup.  And I really liked it and have eaten it several times since.  Just boil the oatmeal on the stove top with a dash of sea salt (sorry, I don't measure or use timers... the oatmeal of course expands when it cooks and it looks mushy when it's done).  While the oatmeal is boiling, chop up any apple you like into little cubes and drop the cubes into a big bowl (that you would like to eat out of).  When the oatmeal is done, dump it over the apples, then sprinkle it with four or five big pinches of cinnamon, stir it with a spoon and then pour real maple syrup over it.  It is a good winter breakfast or afternoon snack and it sits just right in your belly.

And about the book... I have been reading Russian Winter by Daphne Kalotay.  I found it by pure luck last time I was at the library.  It is not a very professional or intelligent practice, but I enjoy walking up and down the aisles of the library almost like a water witch, following my impulse.  I pull books off the shelves and open them to random pages and read passages.  If it feels right, I check it out and give it a whirl.  So I found Russian Winter like that, and it is the most beautiful novel I have read in a long time... it is not tedious or pretentious, nor is it formulaic or simple.  It is real and rich and of genuine, old-fashioned literary quality.  The characters are outstanding and the atmosphere and setting feel breathtakingly real.  If you are looking for a book to help ease you into a winter state of mind, and to make you feel completely content with a blanket and a cup of hot tea and nowhere to go, check it out.

William Morris

Daffodil Chintz 1891 furnishing textile by John Henry Dearle, who designed for William Morris

"The past is not dead, it is living in us, and will be alive in the future which we are now helping to make."
           - William Morris

one downy feather

Today is grey and windy.  A perfect day for naps with strange dreams, or thinking about the little boy in Roald Dahl's The Witches sitting with his Norwegian grandma in front of the fire telling stories and mending socks.  It's the kind of day when forgotten smells bring you vivid, unexpected memories and the past seems to want to lure you and wrap you up in a heavy fate-like blanket.  I  was so lost in these kinds of thoughts and feelings while I was out walking that I gasped when I heard the sound of a big old sycamore leaf rolling along the packed dirt behind me in the lane.  I'd expected to see a person or an animal when I turned around.  And I especially liked this feather caught in the leaves.  I wonder if it was from a hawk or an owl?

The Country Living Fair

We had so much fun!  Imagine, a little section of woods in Stone Mountain Park was filled with treasures...camp-style shops sprinkled in between tall pines, lining curving dirt paths.  We wended our way over the paths - rusty orange pine needles all over the ground, smelling good and making the woods feel cozy... and I went into a trance walking from one delight to the next... antique boxes, nightgowns, slips, tablecloths, pillows, wildly upholstered chairs, old plates, tea towels, alarm clocks, coffee grinders, paintings... I just wish I'd been wearing a snow suit Saturday morning because it was a lot colder than I expected.  Sunday morning, I pitched my product.  My voice probably sounded like Mickey Mouse in fast-forward, but it was fun and the judges were kind and receptive.  I won't find out whether or not I'll make it into the magazine for a couple months, but I'm happy either way.

This chocolate Buddha sitting on my knee is from Matthew's Chocolate Shop in Hillsboro, NC.  We stopped along the way - just by accident - and are already looking forward to going back on purpose, as soon as we can.  It is a magical, old-fashioned shop - tiny, with a glass case of chocolates and a velvet curtain tied back behind the counter.  The chocolates are not just beautiful - they taste very, very good.

Things to do in the Middle of the Night

The moon is high and just on the waning side of full in the black square of window in front of my desk.  I have a bad habit of wanting to do more in one day than is possible, so rather than give up, I decide to use half the night, which I should have learned by now inevitably cuts into the following morning, and that exhaustion eventually gets revenge no matter how much you accomplish while not sleeping.  But I can't help but love the quiet peaceful hours when everyone else is sleeping, and even if they're not, they assume you are, so you're left deliciously alone to concentrate uninterrupted.

A few months ago, my grandmother's sister gave me my great-great grandmother Emma's sewing machine.  It is a portable Singer 221-1 'Rotary Hook, For Family Use.'  Emma bought it at a shop at 6111 Georgia Avenue N.W. in Washington D.C. in December of 1939 for $142.25.  She traded in something for $7 and made a down payment of $13, and then paid installments of $3.50 on the 18th of each month.  It makes me so happy that I can still use this machine.  The great-aunt that gave it to me even used it to sew her own wedding dress.  Since I'm not very good at all with straight lines, I hope the spirit of Emma will guide me through the rhythms of the machine and help me have a steady hand...and maybe even someday become a good seamstress.  Tonight I completed the hem of a tea towel I'm making out of my fabric.

I quit the sewing machine around midnight to try to tackle the task my mom gave me of filling out the insert cards for my sister's graduation announcements.  This requires me to pen my sister's full name and her double degree on two shockingly short lines in some kind of fancy lettering.  Last summer I ordered an instruction manual for Spencerian Penmanship, which was developed by Platt Rogers Spencer in the 1800s and was the leading method of script instruction in schools for almost a hundred years.  The Theory and Practice book I ordered was originally copyrighted in 1874 by Ivison, Blakeman, Taylor & Co. and has been reprinted by Mott Media with virtually no change from the original, save correction of the spelling of hight to height.  It's really fun to look through and attempt to practice, even though the instructions are rigid and precise, down to a specific position and posture the penman is supposed to assume at the desk while writing.  And the pen must be held a certain way, which feels completely restrictive and unnatural at first.  The instructions for a lowercase 'r' read as follows:


Begin on base line and ascend with a right curve on connective slant one and one-quarter spaces; make a light dot, and descend with a slight left curve nearly vertical (5 degrees to left of vertical), one-fourth of a space; turn short, and descend with a straight line on main slant to base; turn short again, and ascend with a right curve on connective slant, one space.

Despite the technicality, I like trying, especially on big lined paper. (Yes, you can get the same glorious paper you practiced cursive on in third grade at Family Dollar or Dollar General!  I recommend it... it's very satisfying to write on, even for grocery lists.)  It's too bad that people have mostly abandoned script writing for chicken-scratchy print, and letter writing for emails.  Imagine the simple pleasure that could be restored to life if we all sent and received a handwritten letter each week.