Sitting on the back steps having coffee with Husband this morning, and the sky is bright blue and cloudless.

A slight breeze stirs the leaves on The Man's sunflowers and scarlet runners, lining the roadside fence. The neighbour's windmill can be seen above the tree tops, spinning lazily. A cool, quiet morning.

Husband goes about his business, and I deke into the kitchen to make applesauce muffins.

By mid-afternoon a change of scene. At tea time I venture forth to test the waters, - and find a garden luxuriating in the heat of the day. The hot sun elicits a most delicious fragrance from the roses and alyssum. It wafts around as you brush past on the shaded garden path, but out on the sunlit patio tea in the breakfast room seems like a good idea.

Caspar wanders off into the meadow and is burying his nose in the cool, freshly watered grass. He turns over and rolls in it with intense pleasure, smiling all the while.

Callie, the cat, is investigating what grows in the barnflower jungle, but comes at Husband's call.













I linger to take a few pictures, - pick some ripe sweetpea pods, then gather up the animals and we go in to have tea where it is cool.













After tea we go for a drive, and the Wild Clematis almost envelops us as we drive along the back roads. What a year it has been for this lovely wild vine that brings to mind the Sweet Autumn Clematis that grew in the Lost Garden.

It covers the fences, creeps out on to the roads and provides a gorgeous foil for the yellows of the Goldenrod that promises autumn is just behind the highest hill.

After supper I trudge out the back and take a picture of our own little bower of Wild Clematis.

















The evening progresses, - the clouds in the sky thin to long white sheets. The windmill still turns desultorily, behind the trees, and the sky is illuminated by the setting sun. The valley is bathed in a rosy light as the moon rises, silver against the pink background.

Eventually dusk deepens the colours of the sky, and we all go indoors, - me, and the jungle cat, and the sweet old dog.

Sitting on the sidewalk,

Eating my Cherries,

Floating my Balloons,

And just watching the

Parade pass by.....



The action is all with the young crowd these days, - new babies - new venues - new adventures - new directions - shedding old habits, taking up new ones and just generally Living the Parade of Life.















Husband and I watch, as sadness and disappointment are followed by happiness and joy.
















We note the grasshoppers and the ants, the paraders who are about to step into a manhole and the ones who soar above the Parade, in search of a goal.

I may sit on the sidewalk, rejoicing in those who are skipping through the roses, and sighing for those who have strayed into the weeds, catching my breath at those who court disaster and smiling with happiness for those who embrace joy and contentment.

But beyond a VERY occasional, small, quiet whisper, "Watch Out" my role in life is to gather together the memories and stories of my own Parade, holding them close to keep me warm as I sit and watch the ones I love finding their way.

And just being a warm receptacle of love, cheering them on as they pass by....

I want to tell you though, - it's bloody frustrating.....

YouTube - Leon Redbone - Melancholy Baby

YouTube - Leon Redbone - Melancholy Baby

Yesterday we went to a party!

Not our usual Funeral Reception type of Party.

This was an honest to goodness happy day party, - although it shared the nostalgia of the usual funeral reception.

It was a 65th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY PARTY - and I put that in bold capital letters because it is such a rare and lovely event.

Firstly because two people who have made a commitment to love and honour have done just that, - not for a year, or ten years, but through sixty five years. And Love has been the vehicle that carried them through the joyous times and the times of tribulation. And Honour is what is due to them now..

And secondly, because they have had the good fortune to survive the years, and are both physically present to celebrate this wonderful achievement.

While the familiar tunes of the 40's swept around the celebration one of the great granddaughters danced with her Daddy, perched on Daddy's shoes, and I smiled to see them, and to think about that great tune sung by sweet, old Leon Redbone, Dancing on Daddy's Shoes.

No. 3 Son introduced me to Leon Redbone not too many months ago, and when I play his music I am right over the moon.....

I read a little blurb while looking for this picture, and it says so beautifully what I feel about his voice.

"It is hard not to smile when listening to a Leon Redbone record. Redbone is graced with a voice as deep as the Pacific and as smooth as butter. He continues a real love affair with tunes from the turn-of-the-century, flapper-era radio ditties, Depression-spawned ragtime and folk-jazz. Yet there is something oddly modern about this musician. His lyrical satire and cynicism tend to wear well with any generation. Leon Redbone’s live shows are just pure entertainment. His front porch manner, impeccable musicianship and relaxed stage aura create a family-like gathering around the fireplace, with the audience right there next to his armchair. "

And how about his rendition of the Walking Stick....

Excuse me while I go and search him out of the Media Library and put in my ear phones - bliss, - pure bliss.

I have my happy face on.......

FRIDAY NIGHT and I have spent the evening delving into the mysteries and delights of downloading e-books.

You may take these things for granted, but when you are REALLY mature and your first memory of things electronic is your father's crystal set in the basement, then you continue to be amazed and confounded by all the little cyber miracles taking place around and about.....

I am keeping up as best I can. IPods and MP3's have not entered into my life yet, and I am pretty amateurish when it comes to texting. I am wide-eyed when I watch our granddaughter sending messages, - how can the brain keep up with those flying fingers????? I just shake my head, roll my eyes, and acknowledge that I was just born seventy-five years too soon to be "hip" in this day and age.


Nevertheless, I am enthralled by the idea that I can download ebooks from the library and see great possibilities for multi-tasking (an appealing concept at this advanced age, - how else is one to get everything done that one wishes to do???).

I have discovered another modern invention, dear to my woolly heart. Space Dyed Yarn! Husband sat in the car on a sweltering afternoon while I scurried into Molly's Quilt Shop in Oliver where I had heard that such yarn resided. I quickly (oh yes, I was quick, contrary to Husband's stories) bought five balls of this miraculous yarn, and am on my second pair of socks.

(These are not my socks, but they serve the purpose to illustrate what jolly footwear can be easily produced just mindlessly knitting away- no planning stripes or joining wool. I have come to the conclusion that there are some truly creative people around.

Now I can spend my evenings knitting striped socks and listening to e-books and feel not only relaxed, but virtuous about all that is being accomplished.

Important to someone with Good Intentions but not the discipline to put them all into action.

Husband is also being creative as he watches TV through sleepy eyes and plans a new ledge for the organ to hold the enormous church hymnbook, bringing it to eye level so that the organist doesn't play with her head tilted back and her nose in the air.

Time to gently shake him and get the nightly card party underway.

Good Intentions

and the Road to Hell.......















I look at the calendar and am shocked to find that less a half a day we have reached the exact middle of August.

And what's a half a day to a dilitente like me.....

I was so full of Good Intentions as I tore July's heated pages off the calendar. I made rough lists on big lined stick-ems, put them up on the wall above the computer and resolved to try my best to follow the path which would fulfill the aims and goals I had set for myself.

Ah, - Ha.....here is where the plan became so badly skewed. I have had a considerably long time to fine tune the art of procrastination, and a list (unless it is an absolutely final desperation list, designed to meet an impending deadline) seems to set off within me a laggardly chain of neglect that manages to put the carefully constructed list right out of my cotton pickin' mind.

Now, this is not just a list scribbled out in the heat of a moment of determination, - ah no. I found a nice leather bound Journal that I had been saving for a special occasion, and quite elegantly copied into it the AIMS and GOALS that once achieved were to make me feel virtuous and well ordered.

Alas and Alack, a lifetime of finding inspiration from deadlines has left me dallying and drifting whenever the pressure is off. And why, at the age of 82, do I feel no pressure to prepare for the inevitable? Denial? Or just too full of living.....

August has been hot, - traditional "dog days". Not the kind of days that inspire full steam ahead activity.

September will be cooler, - always my favourite month, and one that I find filled with Good Intentions.

Will it be another pothole on the Road to Hell, I muse - it will unless I improve my paving skills, and transform my Good Intentions into furious activity.

I am so easily distracted, - an evening on the computer, - a morning in the garden - a little nap after lunch and a good book to read.........tut tut and oh, dear me

O Happy Day - O Happy Day

Another beautiful great-grandchild to brighten our lives.

This time a wee girl, - Cadence. Reminds me of melodies and lovely lilting tunes.

Father, - our grandson - sounds elated, and I'm sure that Mother is just thrilled to have the baby in her ARMS.........

Makes up for the current black cloud that hovers over us in the form of a dead mouse in the air conditioning in the car. Oh, yuck, yuck, yuck......

October skies are most spectacular in the Valley, but the serene skies of summer can sometimes set the heavens ablaze with a gentle fire. And sometimes they are polka dotted with pink chiffon.

Enjoy a quiet moment.

We get a varied selection of donations at the Bargain Centre....

The volunteers who work there on behalf of the Church get quite adept at recognizing the rarest of objects, from old fashioned tools to new fangled gadgets whose uses sometimes seem hardly plausible, so frivolous they be.

When most of the donations had been sorted and hung up this morning there remained on the table a small tin from Winnipeg, labeled Water Glass. This object certainly qualifies as a most practical commodity, and as I picked it up and read the label memories of my childhood engulfed me.

The crock which contained the Water Glass (Isinglass) lived down the stairs and off to the right.

It sat on the basement floor, and despite it's goodly contribution to the household it was a vile and slimy concoction to any small child who had to plunge her hand in it to retrieve the eggs that were being preserved therein.

Baking day had its ups and downs, and one of the downs was being asked to go and put your poor wee hand into that gelatinous mass, and then having to carry the eggs quickly up the basement steps with who knows how many monsters behind you in the dark.


















Eggs PLUS Waterglass PLUS basement steps all added up to a scary experience.

My Sister remembers this part of childhood with as much horror as I do, except she may not have been afraid of the monsters that lived in the coal bin in the far corner of the basement.

I have to say that the results of baking day were worth the dangers and the revolting insult to the senses.

If you have it in your mind to strengthen your child's character and are looking for novel ways to do so, here is a receipt from our Agricultural Past...

In the Spring of the Year when the hens are laying well, put aside the surplus to preserve for that time of the year when the produce found in the nests is liable to be less lavish Try not to use fertile eggs (alas, poor Rooster, - banished from the henhouse).

Obtain a medium sized Medalta stoneware crock. manufactured in Medicine Hat, Alberta (not too large, - one doesn't want small children to fall in). Trudge on down to the pharmacy and purchase a pint of Sodium Silicate, which is a thick liquid about the consistency of molasses. Boil TEN QUARTS of water and allow to cool.

Place the eggs, narrow end down in the crock - mix the waterglass (Sodium Silicate -oh devilish brew) with the cooled water , and pour the mixture over the eggs in the crock.

The eggs should keep one year - to the day. The mixture may become cloudy and resemble soft soap, but do not let that deter you, - the more glutinous it becomes the better suited it is to forming and strengthening character in the young and impressionable. This amount of mix should be enough to preserve 12 or 13 dozen eggs, which eggs should be used mainly for baking.

And that brings up another consideration, - if you, as mother, are used to buying your baked goods from the deli, you are going to be in line to have your character strengthened too. You are going to have to suck it up and make time to bake the cakes and cookies and puddings and cream pies to use the eggs that you are going to send the innocents to retrieve.

Well, good luck to you and to all the little children who get to benefit from this brave adventure.

P.S.......Husband contributes a story of his own childhood demon, - his brother whispering to him "frog's legs, frog's legs" whenever Sago Pudding was served as dessert, - but he didn't actually EAT the Sago Pudding. His brother enjoyed every last spoonful, so I'm not sure that this could be the cause of the strengthening of his backbone?

Early this morning - out in the garden with my trusty machete, harvesting the Hollyhocks.........and watching with dismay as a trillion seeds escape with glee into the fertile soil, readying themselves to spring up next April to confound me again.

I also put my back to reducing the size of the clump of mint.....

Plucking all the baby sun flowers that have sprung up where the birds have spilled the sunflower seeds.......

Tugging at the cool, green chickweed, where the domestic tiger likes to lie........

Admiring the turtle flowers which have started blooming while my back was turned......

Dead heading the roses, and pondering the sea holly, trying to decide what to do about all these great, huge plants that are drunkenly leaning on the standing hollyhocks and sunflowers.....













Noting that the volunteer seed geraniums bear a few buds, and wondering if they will remain true to the brilliant red their Mama was...

Along the edge of the little patio a small hollyhock has persisted all summer, and has finally blossomed with a beautiful peach coloured flower.














The dill is past time to harvest, and the little grocery store rose is once again covered in buds.

I have stopped dead heading the heritage sweet peas, giving them a chance to produce more seeds to fill the demand from friends and family.

My eye catches a flash of sky, down on the ground where it shouldn't be, and it is the blue delphinium, adding a little spot of glory with a second blooming.

Towering in splendour over all - of course, the sun flowers....


In the meantime Husband is tending to his fence screen, tying up scarlet runners and sunflowers, ready to burst into bloom.


















Time now to take him some cool water, and some coffee, - the sun grows warm as the morning advances, and it is time for a break.

Husband and I have been discussing the circumstances which led to my father's wounding at Cambrai, on the 11th of October, 1918.

I am putting away the file which contains an account of that particular battle, along with my father's military records, when my eye is caught by a small faded book on the next shelf up.

It has survived the general dissolution of the library which we downsized when we moved, mainly because of great sentimentality. It was among the few books we have that belonged to Husband's mother , and contains within its pages some of the poetic clippings which she saved during the war years, when her three sons were Overseas.

It is many years since I took the book in hand, and this afternoon I have been re-discovering its treasures.

The book, - well, really the April 1936 issue of "An Intimate Magazine for Garden Lovers", edited by Theo. A. Stephens of London, England, is enchanting in many ways. Just the era during which it was produced is enough to beguile me. Those simpler years, when hard times produced an appreciation for the basics of life, and joy could be found and engendered in small things and cherished relationships. The English are such ardent garden lovers, and I hope this venture of Theo. A. Stephens was a success. Seventy years later it is still bringing pleasure and information to those who read its pages.

One of the plants which traveled with us from the Lost Garden, - unbidden, but welcome in small doses, was the Chinese Lantern. A plant of fiendish invasive ways, but a delight in the autumn garden as the brilliant orange lanterns herald the close of the season and cry to be picked and dried for a prolonged life amongst the other dried grasses and blooms.

F.C.L.S. (Devon) has a little page about the Chinese Lantern, but it is entitled "Physalis" and reads in part:

"What do you call it, Physalis - how do you spell it? The querist was a man, just a mere man, and perhaps I should not have expected him to know what it was though I believe he is a gardener - of sorts. We were looking at a very large bunch of Physalis Franchetii which had been cut and dried last year and had now been put aside for spring greenery......... anyone who has a love for honesty with its satiny seed covers must also love the glowing orange lanterns that hang on the long stems of physalis."

With that I could agree, but then she (for she must be a SHE, judging by her snide remark of the gardener-of sorts) remarks that the plant may be considered rather rampant in its habits. Ah, there's the rub - it comes up in the midst of Iris, through the centre of peony bushes, amongst and around the white Phlox, even in the middle of the raspberry patch - anywhere the speedily traveling roots will take it. And I must tell you that it can appear right on the other side of the garden, with no hint of its presence in between that and its source. Rather rampant is a kind understatement!

However, F.C.L.S. goes on to comment that the green leaves of physalis are pushing up amongst her oriental poppies, but that "it will perhaps be rather nice to think that when the poppies have died down the glowing lanterns of physalis will be swinging over them as they sleep."

A nice and redeeming thought.

There are pages and pages of lovingly written stories about cherished gardens and plants, and I will be off now to spend a little time before supper losing myself amongst the article on "Choise Flower of Delight" (the violet) by Mrs. Stanley Wrench.

Now isn't this a gorgeous green!!!










It's "Yellow" Lake, located on the pass between the Similkameen and the Okanagan (Keremeos and Penticton) - a lake of renown in our own particular memory album, - the scene of lots of fishing expeditions, both winter and summer.

Four or five little mud hens were battling the wind and white caps as we came back from Penticton just before noon.

Today "Yellow Lake" is "Green Lake" - perhaps in the process of "turning over" but nevertheless a lovely sight.

The hills are brown, and many of the trees are showing the stress of the summer heat they have been enduring for the past while. The elderberry bushes, which were dressed in white such a short time ago, now bear splendid clusters of purple berries which require just a bit more ripening before they are perfect for jellies and wines and bears and other berry eating animals.

As we passed by along the road I caught a quick and welcome sight of a small patch of rabbit brush, and a little clump of golden rod, - promise of cooler weather to come.

It may be an illusion, but I am sure I could detect through the hot August sun, the faintest hint of autumn. In the meantime the beaches are crowded, - the weathermen encourage the sun to shine, day after day, and holiday seekers speed their way to and fro, to and fro, making the highways in this lotus land a place where only the hardiest locals venture.

Sarah Orne Jewett said it with feeling over a hundred years ago....(was there Climate Warning then, forsooth)

"This was one of those perfect New England days in late summer where the spirit of autumn takes a frist stealing flight, like a spy, through the ripening country-side, and, with feigned sympathy for those who droop with August heat, puts her cool cloak of bracing air about leaf and flower and human shoulders."

And even Jane Austen, before that, grew disillusioned with the midsummer heat.

"What dreadful hot weather we have!
It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance."
- Jane Austen

Isn't it great how GOOGLE makes one appear to be so amazingly well and widely read!

Husband frets that the hot weather keeps him from the many things he feels compelled to do outside, but I tend to the garden in the coolness of the early morning, and revel in the air conditioning the rest of the day.

The sun has gone down now, - I will join the Little Dog on his nightly walk.

August - mid-summer, - and July is just a lovely memory.

While sitting in church yesterday, I was listening with one ear to Bud, (the member of the congregation who was conducting the service, and preaching a very good sermon) - nevertheless, only one ear was listening, and the other was hearing voices from the past.

Beside me, on the window frame, was a small brass plaque in memory of Ada Kirby, an early pioneer in this valley.

The organ I play in church was donated by her grandson, in memory of his mother and father, - the first couple to be married in St. John's.

When you have attended the same church for 56 years the memories abound - you feel the presence of the people who occupied the same pew year after year, recalling their faithfulness, their humanity, sometimes their laugh or the seriousness with which they worshiped.

The names come flooding back, and I think what a glorious host they would be if they were all there, sitting in their accustomed spots. attending to their accustomed duties with the reverence that was so prevalent in days gone by. I remember the graciousness of the gentle man who even when he was in the early stages of Altzheimers took up the collection facing the altar as he stepped backwards down the aisle from pew to pew. And the kneelers who provided an opportunity for the talented sewers to provide cushions for reverent knees. Why is it that prayers said on one's knees are so much more meaningful than those murmured whilst in the Anglican Crouch.

I remember all the children who were a part of the church when we were young and not long married, - the wonderful energy that was imparted by young parents. Some of those same children still live in the valley, but they have abandoned the church, even though they remember with great fondness the marvelous Christmas pageants, - what it meant for them to play Gabriel, or Joseph, or Mary - or to be one of the Kings. And they still refer to the church as "our" church. Well, it is one of the mysteries of life, where society has led them, or where the church has failed to fulfill them.

Those Christmas pageants, - what a grand performance they were. The wonderful costumes, that mothers sewed, - the music that the choir had such fun rehearsing and the heart touching rendition of O Holy Night by Auntie Joan, the memory of which still brings tears to some of our children's eyes.- the great host of winged and haloed angels, - at least a dozen sweet cherubs, led by Gabriel who appeared from behind the pulpit with his Greetings of Great Joy! The Kings with their crowns and carefully constructed chests of Gold and Frankincense and Myrrh, - and they all had Pages. And the shepherds, who came to worship and adore with their crooks and their burnooses. It was considered an honour to be chosen, most especially as Mary, but Joseph had a pretty high rating as well. And Gabriel - I hear elderly mothers talking about when their son was chosen to Gabriel. Me among them. Even the STAR had a heavenly place, crouched behind the altar until his cue came loud and clear, - "and lo, the star which they saw in the East went before them"

Husband made the manger for the Baby Jesus, and the present Sunday School Pageant is now using his second creation of a place to lay the Baby's head.

Alas, where once the Sunday School Room was crowded with Pageant Participants, these days it is a slim cast, indeed. Where there was always room for one more angel, now it is a triumph to have even a very small band of the heavenly creatures. Last year we combined with the Roman Catholic Church across the street to attain a respectable number of shepherds and angels.

Sometimes we even have modern versions of the Christmas story, and that is O.K. too, except that the young parents who threw their hearts and souls into the 1950's productions are now the elderly people who remember with such nostalgia the wonders of the Christmas Pageants of old.

Well, I have to make this observation as well. The congregation was more dedicated, but so were the Clergy. In those times Ministry was a calling, which one fulfilled, rather than a career, which one pursues. I think it was the last gasp of Christendom as we knew it, and whither goes the life of the spirit now, who's to say - or to judge!

Bud finished his sermon, and it was time to recite the Creed and play the Offertory hymn, so my companions of the past slipped silently away into the shadows, but I remember them with love and affection and admiration, - even the curmudgeon's amongst them.

A Few Words on Time. -Time Passing

Time Standing Still

Time to Go - Time to Stay

Wasting Time - Coveting Time

Making Time - Remembering Time

which brings to mind.......

TIME, you old gypsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

All things I'll give you

Will you be my guest,

Bells for your jennet

Of silver the best,

Goldsmiths shall beat you

A great golden ring,

Peacocks shall bow to you,

Little boys sing.

Oh, and sweet girls will

Festoon you with may,

Time, you old gipsy,

Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon,

Last night in Rome,

Morning, and in the crush

Under Paul's dome;

Under Pauls' dial

You tighten your rein --

Only a moment,

And off once again;

Off to some city

Now blind in the womb,

Off to another

Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gypsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

I had always associated this poem with Bliss Carmen, so imagine my surprise when I discovered it was written by Ralph Hodgson, who also wrote that lovely, poignant poem "Eve"

EVE, with her basket, was

Deep in the bells and grass,

Wading in bells and grass

Up to her knees,

Picking a dish of sweet

Berries and plums to eat,

Down in the bell and grass

Under the trees.

etc. etc. (look it up!)








And the equally haunting "After"

"HOW fared you when you mortal were?

What did you see on my peopled star?"

"Oh well enough," I answered her,

"It went for me where mortals are!

"I saw blue flowers and the merlin's flight

And the rime on the wintry tree,

Blue doves I saw and summer light

On the wings of the cinnamon bee."

It seems to me that TIME must surely be much on the minds of those who are, well, growing older. I was going to say "mature" but I think you have to be past mature and into the "past shelf date" era before you begin to think seriously about time, and the things that are still left to fill it.

There are the exciting things, which may or may not take place. And there are the things of immediate concern, like organizing the family pictures, going to see the lawyer, little instructions to leave behind, pasting labels on the things one wants to pass on to individual loved ones, being kind to children and setting out wishes in no uncertain terms so that when one says do it like this, and another says, do it like that, mother will have got her bid in first to avoid all disagreement......oh, and when all that gets too morbid, feeling satisfied that it is done and one can relax and enjoy Time Left!!!

How our commitments change as time passes, - once I was committed to nurturing - now I am committed to making each precious moment, day, month, year count in the most splendid and comfortable way possible.

And often in my mind do I contemplate the connection between body and spirit, and between spirit and this lovely earth.....

So why did I attribute the Gypsy Man to Bliss Carman? Perhaps I got him mixed up with the Vagabonds, which Bliss Carman DID write.

We are the vagabonds of time,
And rove the yellow autumn days,
When all the roads are gray with rime
And all the valleys blue with haze.
We came unlooked for as the wind
Trooping across the April hills,
When the brown waking earth had dreams
Of summer in the Wander Kills.
How far afield we joyed to fare,
With June in every blade and tree!
Now with the sea-wind in our hair
We turn our faces to the sea.

etc. etc. - another poem to look up!

And speaking of Time - I have only until Sunday Evening to read the Deathly Hallows before I must return it to the Granddaughter who kindly loaned it to me. I'm off, for

quite evidently, Time is of the essence......!

New Neighbours

just moved in, over the fence, towards Cawston.

They are proving to be quiet and well behaved (no Neighing or Whinnying at inappropriate times.) horsey people! They come and go with equinimity, occasionally stepping out for a refreshing drink in this hot weather. (No local Bar in the pasture, as yet.)

True to tradition, I have been observing from behind the curtain, - noting the pecking order. They wander the lush pasture and keep their noses to the ground, intent upon their own business with just the occasional glance at the garden that lies over the fence.

It is nice to have horses close by. On the property where the Lost Garden lived for many years we rented out pasture to a local rancher, and their horses lent a romantic and pastoral beauty as they grazed in the shade of the trees Husband planted there. Alas, all gone......

I am sure these particular horses are glad to be back in the pasture we usurped when we built our home up here in the corner, and even, to add insult to injury, used their shelter as a temporary garage.

However, they seem forgiving and friendly, and I would be glad to lend them a cup of sugar cubes any time they need it!

Reading Rose Macaulay
(1881-1958)








A few years ago my sister-in-law sent me a copy of Dame Rose Macaulay's book, Personal Pleasures. I was delighted with it, and it inspired a search for more of her books.

Not an easy task, - the Okanagan Regional Library carries only the Towers of Trebizond. I immediately ordered it and read it with great satisfaction.

Having nothing new to read the other night I reintroduced myself to Rose Macaulay, where her Personal Pleasures was tucked into the shelf on the nightstand, along side other books that it gives me great pleasure to re-read.

"Chattery, chittery..lean as a rake. wispy; and frittered" was Virginia Woolf's comment about Rose, but I have read elsewhere that Virginia's comment was perhaps tinged with jealousy and cattiness.

In any event, Rose Macaulay was very much a part of the London literary circle in the first part of the last century and although her first books were inclined to be light, comic pieces, her later work had a haunting quality, - most especially her post-war novel "The World my Wilderness" which I am longing to read.

One of the excerpts from Towers of Trebizond reflects my own thinking as I ponder the real, honest to goodness meaning of TRUTH.

"Nothing in the world, for instance, could be as true as some Anglicans and Calvinists and Moslems think their Churches are, having the faith once for all delivered to the saints. I suppose this must be comfortable and reassuring. But most of us know that nothing is as true as all that, and that no faith can be delivered once for all without change, for new things are being discovered all the time, and old things dropped, like the whole Bible being true, and we have to grope our way through a mist that keeps being lit by shafts of light, so that exploration tends to be patchy, and we can never sit back and say, we have the Truth, this is it, for discovering the truth, if it is ever discovered, means a long journey through a difficult jungle, with clearings every now and then, and paths that have to be hacked out as one walks, and dark lanterns swinging from the trees, and these lanterns are the light that has lighted every man, which can only come through the dark lanterns of our minds."

That appeals to me.

As does her quotation "At the worst, a house unkept cannot be so distressing as a life unlived."

She had a lovely and imaginative way with words.

A random quotation from a small essay on the Pleasures of Bathing:

"The sea's warm edge sways lisping on hot sand, curling into tiny ripples, hissing, creaming, running delicately back. Wade in, take five steps in water as warm as a tepid bath, and the sharply shelving beach fails beneath your feet and leaves you swimming. Lapping in the clear, thin stuff, so blue, so buoyant, so serene, you can conceive no reason for ever leaving it."

I am off now to read to Husband (who has difficulty becoming somnalent) her delightful pages on the pleasures of Bed.