what I did on my thanksgiving vacation

I've been making rather merry. My week was full of festivities

with the kids home. At the top of the list was the traditional Scott's

Antique Show. My daughter found several fabulous treasures.

I came home empty handed,

which is not a bad thing, since

the manor has the tendency to

take on a major "hodge-podge-

lodge" look, anyway. The

talented daughter helped me

an entire day, taking everything,

including books and pottery

off shelves, sills and tables in

the living room.

It proved to be a major chain

reaction, but with fabulous results.

We emptied the vintage medical

cabinet of my matte white pottery

and mixed it with the pewter and

vintage books.
.

We decided our efforts looked quite

nice, even a bit "John Derian", if you

will. I'm sure he would approve.

Of course, there was tons

of baking and eating going

on the whole week. Lots of

special holiday fare, including

homemade crescent rolls and

pecan pies. The best part is

the leftovers, which we are still

enjoying today. I am completely

carbed out, though, and ready

to eat a week's worth of veggies.

It was a wonderful week, for

which I am truly grateful.

.

Now that the manor is quiet,

I'll be slowly making my way

down your street in the

bloggyhood. I've missed you!

.

thank you

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into

enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order,

confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a

home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past,

brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.

.

Melody Beattie

.

.

Lots of love

to all my wonderful bloggy readers.

Your friendship means the world to me.

Thank you, for all your encouragement,

love and support. You are the best.

.

Happy Thanksgiving

to you and yours.

.

Fondly,

willow

overheard at the manor

Hey, Honey, did you eat any good food on your trip?

Well, I had some goat head in Abu Dhabi. They tore it open in
front of me and tossed the tongue on my plate, since I was the
guest of honor.

Oh, yuk! What did it taste like?

Chicken.

scorpio

I know, I'm squeezing this post in on the very last day of Scorpio.
My youngest son happens to be a Scorpio and fits this description
to a tee. Happy Birthday to all the deep, powerful, and put together
Scorpios out there in the blogosphere.

Scorpio, October 24 - November 22, is the eighth sign of the zodiac
and its symbol is the scorpion. Like scorpions, this sign is said to be
dangerous when attacked, is secretive, and likes to keep their true
selves hidden. Since Scorpio is a water sign, they feel emotions
intensely.

As the sign of birth, death and regeneration, Scorpio is a powerful
force in the birth chart and those born under this sign have a great
deal of energy. They are attracted to situations that sometimes seem
dangerous to others, are fascinated by mystery, and eager to delve
into the secrets of the unknown. They can be summed up as "still
waters that run deep". The male Scorpio needs to maintain his
dignity and the female is poised and apparently cool.

This sign's energies are so strong, they can seem over powering and
the Scorpio can feel driven by them. But if they are fully and
positively expressed, both physically and emotionally, the individual
will be a big achiever. Scorpios are not known for moderation and
their health can suffer as a result of over-indulgence.

The ruling planet for Scorpio is Pluto. Gemstone is the opal. Color is
dark red or magenta. Flowers are rhododendron and geranium. The
tree is the hawthorn, for obvious reasons. The body part associated
with Scorpio is the sexual organs; heh-heh, this says a lot. Scorpios
love strong tasting foods. (Yup, I know this for a fact.) The animal is
most insects. Countries associated with this sign are Morocco,
Norway, Algeria, Syria, Korea and Uruguay.

wear the old coat and buy the new book

The long awaited tweed, tartan and wool season has finally arrived.

I adore the whole experience of winter clothes. I love the texture,

the color, the snuggliness, and the bug-in-a-ruggliness. They're just

far more interesting and fun to wear, than simple summer fare.

I miss the annual washing up of the kids' winter coats and trying them

on for size. So, in the spirit of the tradition, I was digging in the front

closet at the empty nest manor this week, the one that's under the

front staircase.

I found a fun cobalt blue wool coat, made in Peru, I bought back in the

'70s, completely forgotten, zipped up in a bag in the back. It's blanket

style, trimmed in fabulous floppy, extra long fringe, and the wool has

a wonderful waffle pattern. The collar can be buttoned up, in a scarf-

like fashion, or worn open and drapey.

.

Best of all, amazingly enough, it fits me after all these years. Talk

about doing wonders for my self esteem. And not a moth hole in sight.

No new coat needed for me this year. You know what that means?

More books!

You know what else? The cobalt blue compliments my family tartan

perfectly. My ancestors are smiling. Hey, is it my imagination, or am

I seeing all kinds of tartan everywhere this fall, after I posted on it in

September? I just saw a whole page of tartan products in the

December issue of Elle Decor's "Trend Alert". I told you I was

psychic. Or maybe they just love my sense of style? Keep your eye

out, now, for cobalt blue blanket coats. Don't forget, you saw them

first at Willow Manor.

.

Wear the old coat and buy the new book.

Austen Phelps

(Mr. Phelps certainly got this right.)

thank you, jerry seinfeld

It's almost envelope licking season. I'm still an old fashioned kinda
girl when it comes to Christmas cards. I like to send the real classic
paper kind out to family and friends. I've pared my list down some,
but still mail out about 60 cards.

This time of year, when I lick the envelopes, I'm reminded of the
Seinfeld episode "The Invitations". You remember the one, when
George Costanza convinces his fiancee, Susan Ross, to go with the
cheapo wedding invitations, and she actually dies from licking too
many of the toxic envelopes.

The funny thing is, back in 1996, I spent an entire week with stuff
spread out on the dining room table, putting together a scrapbook of
WT's vintage family photos. Now, mind you, I'm not really a
butterflies and flowers kinds of scrapbooker. I stick with black paper
albums and classic black photo corners, like in my photo, above.
Anyway, every afternoon that week, I was busy licking and sticking
corners in the scrapbook. By four or five o'clock every afternoon, I
felt incredibly dizzy and sick.

On Thursday night that week, "The Invitations" episode of Seinfeld
aired. I was an addict and watched Seinfeld religiously, never
missing a show. Afterwards, I turned to WT and said, "Oh my gosh,
it's licking those stupid corners, that's making me sick!" Sure enough,
the next day, I used a swab instead of licking, and felt completely fine.

Thank you, Jerry Seinfeld, I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving
my life. Like Susan, I might have ended up a casualty of stationery
products.


For all you Seinfeld fans out there, click [HERE] for the Seinfeld Dictionary.
.

from the house of edward to willow manor

In honor of her recent 200th posting, the lovely Pamela Terry

hosted a drawing on her gorgeous blog, From the House of Edward.

Guess who was the lucky winner? Me! I won a copy of the famed

"Songwriter's", as she fondly calls him, Pat Terry's latest impressive

CD, Laugh for a Million Years. Wonderful music and I was especially

struck by his moving lyrics.

I held you like a rosary

prayed you like a prayer

((sigh))

from Outrun the Wind

Hop on over to Pamela's blog for details on how to order one for

yourself or someone you love. It would make a perfect holiday gift.

Her sweet big fluffy dog, Edward, included a delightful book of doggy

poetry, "Doggerel", which just happens to be one of the volumes of

Everyman's Pocket Poets I needed for my collection.

This poem by Mark Strand, jumped out and grabbed me. I can so

relate to this one, Edward. Arf! Thank you, and to your mistress,

too.

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.

Her eyes are sad

and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.

The light is dim.

The dogs are on the basements stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,

their blond legs burn like brush.

The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.

When I get on my knees and lick her hand,

she screams.

I am a new man,

I snarl at her and bark,

I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

.

Late

Late


Night's metallic deep
tastes like coin
between my teeth.

Steel cold beneath
drags day's bones
down to Davy Jones.

I forgot the combination;
click back and forth
like numbers on a clock.

Ex marks the spot,
but won't unlock the dark.
Lights flicker from the dock;

dits and dahs in code
say take off a load,
hit the hay, go to sleep

or to Hell's gate.
Sink, burn or keep
me as a prize,

because it's late.
Or just too early to rise.


willow, 2009





For more Theme Thursday participants click [HERE].

image: google

when he's away...

When the Lord King of the Manor is away, things are,
ahem, let's say, just a tad more relaxed. I'm often
known to do the following...

Drink extra strong black coffee at random, keeping me up odd hours.

Don furry hats, take pictures of myself, then post them on my blog.

Eat random meals of Cheerios, hunkered over my keyboard.

Eat Mickey Dee's double fish fillets two days in a row, or three.

Let the laundry go until I run out of fresh panties.

Throw dirty everything in the kitchen watering hole sink until it's full.

Watch double feature Merchant Ivories in my woolly socks with
Donald Hall and Rita Dove.

Sing show tunes, loudly and with abandon, until the ghosts take cover.

Spend hours days in the second hand bookstore, until the owner
thinks I'm the new employee.

Start a chain reaction of rearranging items around the manor, so
that nothing is in the same spot on His Majesty's noble return.

artwork by Michael Sowa

twlight zone on main street

I'm sure it's because of my roots being ancestrally stuck in the rich,
dark soil of the Midwest, that I adore the artwork of Grant Wood,
1891-1942. Most of his works are of the simple, rural American
Midwest, often capturing the steadfast American pioneer spirit.
One of his best known paintings is American Gothic, an iconic
image of the 20th century.
.
Wood's "Portrait of a Woman", in his Main Street series, above, is
one piece I'm particularly fond of, and keep a copy in my PC photo
file. For the past several months, this lovely voyeuristic lady would
peer at me, through her window, every time I opened the file. I
couldn't help but notice how much she looked like my dear bloggy
friend, FireLight. Now, keep in mind, I've never met FireLight in
person, and have only seen a few of her small avatar size photos.
Finally, hoping she wouldn't think I was completely kooky, I sent
her a copy of the Main Street portrait, with a note telling her of the
striking resemblance.

I almost fell off my chair when FireLight sent me this photo taken
some 20 years ago. The same color braided hair, the hand to the chin,
and not to mention the fact that she looks exactly like Wood's lady in
the window; she easily could have been his model. Listen carefully.
Can you hear the Twilight Zone theme playing in the background?
I told you I was psychic.
.

.

short ribs with cheesy polenta

It's that time of year to start enjoying the earthy succulence of slow cooked meat and vegetables. My wonderful artist friend, Mary Ann, was asking about the short ribs on my sidebar last week. It happens to be a favorite here at the manor. The sweetness of the corn polenta pairs nicely with the wine and tomato sauce. If you're not a big fan of polenta, like I am, it's also as delicious served with rice or mashed potatoes. This one is super fabulous, take my word for it.

Short Ribs with Cheesy Polenta

4 medium carrots, cut into 1 inch pieces

2 cups frozen pearl onions or 1 large onion chopped

4 garlic cloves, minced

4 pounds bone-in beef short ribs

1 Tbsp vegetable oil

1 can, 14.5 oz., diced tomatoes

3/4 cup low sodium beef broth

1/4 cup dry red wine

1/4 cup coarsely chopped flat leaf parsley or 2 Tbsp dried

2 Tbsp cornstarch

2 Tbsp tomato paste

1 bay leaf

1 cup quick cooking polenta

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 cup finely shredded Parmigiano-Regiano

1. Combine carrot, onions and garlic in 6 qt. stock pot

2. Season ribs with salt and pepper. Brown ribs in oil on all sides and transfer to pot.

3. Stir together tomatoes, broth, wine, parsley, cornstarch and tomato paste in a bowl; pour over ribs, add bay leaf, cover and cook 275 degrees for 4 hours or until meat is tender. Skim off fat. Discard bay leaf.

4. Combine 3 3/4 cups water, the polenta and salt in a large saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Add cheese and cook until thickened, about 5 minutes.

5. Serve ribs over polenta and garnish with parsley, if desired.This is also great in the crock pot, 9-11 hours on low or 4 1/2 to 5 1/2 hours on high. Serves 4.

one liners

I forgive the girl with the purple pen who hacked up Charles Simic.

Without the leaves to sound proof, if I listen carefully, I hear the

semis roaring in the distance; it makes me think of Frost's "and

miles to go before I sleep".

.

The sun on the back deck this morning made the sparkly frost look

just like the sugar on my batch of ginger cookies.

.I forgot to put the trash out this week.

He doesn't know it, but Robert Osborne is one of my bestest;

I have the hugest crush on him and those baby blues...Bob, you look

fabulous in your new dark blue suit and that green tie is tres chic,

my friend. (Got any of those bobble heads left? I want one.)

.

Bach's Sleepers Awake made me cry this morning.

Morning in the Burned House, Margaret Atwood's poetry, has been

delightful..."don't confuse me with my hen-leg elbows".

Today's a really good hair day; of course, I've seen no one.

Speaking of hair, I pulled a rat of it out of the shower drain today;

akk, I think I'm going bald...you know, I once dreamed my biological

father was Yul Brynner.

.

I'm severely craving a double fish fillet from Mickey Dee's; I might

just have to hop in the old Land Rover and go get myself one...don't

worry, I'll be good and skip the glorious fries. (forgive me Robynn,

for I am about to sin...)

This weekend is going to be incredibly fun...hope you all have one,

too, my bloggy pals~!

Theme Thursday - Telephone

Token Call


Last time you phoned
was my fortieth birthday,
remember? You asked
if I felt any older.

Your voice was so fine,
but you broke off to say
it was time to go. Okay,

bye. Go ahead, get off the line.

A forty second call
from father to daughter.
Why bother?

One second

for each of my years.

.

.

willow, 2009

.

.

For more Theme Thursday participants click [HERE].

Holy Father, you're always welcome at the manor

From time to time, I have unusual hits on my sitemeter; Disney, Random House and Turner Broadcasting, to name a few. But this past Saturday, was the most unique in my whole existence of blogging. I actually had a hit from the Holy See, the Vatican City State. Okay, I realize there are 900 some residents of the Vatican, but it's fun to think that His Holiness, Pope Benedict XVI, just might have been reading my humble little blog, himself.

Wait, it gets more interesting. The search words for this particular hit were "Colonel Bogey March lyrics". I can just see His Holiness bopping around his quarters whistling Colonel Bogey, then curious as to the lyrics, sitting down with his laptop to Google-up Willow Manor, and read my post.

By the way, did you know the pope has his own Pontifical March? It's played at solemn occasions of the State and ceremonies in which he is present. When the Vatican's flag is ceremonially raised, only the first eight bars are played. The music was composed in 1869 by Charles Gounod, for the celebration on April 11, 1869 of Pope Pius IX's silver jubilee. Click [HERE] for a listen. The English version of the lyrics are as follows:

O Rome immortal of Martyrs and Saints,
O immortal Rome, accept our praises:
Glory in the heavens to God our Lord,
And peace to men who love Christ!
To You we come, Angelic Pastor,
In You we see the gentle Redeemer,
The Holy Heir of true and holy Faith;
Comfort and refuge of those who believe and fight.
Force and terror will not prevail,
But Truth and Love will reign.

It is a tad more pure and majestic than the common Colonel Bogey March, sung by British artillery men. I hope he wasn't too taken aback to discover the lyrics. There are several versions, but this is one of the most well known:

Hitler has only one left ball
Göring has two but they are small.
Himmler was somewhat similar
And poor old Goebbels has no balls at all.

Oh, and another clue that His Holiness, himself, might have visited Willow Manor? The language used on this particular search was notItalian, but happened to be German, his native tongue.

there's no method to my madness

One of my favorite tangibles, is a beautiful vintage, wood and brass
level that WT gave me one Christmas. I keep it here on the old oak
high school drafting table, I use as a computer desk, in the little
sitting area off the manor kitchen. I didn't realize until today, it's
obviously my Libra sense of balance, that draws me to this mellow
level, with its air bubbles housed in cloudy green glass.

Speaking of a sense of balance, the only thing about blogging, that's
making me feel incredibly unbalanced lately, is the fact that I'm
having a bit of trouble making it through the bloggyhood to visit all
you special peeps on a daily basis. You are the nicest, most creative
and intelligent group of gentle readers in the whole blogosphere. I
am one lucky blog duck. You mean the world to me, and that's why

I am feeling frustration.

You know how it is. I'm going down the mile, the ubiquitous green
blogroll mile, and the phone rings. I chat. I laugh. I return to the
mile, and it has grown. Not only that, but I've lost my place. I skim
down and click on a blog with an intriguing post. I click on someone

new in the comment section, and I'm on a fresh and exciting street

in the bloggyhood. I pop here. I comment there. Before I know it,

an hour has passed and I'm still only a quarter of the way down the

green mile. And I'm a fast typer, too.

I know some of you like to send an email to everyone who leaves a
comment. I'm afraid this method would permanently attach my butt
to the chair, and I would soon collect dust and spider webs. Plus, I
think it's a bit redundant to reply by email, and also go leave a blog
comment. Not to mention, it chokes the old inbox. Some others of
you only comment to those who have left comments on your post.
I don't really care for that method either, because there are so many
interesting bloggers out there, that don't necessarily leave me a
comment on a daily basis.

So, what's a willow to do? I think my gentle readers will understand,

while I would love to comment on 200 blogs a day, it's just not

realistic. It's not healthy to sit here blogging 24 x 7; this willow might

just send down roots and sprout withy shoots. Got any suggestions?

Any methods to your bloggy madness? Blogging should be fun and I

should not be feeling this unbalanced sense of "oblogation", right?
.

willow with withies ready to harvest

it's that time of year again

It's the start of the cookie season. These babies are perfect with a cup of Yorkshire Gold tea on a frosty afternoon. My world (at least in my neck of the woods) famous ginger cookies are big, moist and chewy. The warm blend of ginger, cinnamon and cloves are so symbolic of fall. I love this recipe, too, because they turn out exactly the same way every single time I make them. Give this recipe a try and tell me if you don't absolutely love them.

Willow's World Famous Big Soft Ginger Cookies

4 1/2 cups flour
4 tsp ground ginger
2 tsp baking soda
2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ground cloves
1 cup Crisco shortening
1 stick (1/2 cup) butter, softened

2 cups sugar
2 eggs
1/2 cup molasses
1 cup extra sugar for rolling

Combine the dry ingredients and set aside.

In electric mixer set on medium, beat butter and shortening until
blended, add sugar. Add eggs and molasses and beat well.

Stir flour mixture into egg mixture.

Shape dough into 2" golf ball sized balls and roll into sugar to coat.

Bake on ungreased sheet for 11 minutes at 350. Cool on sheet for
2-3 minutes, then transfer to rack and let cool. Makes about 18
large cookies.

Thank you, Mr. Mercer

Did anyone else see the great Clint Eastwood produced documentary,
Johnny Mercer: The Dream's on Me, on Turner Classic Movies
Wednesday night? I sat there in my nest, aka my favorite corner of
the leather sectional, in the sitting room off the kitchen, completely
glued to the screen. I didn't realize until then, what a big part
Mercer's songs have played in my life. I knew the words to nearly all
of them. He was a genius. We owe this lovely man a huge debt of
gratitude. Take a listen to two of my faves. They've been in my head
all week...

Moon River, wider than a mile,

I'm crossing you in style some day.

Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,

wherever you're going, I'm going your way.

Two drifters off to see the world.

There's such a lot of world to see.

We're after the same rainbow's end--

waiting 'round the bend,

my huckleberry friend,

Moon River and me.

.

Skylark, have you anything to say to me?

Won't you tell me where my love can be?

Is there a meadow in the mist

where some one's waiting to be kissed?

.

Skylark, have you seen a valley green with spring

where my heart can go a journeying

over the shadows and the rain

to a blossom covered lane?

.

And in your lonely flight

haven't you heard the music in the night,

wonderful music,

faint as a will o' the wisp, crazy as a loon,

sad as a gypsy serenading the moon.

.

Oh, skylark, I don't know if you can find these things

but my heart is riding on your wings.

So if you see them anywhere

won't you lead me there?

.

By the way, the DVD version of this documentary will be available
just in time for Christmas, for all you Mercer fans out there.

.

This just in:

.

This program will air again Wednesday, November 18

on TCM at 6:00 P.M. EST.

Rojan

I have a fondness for unique children's books and always keep an eye out for them in second hand bookshops; you know, the ones with the creaky hardwood floors? One of the illustrators I like to watch for, is Latvian artist Feodor Rojankowsky, known as "Rojan", who worked in Paris in the '20s and '30s.

My favorite Rojan illustrated book, from my personal collection, is a Little Golden Book published in 1933, Gaston and Josephine, a delightful story about two little pigs, who leave their farm in France for an adventure in America. I love this one so much, I had to find a copy on eBay, for my daughter, as well. Another of his books, The Three Bears, from my childhood, is just as quirky, and full of old world charm.

Although he was primarily known as a children's book illustrator, Rojan's other artistic endeavours were less well known, but no less appreciated. He regularly illustrated erotic fiction and his output was impressive. His erotic drawings often accompanied the poetry of Raymond Radiguet and Pierre Louÿs, as well as many others of the golden age of French erotica.

Rojan's chief accomplishment, has always been considered to be Idylle Printanière or Spring Idyll, published by ER Books as Paris Spring 1933, a "story without words" telling of an encounter between two elegant travellers who meet on a platform in the Paris Metro.

This art-deco masterpiece has lost none of its original fire and brilliance. The original 1933 edition, with only 516 sets printed, is now almost unobtainable and has fetched up to £2,500 at auction.

Here's a steamy example of Pierre Louÿs' poetry, which Rojan often illustrated, from Poetica Erotica. Ed. T.R. Smith. New York: Crown Publishers, 1921, translated to English by Horace M. Brown.


Absence


She has gone out, she is far from me,
but I see her, for all things in the room,
all pertain to her, and I, like all the rest.

This bed still warm,
over which I let my lips wander,
is disordered with the imprint of her form.
Upon this soft cushion has lain her little head
enveloped in its wealth of hair.

This basin is that in which she hath bathed;
this comb has penetrated
the knots of her tangled locks.
These slippers beg for her naked feet.
These pockets of gauze contained her breasts.

But what I dare not touch, is the mirror
in which she gazed upon her hot bruises,
and where perhaps remains still
the reflection of her moist lips.

fridge worthy

No new poetry today. Nothing overheard at the manor. That old
devil moon put me in the cleaning of odd places, and rearranging
mood this week, so I don't have a clever blog preloaded and ready
to post. When this particular mood happens to strike, I have to take
full advantage, because I'm pretty laid back, when it comes to
housekeeping. I'm not a slob, but let's just say the manor is not
always sparkling clean. I like to do more interesting things like read,
experiment in the kitchen, write poetry, and of course, blog.

It's about this time of year, before the holiday season hits me like a
Mack truck, I start thinking about things, like the top of the manor
refrigerator. The fridge and I are exactly the same height, so I don't
ever see the top, or even think about it, for that matter, until
November rolls around.

Every year I mentally analyze the holiday guest list to check for tall
people. You know, tall enough to see the top of the fridge in their
stocking feet. My daughter went through a phase, in her college
years, of dating only giants over 6' 5". These big guys, because of
their height, qualified as "fridge worthy", and the top stayed
amazingly clean.

Well, I can't think of any super tall holiday guests this year, (except
my youngest son, and he doesn't count) but I climbed up on a chair,
anyway, and gave the top of the fridge a good going over with me
mops and me brushes, just because. You know what I'm talking
about; that icky combination of cooking grease and dust, that turns
into tiny wet mice, when you go over it with a damp cloth. Well,
the mice are disposed of, even if no one is "fridge worthy" this year.

Sorbie Castle

My DNA tingling, I couldn't let this week's Theme Thursday subject
"castle" pass, without mentioning Sorbie Castle, my ancestral home.

Although I've never visited, I feel a strong kinship with this place and

it's at the very top of my bucket list. Located one mile east of the

village of Sorbie in Wigtownshire, southwestern Scotland, Sorbie

Castle, or Tower, is a late 16th Century L-plan tower house which

was built for the Hannay family and is now held by the Clan Hanna

Society.

.

The castle was most likely built by Alexander A'Hanna of Sorbie, who

succeeded his father, Patrick, after the latter's murder in 1543. At

the time the castle was built, the A'Hannas were at the height of

power, as Lords of the Manor. Their land stretched across the

Machars of Galloway, to such an extent, that it was known as

Machars Hannay. It certainly appears that the Hannay and Sorbie

family histories are intertwined. The big question is whether the

Sorbies were a family in their own right, with their own distinct

history, or an offshoot of the Hannay or some other family, who took

the name Sorbie to denote their place of origin.

.

In its day, Sorbie Castle was a structure of considerable importance
and may have actually been preceded by an earlier wooden castle,
since there is a nearby mound, which MacGibbon and Ross mention
in their work, The Castellated and Domestic Architecture of
Scotland. In 1993, the Archaeological Department of Glasgow
University carried out a dig on the mound, finding shards of pottery,
identified as coming from Bordeau around 1250. They also found
pieces of coins of Henry III of France and traces of the base of a
flying bridge, like appear in the Bayeux tapestry.

For more photos of Sorbie Castle, click on a tour by Scott Hanna.
[HERE] Although, I've not met Scott personally, he is a fellow Hanna

descendant.

Looking east from Sorbie Village.

Map showing Sorbie Village, including Sorbie Tower, center

This just in...

FireLight just pointed out how much Sorbie Castle looks like the
ruins of Moy Castle, pictured below, used in the filming of one of
my favorite movies of all time, Powell and Pressburger's 1945
film, I Know Where I'm Going. She is so right. I've gotta watch it
tonight. Now, where'd I put those woolly socks?

Moy Castle

mod masterpiece

If you're in the mood for a dose of the mod-mod-mod 60's, then this
is the movie for you. Blow-Up, 1966, inspired by Julio Cortázar's short
story, Las Babas del Diablo, stars David Hemmings, (you remember
him as Mordred in the film version of Camelot), who brilliantly plays
a rich, sulky fashion photographer, who accidentally captures a
murder on film.

Speaking of Camelot, the gorgeous young Vanessa Redgrave sizzles
as the mystery woman in this movie. Set in a dreary post war
London, the all British cast, including Sarah Miles, is expertly
directed by Michelangelo Antonioni. The film also includes celebrity
cameo appearances by Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck playing together
as The Yardbirds, and Monty Pythoner Michael Palin in a crowd
scene.

This is not an action film, nor is it one with an intriguing or
intelligent plot. It is pure art house and a feast for the eyes. It's
wonderfully slow moving and avant-garde, so kick back in those
woolly socks, my bloggy friends and enjoy a groovy trip back to the
swingin' 60's.

ginkgo

One of my favorite trees, here at the manor, is our huge old ginkgo.
Ginkgo biloba, is a unique species of tree with no close living relatives.
I adore their lovely, Asian fan-shaped leaves. The old popular name
of "Maidenhair tree" is because the leaves resemble the leaves of the
Maidenhair fern, Adiantum capillus-veneris. I took the above photo
last week in the manor drive.


Our particular tree happens to be a female and produces a fleshy
light yellow-brown, soft, fruit-like seed pod. They're pretty and look
a bit like small apricots, but contain butanoic acid and smell like
rancid butter, which contains the same chemical, by the way. To be
more specific, they smell like feces, or as my kids always said, "dog
poop". Our Ms. Ginkgo didn't drop many pods this year. Could the
old girl be menopausal?

The older Chinese name for this tree is yínguǒ, or silver fruit. The
scientific name ginkgo appears to be due to folk etymology. Chinese
characters typically have multiple pronunciations in Japanese, and
the characters used for ginnan can also be pronounced ginkyō.
Engelbert Kaempfer, the first Westerner to see the species in 1690,
wrote down this pronunciation in his Amoenitates Exoticae, 1712;
his "y" was misread as "g", and the misspelling stuck.

German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe sent Marianne
von Willemer a ginkgo leaf and on September 15, 1815 read the
following poem he composed to her. Later that month, he saw
Marianne for the last time, and showed her the ginkgo tree in the
garden of Heidelberg Castle, from which tree he took the two leaves
which are pasted on the poem.


The letter containing this poem with the two ginkgo leaves can be
viewed in the Goethe Museum in Düsseldorf.

Translated into English, the poem begins as follows:
.

Ginkgo Biloba

This leaf from a tree in the East,
Has been given to my garden.
It reveals a certain secret,
Which pleases me and thoughtful people.

steles

stele: also ste·la (stē'lə) pl. steles also ste·lae (-lē) An upright stone marker or slab with an inscribed or sculptured surface, used as a monument or as a
commemorative tablet in the face of a building.


Every year, I like to take at least one lovely autumnal walk through a cemetery. I enjoy the history, as well as all the various forms of funerary art. There is something very compelling, full of human truths, that draws me to these places of solace and beauty.

Tombstones were relatively simple, like the one of my fifth great grandfather, below, who was a captain in the American Revolution, until Queen Victoria, who after the death of her beloved Albert, in1861, went on a veritable mourning frenzy and led the way in making memorialization fashionable. Cemeteries were not only a pleasant respite from the dirty and noisy cities; they also became large scale public art galleries.

The words carved on Captain Robert "Robin" Hanna's stone are these:

He was a brave defender of his country's rights

and lived and died an honest man.

On one of my last visits to my dear grandfather, who passed away two years ago, at the ripe old age of 93, he took me out to some old rural Indiana cemeteries to locate the stones of our ancestors. It was a beautiful October afternoon and I don't know who enjoyed the day more, he or I.

This month, on my walk through the Oak Grove Cemetery and Arboretum in Delaware, Ohio, this stone, "Pompey King, died Apr. 8, 1844, aged 100 years", caught my eye. I was curious what information I might find on Pompey, so on my return home, I promptly did a bit of research. I found him listed on the Official

Roster of the Sons of the American Revolution Buried in Ohio. He was married September 23, 1815 to Sally Stonemia in Licking County, Ohio. I wonder what he would think about me blogging about him, some 165 years after his death? I wish I knew the origin of his unique name. What was his secret to longevity?

(for ore info o Pompey King,see addendem at the end of this post)

The image on the stone below is full of symbolism. A winged Death, complete with sickle, much like the one pictured in my header, is accompanied by an angel of grief (sorrow), holding an olive branch (peace), and a broken column (early death).

Listed below are other intriguing symbols often depicted in tombstone art. Ivy or a lamp would be beautifully symbolic. I don't know about you, but I don't think I'd like a gourd or skeleton on my stone. Hmm. Maybe a lovely willow tree would be more appropriate?

Anchor - Steadfast hope
Angel of grief - Sorrow
Arch - Rejoined with partner in Heaven
Birds - The soul
Book - Faith, wisdom
Cherub - Divine wisdom or justice
Column - Noble life
Broken column - Early death
Conch shell - Wisdom
Cross, Anchor and Bible - Trials, victory and reward
Crown - Reward and glory
Dolphin - Salvation, bearer of souls to Heaven
Dove - Purity, love and Holy Spirit
Evergreen - Eternal life
Garland - Victory over death
Gourds - Deliverance from grief
Hands - A relation or partnership
Heart - Devotion
Horseshoe - Protection against evil
Hourglass - Time and its swift flight
Ivy - Faithfulness, memory, and undying friendship
Lamb - Innocence
Lamp - Immortality
Laurel - Victory, fame
Lily - Purity and resurrection
Lion - Strength, resurrection
Mermaid - Dualism of Christ
Oak - Strength
Olive branch - Forgiveness, and peace
Palms - Martyrdom, or victory over death
Peacock - Eternal life
Pillow - Deathbed, eternal sleep
Poppy - Eternal sleep
Rooster - Awakening, courage and vigilance
Shell - Birth and resurrection
Star of David - God
Skeleton - Life's brevity
Snake in a circle - Eternal life
Swallow - Motherhood
Broken sword - Life cut short
Crossed swords - Life lost in battle
Torch - Eternal life if upturned, death if extinguished
Tree trunk - Beauty of life
Triangle - Truth, equality and the trinity
Shattered urn - Old age, mourning if draped
Weeping willow - Mourning, grief

This just in...After Roy mentioned in his comment that he thought Pompey King might have been a slave, since they were often named classical names as such, I did a bit more research, and found that Pompey

King was indeed an African American, former slave and pioneer! Serving in the American Revolution was mostly likely his ticket to freedom. He was also listed a member of the First Presbyterian Church. First buried in the Old Burial Ground, his body was later moved to the Oak Grove Cemetery, in Delaware, Ohio. For more Ohio historical info from the Ohio Digital Resource Commons at Ohio Wesleyan University, visit [HERE].

Isn't it curious, that Pompey King and my Capt. Hanna were born the same year and both served our country in the revolution. I wonder if they possibly could have known each other?

Thanks, Roy. This aspect of the blogging community is one of the things I like best. ~x