Ah! Friendship

One of my friends is turning 90.  You'd never know it to look at her.  She doesn't look a day over 70.

This is Evie, a talented, fiesty, energetic, delight.  Evie is an artist.  She's won many prizes for her paintings.  She's worked in watercolor, pastel and oil.  I love artists, don't you?  Many of my "dead friends" are artists --Claude Monet, Tasha Tudor, and Beatrix Potter to name just a few, but living breathing artists are special fun to know  because the living ones will have you to lunch or tea. That's exactly what Evie did the other day.

What fun to be invited into someone's home!  It doesn't happen nearly often enough these days because people just aren't entertaining as much as they used to.  A pity if you ask me.  Sharing one's home doubles the joy of having a home.  Of course that means some cleaning is often in order, but cleaning should  be done now and then anyway or the dust bunnies and spider webs will overtake the place.

I know it's a little work to set a pretty table, but what a treat for guests to step into someone's dining room and come upon this sort of vision --- a table set with  antique linen, elegant china, candles, a bit of nature, and crystal,  all waiting to serve and enchant us.



Evie took us into her studio and showed us many of her paintings.  There were beautiful hydrangeas, many more flowers all looking so very realistic.  There were  portrait paintings and  scenes from some of her favorite places.  Just to be present in her  artist's studio made my own artistic tendencies  bubble  inside of me.  I'm sure sharing doubled her joy too.   Sharing is like that.



We all are artists even though many of us don't realize it.  We all have creative talent.  What have you created lately?  It does take a bit of courage to exercise our creativity, to  be a true artist... for when we do something truly original we take the chance that people will think we're foolish.  But that shouldn't stop us.  Even some of our greatest composers and painters weren't appreciated till years after their deaths.  Besides, a true artist (and that's what we all should be)  is creating for himself, not for other people.  We should  simply allow our spirit to express itself.

Having the right sort of friends, friends who are truly alive,  following their heart,  doing the things they love to do, cultivating passions -- these are the kind of friends we all should have.  I'm happy to say I meet 9 year olds, 90 year olds  and everything in between, before and after --- all wonderful companions who help make my time on earth delightful, and one of those 90 year olds is Evie.

[caption id="attachment_352" align="aligncenter" width="300"] CarolAnn and Evie[/caption]

Not singing, just writing in the rain

[caption id="attachment_320" align="aligncenter" width="300"] Hattie's Coffee Shop[/caption]

It's a rainy day in Hudson, but for January I'm not complaining.  Usually at this time of year we have a few feet of snow.  Crazy weather these days!  I decided to take my work out on a date.  I love to work at coffee shops and I'm happy to say Hudson has quite a  few.  Hattie's is located right in the center of town on Main Street.  You can see our lovely  clocktower out the window.  It's a Hudson landmark.  The clocktower sits at the edge of the village green.  Another time I'll take you for a walk around the green, but on a dry day.  In good weather I like to get a coffee and plop myself on a park bench there watching the world go by.  We have a farmer's market  here in Summer and Autumn and   there are also weekly concerts on the green in Summer as well as an old fashioned ice cream social every June.  I love small town life, especially if the town is old and charming,  and Hudson is that!  Living here helps me imagine I'm still back in Boston for Hudson has that New England charm or maybe I should say New England has our Hudson charm.

I told you how my life is filled with coincidences.  Well, one of the places I lived in Boston was an area called Cleveland Circle (and in case you didn't know, Hudson is near the city of Cleveland, Ohio)  and the next town over from Hudson, a town I go through frequently, is called Boston Heights.  That's not all.  I lived in another Boston town called Waltham and do you know some of Hudson's clocktower parts were made in Waltham.  There's more!  The little town of Waterloo, New York where my husband was raised had a clock factory, and you guessed it --- more of the clocktower  was made there. Did you ever feel you were exactly where you were supposed to be?  Well, with all these coincidences I'm pretty sure I'm where I'm supposed to be.

But let me tell you about the work I'm doing here at Hattie's.  I've written a book on the beautiful art of letter writing and I'm putting a few finishing touches on it.   This book is a series of handwritten letters to the reader in which I share my experiences  and  enthusiasm for  this lovely art form.  Today people seem to think the art of letter writing is DEAD!  Can you imagine anything so ridiculous?

 In the past 20 years I've written more than 8000 letters and I continue to write at least one more letter every day.  Obviously I'm not writing to myself.  All the  letters I write are in answer to other letters sent to me  by enthusiastic pen friends who share my passion for writing .  So you see the art of  letter writing is not dead.   Modern people do exist who realize old and new forms of communication can and should co-exist. I hope you're one of them.  Unfortunately  many people need to be awakened to the pleasure letter writing offers, the pleasure they're missing, and that's the purpose of my book.

It is because I love to share joy that I've taken it upon myself to be an advocate for the beautiful art of letter writing.  Hopefully my book will help with this mission.  One of these days  you might be able to buy my book right here on my website, that's if I stop writing here and get back to work putting a few finishing touches on the manuscript.  So back to work for me.  Catch you next time and maybe at that time I'll show you some of the art for my book of letters.

Country Inn Days

[caption id="attachment_295" align="aligncenter" width="300"] The Red Lion Inn[/caption]

Those of you who know me well know all about my Country Inn Days, days in which I give myself permission to step outside of  regular routines  escaping  into  a world of imagination and delight.  My Country Inn Days were inspired by a very real country inn, an inn I first discovered  more than 27 years ago.  This charming old establishment, The Red Lion Inn, touched my heart the first time I saw it and it continues to stir up romantic feelings in me whenever I so much as think of it.

I still can clearly remember the circumstances of my first visit to The Red Lion Inn.  I was driving my little Fiat to Boston.  I took back roads all the way across Ohio, into Pennsylvania, through New York state and finally into Massachusetts, and there in the Berkshires I stumbled upon the  inn quite by accident---just in time for lunch.  It was a Sunday, and I was all dressed up in a beige linen pants suit wearing a white blouse with an embroidered butterfly on its collar.  Funny I remember that because I can't even remember what I was wearing yesterday.  It's just that I felt great that day!  The weather was  beautiful, I was young and free,  exploring on my own, when this gracious, old, wonderful inn pops up out of the blue almost like magic.

[caption id="attachment_285" align="aligncenter" width="225"] The wicker-filled porch[/caption]

I parked the car, walked up the steps to its charming large front  porch filled with white antique wicker furniture covered with pastel floral fabric.   So pretty!  It was like stepping back into time.  Flower boxes bursting with red and pink impatience added a beautiful touch as only flowers can do, and I knew this was just the place for me.

[caption id="attachment_294" align="aligncenter" width="300"] The dining room[/caption][caption id="attachment_297" align="aligncenter" width="300"] My table[/caption]

Stepping inside I was delighted to see and hear a grand piano. A lady was  playing light classics, just the perfect music to accompany a delicious lunch in the inn's formal dining room.  Ah!  This was shaping up to be my kind of day. (which reminds me of a song my sister and I wrote called "My Kind of Day".  I'll share the lyrics with you another time).

[caption id="attachment_298" align="aligncenter" width="225"] Writing room window to the world[/caption]

The windows of the dining room were covered with old fashioned curtains that had giant ball fringe attached.  I bought a  few pairs of those curtains and I'm happy to say they are now hanging in my writing room.

That first visit to the Red Lion Inn made a mark on my heart.  I loved everything about the place and I was determined to return again and again and that is exactly what I have done over the years, but not often enough for me.  How I wish I lived closer to Stockbridge so I could pop over once a week, but this could never be, for the inn was, is, and always will be too far from Ohio for frequent visits. So what to do?  I need my inn days!

Necessity is the mother of invention.

THE SOLUTION:  With clear memories of all the charming things I loved about my days at the old Red Lion Inn, (plus a few hundred other musings), I created Country Inn Days, days to enjoy a country inn experience right at home whenever I need a  romantic escape from reality.  Living in a 160 year old house, set in a historic town  founded back in 1799 does make it easier to pull off a Country Inn Day experience, but you could probably manage Country Inn Days no matter where you live IF you have enough playfulness, imagination and romantic spirit.

One of these days I'll write up my notes to help you create your own Inn days.  They will take the form of my third book, (a book on the art of letter writing is my first book and it's completed, a book on sharing tea  is my second, and I'm working on it,  but then I'll write The Country Inn Day book),  and  till that book is out  I'll post a few Country Inn Day tidbits now and then... stay tuned.

But now I must leave you.  I have an appointment at The Inn Spa.  A fragrant bubble bath scented with Bronnley's 'Pink Bouquet' is calling me.

Come on to my house

There's something about an old house.  My house, the Jeremiah Brown house, was built in 1853.  Jeremiah, the builder and first owner, was half-brother to the famous, or infamous, abolitionist John Brown.  The Browns grew up here in Hudson.  Guns used by John at Harper's Ferry were stored in the original barn.  Ah history!

The house sits on a couple of acres.   Its lawn is marked with majestic old trees.  I think Treelawn might be a very nice name for the property.

There's a barn here, but these days no chickens or cows occupy it.  Now the barn serves as a 3-car garage.  There's also an outbuilding.  The outbuilding is a sort of detached family room, rather impractical by modern standards, but oh so romantic.  When I light a fire in its wood-burning fireplace and look out its five windows at nature I feel like I'm far, far away, perhaps in the mountains of Massachusetts or New Hampshire.  A little imagination goes a long way without actually going a long way away.

I'm not quite sure why I love old houses as I do.  Why do any of us love anything?  But perhaps the fact that  both sets of my European grandparents lived in old houses might have something to do with it.  Experiencing love in such places at an early age might have left its mark.

Though my husband and I are  constantly making efforts  to fix up our old house, I had  very tender feelings for the place the very first time I saw it, even in its dilapidated condition. Most people would've taken one look and run!  Most people did just that!  But I often feel more affection for old houses  before they've been refurbished.  Houses seem to look older when left alone for years,  more the product of an earlier age, more romantic.  If a house is crying for care I feel a sympathy for it much as I would feel sympathy and tenderness for a lost or forlorn puppy dog.  I guess you have to be an old house lover to understand.  If you are such a person I'd like to share one of my favorite poems with you.  Why?  You know.  Sharing doubles the joy.

It's called "The House with Nobody in It" by Joyce Kilmer.  Enjoy!

The House with Nobody in It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've past it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffren needs a dozen panes of glass.
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
But what it needs the most of all are some people living inside.

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them for free.

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in a store,
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone
For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has sheltered a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffren along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters falling apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

That's a Big One

In my last post I mentioned feeling the presence of my parents even though they both moved off  to heaven years ago.  My Dad especially makes his presence known to me quite often.  It happens whenever I hear or say four simple little words, the words are  THAT'S A BIG ONE,  and these words pop up more often than you might think.

The words in themselves mean little to nothing, but there's a reason why  they make me feel my dad is standing beside me, sharing in whatever I'm  experiencing  --   preparing  for a party,  taking  a walk in the park,  doing most anything.

The reason  is that when dad was in the nursing home suffering from alzheimer's disease he stopped speaking  except for saying   THAT'S A BIG ONE.  He said those words all the time.  No one could understand why.  The words in themselves didn't often make any sense in regard to what was happening.  Sure, sometimes I'd give dad a hug and he's say "THAT'S A BIG ONE".  That would make sense.  But other times a person would walk into the room, or the tv would be turned on, and his response was always the same,  THAT'S A BIG ONE.

We  just couldn't figure it out, so we stopped trying , but now when I'm taking a huge block of cheese out of the fridge for a party and I say "THAT'S A BIG ONE" or when I'm taking a walk and I see a huge mushroom in the lawn and I think to myself   "THAT'S  A BIG ONE", well, who do you suppose I think of?  You guessed it.  I think of my wonderful dad.  I have the distinct feeling he is standing beside me once more  joining into my fun.  You wouldn't think heaven could get boring so that spirits would want to leave  for a while to visit family, but who knows?

What I do know is that with love all things are possible.  Love transcends time and space and miracles do happen. Those four little words are just one of the many miracles that grace my life.  I have lots more and I love sharing them with you.  Why?  You know.  Sharing doubles the joy.  I bet you have lots of miracles in your life too.

My dad did once say he would always love me and always be with me, but that's another story which  I'll share  with you another time.

Now I'm going to make ravioli from scratch.  My partner in pasta-making is another of my loves, my wonderful son Patrick whose middle name is Joseph, Joseph after my dad.  Coincidentally (not)  when God took my dad away he gave me Patrick in dad's place... and on my birthday too.  Like I said, I've been blessed with  many miracles.  Maybe dad will be pop up joining Patrick and me in  pasta making.  You never know.  He pops up when I least expect him.

So till next time...