Remember this book?

Last week, I happened to remember a book from my childhood, given to me by my great-grandfather who was as crazy about rocks as I am. His father, Palestine Hanna, was a great collector of stones, bones, and Native American artifacts. People would bring him bones and various relics from all over rural Indiana.

It was easy to find a picture online, because I remembered it it having a black cover. I posted it to my Facebook timeline, and was surprised how many had this exact little book.

I still save rocks. Not for color and shape, like I did when I was a girl, but for their geographical origins, places that hold special meanings. Today, my nondescript collection looks like a few plain stones ... completely meaningless to anyone else.

Song Without Words

Song Without Words, The Photograhs and Diaries of Countess Sophia Tolstoy, by Leah Bendavid-Val, is a fascinating book published by National Geographic, 2007. I loved it so much I got a copy for my little manor library, several years ago. This week, I pulled it off the shelf for a fresh browse. 

Sophia was the wife of the great Russian writer Leo Tolstoy. An extraordinary artist, in her own right, she was an innovative photographer in a day when photography was all quite new. Between 1885 and 1910, she made over a thousand photographs representing her world. Her diary is a detailed journal of her intimate reflections on life, art, politics, and her rocky marriage to a literary giant.

If you like history, art, photography or all things Russian, like I do, you will not be disappointed. The Countess takes you straight back to life in pre-revolutionary Russia, with her fascinating intimate journals and photos. 

Photo below: Sophia and Lev Tolstoy, with their son Mikhail, on the porch at Yasnaya Polyana, 1898.

bibliophilia

In a good bookroom you feel, 
in some mysterious way, 

that you are absorbing the wisdom 
contained in all the books through your skin, 

without even opening them. 

Mark Twain

photo:  Karen Wickliff Books, Columbus, Ohio, my favorite second-hand bookstore, with the creaky hardwood floors and lovely retro tile

and the pursuit of happiness

My daughter, Elspeth, recently gave me a signed copy of Maira Kalman's delightful book, And the Pursuit of Happiness.  She saw it in her favorite book shop, Three Lives & Company, Greenwich Village, and knew I would love it.

She was right, I immediately connected with Kalman's wonderful idiosyncratic style.  We obviously have the same sense of humor, and I laughed out loud at her delightful remarks, since they could have easily been my own.

Inspired by the 2008 elections, Kalman embarked on a yearlong investigation of democracy and how it works, from town hall meetings in Vermont to the inner chambers of the Supreme Court.  And the Pursuit of Happiness is a diary of her quirky drawings and observations in a lovely tribute to American history and democracy. Anyone who can make this statement, is one after my own heart:

The more I read, the more entranced I became.  

Over 15,000 books have been written about Lincoln.  

I won't claim to have read them all , or even any.  

But it became clear, as I tumbled into his world, that he had a magnetic appeal.  

I looked at images. I looked deep into his eyes and found that I was falling in love. 

In love with A. Lincoln.

Kalman has also written children's books (another of my passions) about Max Stravinsky, the poet-dog, as well as done covers for the New Yorker.  She is definitely on my A List.

my current muse

If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness.  For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.

Anais Nin  

As my Facebook friends have noticed, my current muse is the French-Cuban author, Anais Nin. As required reading, I read portions of her diaries in high school, but lost touch with her until recently, when I ordered three of her books from Amazon.

I'm currently devouring Under a Glass Bell, 1944, a collection of eight short stories which she literally published herself, hand-printed on a rickety foot-pedaled press. Her dreamy, lyrical, intelligent style has completely entranced me.

Known for her published journals, which she began writing at age 11 and spanned more than 60 years, Nin is now most recognized for her sophisticated, highly elegant erotic literature and short stories, which were published posthumously, after her death in 1977.

She was brought to New York in 1914 by her mother, a classically trained singer, after the abandonment of her composer father, and was educated there, but later returned to Europe, where she married Hugo Guiler, an international banker, in 1923.

Nin launched her professional career with the publication of D. H. Lawrence:  An Unprofessional Study, 1932. The book led to a lifelong relationship with the American author Henry Miller, with whom she exchanged hundreds of letters. A Literary Passion: Letters of Anais Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953, includes much of their correspondence, an interesting documentary on their struggle as recognition as writers, as well as their romantic relationship.

She returned to New York, just before the outbreak of WWII.  From being a cult figure in the early feminist movement, she later rose to international prominence with her writing. In 1973, she received an honorary doctorate from the Philadelphia College of Art, and she was elected to the National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1974.

The function of art is to renew our perception.  

What we are familiar with, we cease to see.  

The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it. 

Anais Nin

book worm

He spots gold leaf

on faded linen

a forgotten sparkle

bound in dust

confidently pulls

it to him, gently

soothes the dark

of must and soot

allows the pungent

pages, the mellow

vellum to fall open

in his hands

then one by one

devours each word

memorizes every

pilfered phrase



Tess Kincaid
May 2011

Last week my computer crashed, literally.  I knocked the desktop box with the vacuum sweeper and it crashed on the ceramic tile floor.  So, to make a long story short, after the annoying process of starting from scratch with a new PC, I had to get a new compatible headset/microphone.  My in-house computer tech is now home from college for the summer.  He and I tried for an hour to record without static in the background, to no avail.  We decided it must be all the kinetic ghostly energy around my desk.  After all, May and June are the haunted hot spots at the manor.

For more on the ghosts of Willow Manor, click on the "ghosts" label at the end of this post.

très bizarre

That's the effect of living backwards, the Queen said kindly: it always makes one 

a little giddy at first--Living backwards! 

Alice repeated in great astonishment. I never heard of such a thing!

--but there's one great advantage in it, that one's memory works both ways.

I'm sure MINE only works one way, Alice remarked. 

I can't remember things before they happen.

It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards, the Queen remarked.

Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

illustration from Ces Gens Qui Passent by Andre Gerard

I don't understand synchronicities, but they happen to me quite often, usually visiting in groups of threes.  Do these meaningful coincidences randomly land in our laps, or are we tuned into a certain subject and therefore take note?  I'm not sure, but I think it's fascinating. They certainly grab my attention. Does it mean my memory works both ways? I like to think so.

One morning last week, for instance, it all started at my local Goodwill store, when I spotted a quirky little French conversational textbook, Ces Gens Qui Passent (The People That Pass), 1951, by Alice and Paul Langellier. I loved that it was full of delightful pen and ink illustrations by Andre Gerard. It was only $1.50, so I scooped it up and popped it in my bag.

Later that same afternoon, my daughter texted to say she had arrived safely in Paris for a visit with friends. For dinner, that evening, totally unplanned, mind you, I made a spur-of-the-moment delicious rustic French chicken recipe from my new I Know How to Cook book, by Ginette Mathiot. (Stay tuned for the recipe later this week.)

Afterwards, we turned on Turner Classic Movies and The Lavender Hill Mob, also made in 1951, by the way, was playing. It's a charming little film by Ealing Studios, about a timid bank transfer agent (Alec Guinness) who plans a gold heist and arranges for it to be melted down into Eiffel Tower souvenirs.  There's a fabulously silly film sequence of Guinness and Stanley Holloway, his cohort in crime, dizzily running down the steps of the Eiffel Tower, still spinning when they reach the bottom.

Last, but not least, shuffling through the mail, I spotted a red Netflix envelope.  Inside was a film I added months ago, Shoot the Piano Player (Tirez Sur le Pianiste), 1960, a casual, but magical French film, with lots of excellent acting and a great musical score. Ahead of it's time, I think. I'm adding it to my favorites list.

All in all, I had a very lovely, however très bizarre, French day.

i was not so naughty

As is turns out, Santa knew I was a good little girl this year, and surprised me with an extra generous visit. He has the most exquisite taste and always knows exactly what I love. I highly recommend his selections this year, and thought it might be nice to pass them along to you.

First of all, he gave me two powerful books of poetry by female writers.  I'll be snuggled up by the fire savoring delicious words.  The first is Here, 2010, 27 poems about life on earth, by Wislawa Szymborska, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1996.  The second is World Enough, 2010, poems about how we come to know ourselves, by Maureen N. McLane, who received the 2002 National Book Critics Circle Nona Balakian Citation for Excellence in Reviewing.


Santa Baby also knows I've started posting audio recordings along with my printed piece, so I was especially thrilled to get The BBC's three disc set, The Spoken Word, American Poets. It's an incredible 209 minutes of 30 prominent poets reading their own works. There's something very special about hearing the poets' interpretations in their own voices. The only poet noticeably missing was my dear friend, Ms. Edna St. Vincent Millay.  How could they possibly have forgotten her?

Last, but not least, Santa left the whopping 5.2 pound, 975 page I Know How to Cook, by Ginette Mathiot, which has sold over six million copies since it was first published in 1932. It's a beautiful, updated version with lots of charming illustrations and gorgeous photos. Stay tuned in 2011 for some luscious French cuisine. I'll be cooking up a whirlwind and passing the recipes on to you.  Yum. Oh. Yum. Batten down the hatches!

Thank you for all your warm and wonderful holiday wishes. I'm taking it easy this week, enjoying lots of family around the fireplace, eggnog and woolly socks, but will be slowly making it around to your spot in the bloggyhood soon. Hope you're enjoying your week, my friends.

who was Opal Whiteley?

Now comes the days of brown leaves.

They fall from the trees.

They flutter on the ground.

When the leaves flutter,

they are saying little things.

I hear them tell of their borning days

when they did come into the world as leaves.

Today they told me how they were a part

of the earth and air before their tree borning days.

And now, they are going back.

In gray days of winter they go back to the earth.

But they do not die.

Opal Whiteley

Opal Whiteley, age 17

My dear friend, Annell, of Somethings I Think About, happened to come across the book The Singing Creek Where the Willows Grow, by Benjamin Hoff, in her local second-hand bookstore and immediately thought of me. It arrived at the manor last week, and although I have not yet finished reading it, I am totally intrigued. It is a biography of Opal Whiteley (1897-1992), an American nature writer and diarist whose childhood journal, published in 1920 as The Story of Opal, in serialized form in the Atlantic Monthly, and later as a book with the title The Story of Opal: The Journal of an Understanding Heart.

Biographers have confirmed that as early as age five, Whiteley, a brilliant child prodigy was already keeping a journal, as an amateur naturalist. Family members claim that Opal Irene Whiteley was born in Colton, Washington, the first of five children, in an impoverished family who moved frequently among logging camps. Whiteley, however, claimed to be the daughter of Henri, Prince of Orléans, who died unmarried in 1901, was taken to Oregon in 1902, and brought to a lumber camp where she was adopted by Ed and Lizzie Whiteley. While Opal Whiteley used several names during her lifetime, the one she preferred, and was later buried under, was Françoise Marie de Bourbon-Orléans.

Though considered odd by everyone, no one knew she was schizophrenic. Through her heightened senses and a genius for expressing herself, she crafted the most fascinating diary ever written. Opal hid her diary in a hollow log in the woods near her home. But when she was 14, her younger sister found it and tore it to pieces. Heartbroken, Opal kept the pieces at a neighbor's house in a hat box.

At 23, Opal met Ellery Sedgwick, publisher of the Atlantic Monthly who asked if she had kept a diary as a child. She said that she had, and he asked to see it at once. For months, Opal worked to piece her diary back together, and in 1920, The Story of Opal was published. Hailed as a work of genius, it became a national best-seller. But because of its brilliance, people soon began to question if one so young could have written it.

Ten months after its publication, the diary was out of print and Opal was disgraced. People returned their copies and demanded repayment. Accused of literary fraud, Opal left for England. In 1948, she was found rummaging through the rubble of bombed-out buildings during World War II. She was taken to a public mental hospital where she remained until her death on February 16, 1992. She was buried at Highgate Cemetery, where her gravestone bears the inscription "I spake as a child".

Whiteley's true origins and the veracity of her diary are still questioned today. Several plays have been written about her mysterious life, as well as Robert Lindsey Nassif's award winning musical Opal, 1993. Thank you, Annell, for introducing me to this fascinating woman. I've been thoroughly enjoying all things "Opal".

how i celebrated the end of summer

At the suggestion of my friend John Hayes, of Robert Frost's Banjo fame, I added several of pioneer French filmmaker Agnes Varda's films to my Netflix queue. I watched the first, La Pointe Courte, 1954, this weekend and was completely mesmerized. As part of The Criterion Collection, it has been lusciously remastered. The film is a graceful, yet intense, look at a troubled marital relationship, set in a Mediterranean fishing village.

Gorgeously filmed, it plays almost like a documentary, showing a very real slice of culture, and left me feeling as if I had just browsed a wonderful photographic exhibit. In my favorite breathtaking scene, the couple crawl into the shadowy hull of an abandoned boat and share an intimate conversation. In the opening sequence, the camera took me down a lazy walkway in the small village, peering in open windows at families gathered at dinner tables, with hanging laundry scattered among stray cats.

It immediately brought to mind a book I read to my children, in the early 90s, by the wonderful illustrator, Louise Brierley, called The Fisherwoman. The story is about Maud, the fisherwoman, who has worked hard to earn her living from the sea. One evening, when she hauls in her net, she finds an old pink vase among the flapping silver mackerel. The vase, she discovers, has magical properties, but in the end all is not as she hopes. Brierley's character, Maud, with round face and lush full features, looks amazingly like Varda's female character, Elle. And as synchonicity would have it, both Varda's film and Brierly's story are loosely based on feminist themes, exuding beauty, life and power.

Since I couldn't spend the holiday weekend in the Mediterranean, this movie, and the book, which I had to dig out and re-read, certainly hit the spot, celebrating the last days of summer. I'm also looking forward to watching the next few Varda films in the coming weeks, so stay tuned.

Mrs. Burleigh and me

Said the Almond to the Raisin,

Don't you think we ought to marry?

I am sure 'twould be as well,

though you have lost your juices,

and I have lost my shell.

from Dining Room and Kitchen, 1894

I am not a lucky person. In fact, most who know me personally, would agree that Murphy's law was written specifically with me in mind. Whenever something goes well for me, it's usually because I have worked hard for it. But, last week, the stars must have been lined up for me, because I won fun stuff in not one, but two blog giveaways. Subby, over at his blog, B. C. E., offered a prize to whoever guessed the gizmo attached to his car's gear shift. I supposed it was something to do with a submarine, from his Navy days, and happened to be right. He knows how much I adore vintage books, so he was sweet enough to send me Dining Room and Kitchen, Practical Housekeeping for the American Housewife, by Grace Townsend, Monarch Book Company, 1894. The fun thing about this big fat vintage book, was all great steel point illustrations and a bonus section of handwritten personal recipes from the previous owner of the book, Sarah E. Burleigh.

One of her recipes was something called "Plain Pudding" which I thought would be fun to try. It was, indeed, very plain, but dense and moist, and tasted something like gingerbread, without the ginger or sugar. I served it with a drizzle of pure maple syrup, and as I ate it, imagined the Burleigh family eating this very thing a hundred years ago, maybe with fresh peaches and cream on a sultry August evening. I often wonder if anyone will think of me, a hundred years from now, about my thoughts, words, recipes, my face.

Anyway, here's the odd little recipe. It was fun trying it, although I must admit, it is not something I will make again, but I am pondering you today, dear Sarah Burleigh, God rest your soul. Your memory lingers on.



1 cup sour cream
1/2 cup molasses
1/2 cup melted butter
2 cups flour
1/2 tsp soda
1 tsp salt
a little milk

Beat until light
and bake in a buttered mold 1/2 hour.

Muskoka Maharani

Back in March, my Aussie journalist friend, David McMahon asked me if I would be kind enough to read his latest novel, Muskoka Maharani, Penguin Books, 2010, and post about it on my blog. Of course, I told him it would be a delight. Well, it took forever and a day for it to arrive from India, then it took just as long for me to get around to actually reading it.

First, I had to find the meaning of the unusual title. Muskoka is a municipality two hours north of Toronto, and Maharani is a princess in India. This all makes complete sense after finishing the book, which is set basically in and around a fictitious little Anglo-Indian railway colony in pre-Indepence east India. The term Anglo-Indian, during the colonial era, was used to refer to those people who were of strictly British descent, but were born and raised in India, usually because their parents were serving in the colonial administration or armed forces.

The story begins in the present with Harry Barnsley, an Australian newspaper reporter, who, I can't help but believe, is McMahon's own alter ego. If Barnsley doesn't come up with a hot story, his job at the paper is over. His Anglo-Indian advertising director gives him a lead in far off Muskoka, Canada, where her Aunt Serena has long kept a secret about assisting in the capture of a certain German spy in World War II. He travels to Muskoka to track down Serena and land his much needed story.

The thing I like best about this book, is that it's peppered with charming details of Anglo-Indian life in the 1930s. McMahon, who was raised in India himself, masterfully conveys these unique first hand bits of culture and domesticity. In fact, I found myself wishing he had included more of them. There is one lovely scene in particular, in which the servant woman would use the ash, leftover from the previous day's fire, to make a paste to wash the dishes. "...Jeera would rinse everything in the sink. Then, taking some of the ash in her right hand, she would rub it carefully across the wet surface of the first piece of cutlery and crockery...every square inch of the object she was washing....before giving the item one final rinse under the water to leave the surface looking as good as new."

Towards the end of the book, the story shifts to 1940 England, were Serena is a nurse, enlisted into Churchill's Special Operations Executive. I especially enjoyed these chapters, which take on a bit of a Charlotte Gray feel, and actually wish more detail had been devoted to these intriguing war time events surrounding Dunkirk.

Sixty years later, the revelation of Serena's secret, (a spoiler, so I can't tell) takes Harry Barnsley to Vatican City. Even though I feel the surprise ending is just a tad outlandish, Muskoka Maharani is a well written, interesting read, set in a place and time in India, which I previously knew very little about.

poor poets, and others

The nickel dinner would, in periods of poverty, be gratifying indeed. Then, during those too chance bonanza moments, the same dinner could be a manifold blessing--not the least of which would be a coin or two toward the next private depression, whether it be prefaced by purchase of a painting too dear (yep), three bars of imported soap (uh-huh), a box of strawberries out of season, or an unexpected tonsillectomy (...or root canal).

Poets are often out of funds. Many times they try to keep body and soul together by eating candy bars, apples, doughnuts, and an occasional hamburger, usually standing up. This is a mistake. Meals should be eaten sitting down. --Ann Rogers

On my weekly visit to my local Goodwill store, I always browse their sizable book section first. This week I came home with a first edition of A Cookbook for Poor Poets (and others), by Ann Rogers, Scribner's, 1966. I'm not one to usually buy a cookbook, but it's a small book, and at first glance, doesn't look like a cookbook at all. Since the title included both poets and cooking, I had to take a peek. The pages are delightfully mellow (you know I adore that patina) and it's scattered with charmingly quirky illustrations by Anna Kopczynski. It's comprised of simple, low budget recipes from the 1960s, just like Holly Golightly might prepare in her spare New York apartment.

Rogers, a girl after my own heart, stresses the importance of elegant meals, however humble. Her cooking elements include stocking a good spice shelf, investing in a solid frying pan and last, but not least, a good French knife. Her first rule is always have fresh bread; second, always use butter; and third, always serve wine. Each chapter is accompanied by a delightfully written introduction.

I mixed up some of her "Cucumbers, Hans Christian Andersen" (isn't that cute?) this morning to serve for lunch. I sneaked a little taste and they are divine. I know this isn't a unique recipe, but it's one that I don't usually make. It's a perfect summer side dish.

2 long cucumbers
2 tsp salt
2 Tbsp dill weed
1/4 cup water, 1/4 cup vinegar, 1/4 cup sugar

Do not peel or seed the cucumbers, slice paper thin (I used my handy dandy mandolin) sprinkle with salt and chill overnight. When ready to serve, drain cucumbers and mix with the remaining ingredients. Additional chilling blends the flavors nicely. This dish can serve as a salad, relish, sandwich filling or garnish.

golden graphics

Remember a few weekends ago, when I saw The Last Station at the charming little Drexel Theater in Bexley? They happened to have a box of free posters in the lobby. Well, I'm a sucker for free anything, so I picked one of The Wolfman, 2010. I haven't seen the movie, but Anthony Hopkins has that kind of effect on me. He makes me weak in the knees. I just might pin it to my bedroom wall. Modern film posters are great, but they certainly don't hold a candle to the fantastic graphics of the vintage variety.

Last night, TCM advertised the new book, Starstruck, Vintage Movie Posters from Classic Hollywood. It's the collection of Ira N. Resnick, which includes some 2,000 posters and 1,500 film stills from the golden age of Hollywood. Resnick is both a dealer and a collector, who owns the Motion Picture Arts Gallery in New Jersey, and is a leading authority in the world of film memorabilia.

Several images of Resnick's collection were online. I especially like this wonderful art deco-ish image of the fabulous silent film star, Louise Brooks. What a treasure. I happen to love vintage ephemera of all kinds, but don't have anything Hollywood in my personal collection.

This cool image of Blind Husbands, 1919, also caught my eye. I'm adding this movie to my queue. It's written and directed by Erich von Stroheim, who also stars in the film. Most of us remember him, towards the end of his impressive career, as the creepy enigmatic Max in Sunset Blvd., 1950.

Another form of collectible movie ephemera is the lobby card, like this one for Giant, 1956, which is a small version of the poster. They were 11" x 14", and sometimes 8" x 10" before 1930.

queen of oscars

At the manor, we like to call out the name of a favorite actor,
director, or designer we might happen to see in the opening credits
of a film. The name I end up calling out most often, is Edith Head!
Did you know this powerhouse American costume designer's long
career in Hollywood garnered her more Academy Awards than any
other woman in history? She was nominated a whopping 35 times
and actually won a total of eight Oscars.

I adore that stunning off white cashmere coat she designed for Kim
Novak in Vertigo. And what about that classy wardrobe of Patricia
Neal's in Breakfast at Tiffany's? All those gorgeous dresses for Grace
Kelly in the Hitchcock films were also designed by Head.

She is one of those people I would love to have for dinner. Fascinating
conversation would take place, and there would be a paper table cloth
and lots of pencils near her place setting for sketching, during that
after dinner coffee. It would be fun to hear all the inside scoop on all
the iconic stars of old Hollywood. I would like it almost as much as
stopping in for a chat with Pop Leibel in the Argosy Book Shop.

Here's a list of Ms. Head's fashion commandments, listed in her book
The Dress Doctor, Prescriptions for Style, from A to Z. Amazingly
enough, her rules for dressing are still applicable today, only she
doesn't mention anything about woolly socks.

Don't let your clothes be fitted too tightly.
Even a perfect figure looks better if it doesn't
resemble a sausage. Only bathing suits
should be tight.

Don't wear a date dress when you're arriving
for a day's work at the office. The dressy
dress, the low-necked lacy blouse, the glitter
sweater, all of the glitter category belong to
after dark.

Don't be too different. You don't want to dress
like the heard, but you don't want to look like a
peacock in a yard full of ducks. Being too
much an individualist is not being well dressed.

Don't feel that when you're going to a party
you must look "dressed up" a simple dress is
safer if there’s a question of what to wear, and
you will be much more comfortable simply
dressed than over dressed.

Don't be afraid to wear a becoming costume many, many times. It's
an old fashioned idea that you have to have a new dress for every
occasion or party. Even if you have the money to do so, it isn't
necessary. The modern approach is to change accessories.
.

Life is competitive;
clothes gird us for the competition.

.

Edith Head

.

.

pen pals and flyleaves

Did anyone else enjoy the evening of pen pal flicks on Turner Classic Movies last night? The opening film was one of my all time faves, 84, Charing Cross Road, the adaptation from the book by Helene Hanff, a collection of witty and touching letters between a charmingly sarcastic New Yorker and a straight laced, London book shop proprietor, from the 1940's to the 1960's. What starts as Hanff'squest for obscure classic books, develops into an intimate relationship, in the form of correspondence, between Hanff and the book shop's staff. The film combines two subjects I adore, books and letters.

The current blogging phenomenon has enriched the practice of pen pals on so many levels. When we used to have to wait weeks for a response, we instantly share thoughts and ideas with hundreds of international friends. My life has certainly been brightened and enriched by this amazing new form of multi-faceted pen palling.

This TCM presentation was a special treat, since my own DVD copy happens to be a dreaded "pan-and-scanned" version, which I absolutely abhor. (Please don't get me started on this subject.) Anyway, the lovely widescreen presentation was crisp, colorful and as the director intended.

The proprietorship of my dreams is that of Marks & Co., which is no longer there, by the way, but is sadly replaced by a wine bar, and a plaque marking the former shop. I can see myself contentedly overseeing row upon row of books, tucked in this cozy nook of a shop, filled with the scent of must, dust, age, and floors of wood.

There is a touching scene in which Hanff (played by the delightful Anne Bancroft) receives a book of poetry in the mail from Frank Doel (perfectly performed by Anthony Hopkins), in which Doel has tenderly inscribed a message on the flyleaf.

Contrary to what I may have implied, by my disappointment in the second hand copy of Charles Simic's Early Poems, being completely hacked up by words being crossed out and notes written, not only in the margins, but over the text, I actually do love to find endearing inscriptions in the flyleaves of books. They are small personal treasures left behind for us to enjoy. I must remember to inscribe each gift book I give this Christmas.

Here is one particularly romantic treat, I found inscribed in the front of a leather bound first edition of Renascence and Other Poems, 1917, by Edna St. Vincent Millay, last summer in my favorite second hand bookshop, you know, the one with the creaky hardwood floors.

Life seeming only half-lived,

Futile, forlorn, forsaken,

Die swiftly into the moonlight,

Be born again in this pages,

Languid and lovely forever,

The idol of a dreaming youth,

His Lady of Satin and Silver.

Ray

June 1932

the perfect afternoon

So, what did I do on my birthday? I went to one of my most favorite places in town, Karen Wickliff Books. I was in complete book heaven for the duration of the afternoon. Karen is a delightful lady who knows just about everything there is to know about books.

This charming used and rare book store has one of those carts on wheels parked at the entrance, drawing you in for a delicious browse. I always plan on a minimum of at least two hours, since popping in and out is absolutely impossible. The front door has a cheery little bell that jingles on my arrival.

One step on those creaky hardwood floors, and my heart beats just a tiny bit faster. The air is filled with the enchanting scent of old paper, wood and dust. There is shelf upon shelf of treasures just waiting to be discovered. In fact, this place has so many books, they are overflowing in huge stacks on the floor.

You guessed right. My first stop is in the poetry section. After an hour, or maybe two, I narrowed my stack to just three picks:

Rita Dove's Selected Poems

Seamus Heaney's Selected Poems 1966-1987

Pablo Neruda's The Captain's Verses

You know, I think I could easily spend a day or two in here. I could just sneak in my sleeping bag, and make myself comfy inside this giant mound of books. I'd need a flashlight, too, for reading after the shop closed up for the evening. Do you think anyone would notice?

Irish Madness

Wildeve, was kind enough to send me this great book by Patrick Tracey. There were some unusual synchronicities, which she took as a sign, to pick up a signed (no pun intended) copy, from one of Tracey's book signings, for me. I love when things like that happen. After I read it, I knew exactly why she was prompted to send it.



Winner of the 2009 PEN New England Award, Tracey's book follows his journey to Ireland in search of answers to his family's struggle with mental illness. Two of Tracey's sisters developed schizophrenia, and his mother was troubled until her death, with the burden of realizing she passed the illness genetically on to her family.

In a London pub, Tracey randomly meets a doctor, who tells him of a genetic clue to the cause of schizophrenia in Ireland. The link was found in blood samples taken in County Roscommon, home to Tracey's ancestors. This information inspires a quest to unearth the roots of his family's multigenerational struggle with schizophrenia.

Tracey takes off on an excursion across Ireland, in a renovated camper, searching faerie mounds, haunted caves and healing springs. He pours over historical records and visits distant cousins looking for clues and separating fact from the legends of Irish madness.

I connected with Tracey on so many levels. My family traces back to Ireland and also has the genetic link to schizophrenia, which has troubled members of my extended family for several generations. I was right there with him, curious and driven through the entire account of his quest. I started reading and couldn't put it down.

This book is both poignant and powerful. Although it didn't give me all the answers, it did give me some much needed peace. Thank you, Mr. Tracey. And thank you, Wildeve. It was a sign.

For more info on Patrick Tracey and his book, click [HERE].

Blog Bubbles

I recently won a cool book (The Huffington Post Complete Guide to

Blogging) over at All I Ever Wanted. (Thanks, Linda Sue!) If you

don't know her, pop on over and say hello. She is a talented artist

who creates all kinds of wonderful stuff in the medium of felt.

This is a great little book. In fact, I wish I had read it when I first
started my blog last year. It contains tons of valuable tips and info

that I had to learn by trial and error, my first year in the blog world.

One of the points, made by the amazing Nora Ephron, is that daily
blogs are very much like soap bubbles. They only last a moment or
two. This is a hard concept to grasp for those bloggers who are

writers, used to publishing essays. Blogs aren't meant to be polished.
They're informal and temporal. It's a high speed medium that

vanishes just as quickly as it appears.

So, bloggy friends, relax and enjoy the ride through the blogosphere.
Write like you talk, make your points clear, and fly by the seat of

your pants on some high flyin' blog bubbles!

bubble photo from Google Images

Beyond Codependency

Each moment in time we have it all,

even when we think we don't.

Melody Beattie

Codependence is described as a disease that originates in dysfunctional families where children learn to overcompensate for their parent's disorders, in order to cope, and develop an excessive sensitivity to other's needs. The term "dysfunctional family" originally referred only to families with patterns of interaction associated with alcoholism. It is now, however, recognized as a disease occurring in family systems based on "denial" or "shame based rules."

Living in this environment is much like walking through a psychological minefield. This includes a wide spectrum of pathological emotional interactions in families, but there is always an avoidance of confrontation and inability to resolve conflict. Adult children of dysfunctional families often suffer from a sense of confusion and deprivation, that has continued into their adult life, as well as low self esteem. So, in order to compensate, they are highly approval driven individuals, which often puts them in the position of being taken advantage of, exacerbating the situation.

I highly recommend Melody Beattie's book, Beyond Codependency: And Getting Better All the Time, which several years ago, literally changed my life. Certain people in your life may be experts in demonstrating toxic and abusive behavior. They behave in certain ways to provoke or seduce their victims into reacting in certain ways.

Melody Beattie suggests that if we stop giving them the reaction they want, we take all the joy out of it for them. And here's a point that's very important to realize; when you refrain from being controlled by their seduction, regardless of how irrational and rude their behavior is, you then remove yourself from their control and take away their power over you.

It's an on going process, but I've come such a long way. Thank you, Melody for giving me the confidence to rise above hurt and control and embrace a stronger, happy and liberated life. You're a good friend to have.