Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Who could resist such a greeting?
As you could probably gather from my last post or two, autumn makes me nostalgic. I crave mulled cider, leaf piles, bonfires, and my memere's molasses cookies. I devour long novels on chilly nights, and my crafting supplies start taking over every available horizontal space in the house. I lose nearly all self control in Michael's craft stores, and what little ability I had to say no to a rubber stamp or a pretty box of stationery flies out the window when I enter an indie paper store. I have several favorites, but one of the best I've found is Rock Paper Scissors in Wiscasset, Maine.
Todd and I spent a couple of hours in Wiscasset earlier this week, most of it in Rock Paper Scissors and its sister housewares store, Smitten. We found Christmas and baby gifts, plus a few treats for ourselves. I had to drag him away from the pens (yes, we have a slight fountain pen addiction in our house) or we would have been there all afternoon.
Another great find was this box of paper drinking straws. I've written before about my favorite childhood treat: coffee ice cream from Hallett's Drugstore on Front Street in my hometown. Sometimes we'd go to Hallett's just for a soda, and I loved lifting the lid of the tall glass dispenser to slide out one of these pretty paper straws.
So, yes, I wax nostalgic when the weather grows chilly. I tend to light more candles as days grow shorter, pull on my wool socks, and make pot after pot of tea. Too bad I can't drink hot tea with a paper straw! Actually, I think I'm going to use the straws for a crafting project. (That's a hint for you, Miss Marlowe. Maybe you should bring a few crafting supplies when you come to visit this weekend!)
Monday, October 19, 2009
I love Marcus ??
That's what is printed in round, girlish letters on the top of the built-in dresser in the guest room here at the cottage we're renting this fall. The tiny room with its sloped ceiling used to be the bedroom of a young girl who is now a teenager and whose parents sold this wee cottage to move to a bigger house across the island. The signs of her childhood, though, are still imprinted upon the room: the pencil slashes on the door jamb, marked with months and years to measure her growth; the caterpillar coat rack bolted to the wall; and little bits and pieces of graffiti that the cottage's new owners have not yet covered up with a fresh coat of paint. I hope they never do. On the ceiling's slope above the bed is a tiny pink heart, and, of course, there are those words on the dresser. She loved Marcus. And then she didn't. And then, as it goes in life, she wasn't sure whom she loved.
When I was a girl, around the age of what is now called a tween, I used to write the name of my current crush on the wall inside my closet: I love Bryan George Jeff Bryan David Joey Bryan. Four facts about me can be deduced from this habit:
- I was fickle. Yes, I loved a lot of boys.
- I really, really loved Bryan.
- I felt a strong need to write down what I was feeling. It wasn't enough to just feel the emotion. Writing it down made it seem more real, more powerful to me.
- I didn't particularly want other people to see what I had written--at least not about those feelings. I loved to write as a kid and I liked people to read what I wrote, but this was different. This was magic, secret, special, as visceral as painting on cave walls. There was a bit of witchcraft to it, almost like casting a spell.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Song for Autumn
In the deep fall
don't you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don't you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don't you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.
Mary Oliver, New & Selected Poems