Today's picture/6 pm, November 3rd

Quote du jour/Gladys Taber

November is a quiet month in New England. Colors are muted, haze stands over the hills, shadows fall long on the lawn. The air is dreamy. It is a curious time, an intermission between the excitement of October and the coming of the snows. By now almost everyone is ready for winter. When we drive along the winding country roads, I note neat stacks of firewood by back doors, tractors covered by the barns, and around many of the old farmhouses, banks of evergreen packed against the foundations.
Gladys Taber, Stillmeadow Sampler, 1959

Our firewood is all stacked, though in two piles; one big one, and another smaller one on the terrace which gets replenished as needed. Our tractor is not covered because it is in use all winter long. Tom uses it to bring the aforementioned wood up to the terrace, and to plow out the parking area. And we don't bank the house with evergreens, being afraid it will draw mice, and we already have plenty, thank you very much.

"I Sing A Song"

When I was a girl, it was a societal rule that one didn't talk about religion or politics. And though times have changed, I still pretty much live by this principle. I rarely mention either one on my blog, or in my "real" life. I believe what I believe and let others do the same. But on this All Saints' Day, I want to share a hymn that I love. I am, as they say, a cradle Episcopalian, and I grew up singing this hymn. Even if one isn't religious, I think you can appreciate the words as a beautiful British poem.

I sing a song of the saints of God,
Patient and brave and true,
Who toiled and fought and lived and died
For the Lord they loved and knew.
And one was a doctor, and one was a queen,
And one was a shepherdess on the green:
They were all of them saints of God - and I mean,
God helping, to be one too.

They loved their Lord so dear, so dear,
And his love made them strong;
And they followed the right, for Jesus’ sake,
The whole of their good lives long.
And one was a soldier, and one was a priest,
And one was slain by a fierce wild beast:
And there’s not any reason - no, not the least,
Why I shouldn’t be one too.

They lived not only in ages past,
There are hundreds of thousands still,
The world is bright with the joyous saints
Who love to do Jesus’ will.
You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea,
In church, or in trains, or in shops, or at tea,
For the saints of God are just folk like me,
And I mean to be one too.

Lesbia Lesley Locket was born in Willesden, England in 1898. She married John Mortimer Scott, a naval officer, who later became an Anglican priest and served a parish near Dartmoor. Active in amateur theatre and religious drama, Mrs Scott did considerable writing, especially of religious drama. She died in 1986 at Pershore, England. "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God," was not written for publication. The author wrote the hymn, as she herself says: "for use in our nursery, as an expression of the Faith my husband and I were trying to give our children. Most of the hymns I wrote were in response to the children’s demands. ‘Make a hymn for a picnic!’ or ‘Make a hymn for a foggy day!’ ‘I Sing a Song' was written for us to sing on Saints’ Days, to impress on them the fact that sainthood is a living possibility today."

Quote du jour/John Clare

So dull and dark are the November days,
The lazy mist high up the evening curled,
And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze;
The place we occupy seems all the world.
John Clare, November

Oh, my, November is living up to its reputation. I'm surprised I even woke up this morning. I came downstairs and turned on all the lights I had turned off last night. This house indeed "seems all the world."







You can almost see the slow drizzle outside.

I even turned on the outside lights!

Quote du jour/Dominique Browning

When we make a home, we honor life and its blessings.
Dominique Browning, Around The House and In The Garden

Today's Short Story by Guy de Maupassant

What to do to celebrate Hallowe'en. My little ones have grown, so no trick or treating. I'm not a party-goer. So I thought that the perfect "bookish" activity for me today was reading Guy de Maupassant's The Horla, the October short story choice on a blog I've recently joined, A Curious Singularity. And I thought this would be just the ticket; a scary little psychological tale to chill my sensibilities. I made the conscious choice to read it in the daylight hours just in case. :<) The story is written in diary form, with dated entries. It begins with soothing, beautiful descriptions of the natural world. It feels utterly peaceful and such an appealing place to have spent one's childhood, and moved into adulthood. But the next entry shows us a whole different state of mind. Anxious, not sleeping, fearful. I wondered what brought it on, as does the writer. Is this a mental condition? Is he lacking in nourishment, exercise, sleep? The latter is a definite problem, for when he is able to sleep, he has nightmares. He takes a trip to Mount Saint-Michel, and speaks with a monk who tells him of otherworldly happenings, and says:

Do we see the hundred-thousandth part of what exists? Look here; there is the wind which is the strongest force in nature. It knocks down men, and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs and casts great ships on to the breaker; it kills, it whistles, it sighs, it roars. But have you ever seen it, and can you see it? Yet it exists for all that.

As I read on, it seemed to me that these nighttime scares happened only at his home. If that was so, I wondered why he didn't just leave permanently. Of course, later on, he seems unable to do so.

I think this could have made a good scary movie, but reading it for me was boring. His ramblings became tiresome. I wanted him to go see people, to move, to change his life. He was completely self-absorbed. Did he have no friends? What about that cousin or other family? Could he not have talked to someone?

I liked the writing, the images, the words chosen, but I just got so annoyed with the man. Maybe he was going mad, and I should have sympathy for him, but I found it hard to do so. I wondered too much about his background, his family, even the house itself, and that took away, perhaps, any concerns about what was happening to him.

Book Report/The Castle in the Attic, 1985

I'm not a very fast reader, and so sometimes it is a delight for me to read a juvenile or young adult book because I finish it quickly. I have the double pleasure of an enjoyable book and a quick read.

Recently there was an interview on Vermont Public Television with Elizabeth Winthrop. Her latest book, Counting on Grace has been Vermont's 2007 Community Reads choice. During the interview, she began talking about The Castle in the Attic, a book I remember being on our bookshelves when my children were young, and I wanted to read it.

William is a boy of ten, who is small for his age and does gymnastics. His parents are gone quite a bit and he is taken care of by Mrs. Phillips, a woman who has been with the family all his life. Now she plans to move to England to be with her brother. William is bereft. As a going away present, she gives him a toy castle which has been in her family for generations. It is beautifully made with all the features of a real castle. There is only one figure, though, the Silver Knight. Mrs. Phillips says there is a legend surrounding him:

He was thrown out of his kingdom long ago by an enemy of some sort, and it's said that one day he'll come back to life and return to reclaim his land. But the whole time I played with the castle, he was as stiff and cold as lead.

She goes on to tell him that family tradition says that "you're supposed to meet the Silver Knight on your own." And William does. When he picks him up, the little figure comes alive. This sets in motion a fantastical adventure, which seemed utterly real to me as I got caught up in the story. As all good children's books do, this one buoys up the young character. He faces problems and adversities, and must learn how to deal with them, using what is inside him.

The knight tells William:

The words my father said over me when I became a knight: rules of conduct we must respect, be we knight, squire, or page. Be compassionate to the needy. Neither squander wealth nor hoard it. Never lose your sense of shame. If questions are asked of you, answer them frankly but do not ask too many yourself. Be manly and of good cheer. Never kill a foe who is begging for mercy. Be ever loyal in love.

Pretty good words for any young or old reader to take to heart. This was a wonderful book and now I'm off to begin the sequel, The Battle for the Castle.

Christmas Books

I was prompted to bring out the Christmas books today after reading Simon's post about The Christmas Mystery. I've owned the book for over ten years, and it's about time I read it. This will be the first read of the holiday season, which to my mind begins tomorrow, Hallowe'en.

I love these seasonal books. They live in a box in the closet for most of the year, but now is their time to take the spotlight. Most of them are books we bought when the kids were younger, but some are newer purchases, such as Dave Barry's book, which was one of my first blog book reports, a great collection of Robert Benchley short pieces, Lee Smith's The Christmas Letters, and A Happy Book of Christmas Stories by William J. Lederer. I'm excited to revisit my old book friends.

Today's picture/One of many Red Sox heroes

If it were up to me, I would give the whole team the Most Valuable Player award.

Sunday Supper/Corn-Apple Hotcakes

Here is another recipe from my beloved cookbook with the long name -

Mrs. Chard's Almanac Cookbook
Hollyhocks & Radishes
by Bonnie Stewart Mickelson

The others I've offered thus far are Rhubarb Pie and Onion Rings.


The recipe begins:
For lumberjacks and Sunday mornings... serve with gobs of butter and warm maple syrup.


2/3 cup cornmeal
1 1/3 cups flour
1/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon allspice (I used cinnamon)
2 large apples, unpeeled (I peeled them)
3 eggs
1 1/2 cups buttermilk (put some lemon juice or white vinegar in a measuring cup and add milk - let sit a little)
1/4 cup melted butter

Sift together dry ingredients into a large bowl. Core apples and shred or grate (I grated) them, and stir into dry ingredients.
In a separate bowl, beat eggs until frothy and then whisk in the buttermilk and melted butter.
Add to the apple mixture and combine.
Let rest while heating griddle.
Ladle batter on to hot, unoiled griddle to form 5-inch pancakes. Cook until small bubbles form before turning to brown other side.
Should yield 12-14 delicious hotcakes.

My notes:
I used an electric fry pan set at 325º F, sprayed with cooking spray.
The recipe made 24 pancakes.
We did indeed add butter and maple syrup.
These are really wonderful, and they made a perfect autumn Sunday supper.

Today's poem by Sam Walter Foss

Moat Mountain, 1893 (in Jackson, New Hampshire) painted by Frank Henry Shapleigh

Information reproduced from the Web site White Mountain Art & Artists. Visit their Web site.


This painting seems to go along perfectly with the words to a poem which hung on the wall of my childhood home, and is still in my life today. The poetry may not be the kind taught in college, but it still gets the message across. This type of poem was very popular in older times, and was often memorized in those little one room schoolhouses. Foss was born in New Hampshire and was a journalist as well as a poet. He wrote the following in 1894 about his home town.

There is something woefully wrong in the moral nature of the man who is not loyal to his native town. Such a man would forget his own mother and neglect his own children. He is lacking in the essential sentiment that makes a man a man. In this age of easy movement comparatively few men continue to live, during their entire lives, in the places of their birth. But to a true man--no matter where he may wander-- the focal point of all the earth, the center of the universe to him, is the town where he was born. And so today we know that there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, throughout the breadth of the land, from sea to sea, who look back with unspeakable love to these old hills and valleys of Candia. All their lives long the brooks have murmured in their ears, the orchards and cornfields have waved before their eyes, the homes and firesides have been shrines and temples in their thoughts, and the soil, to them, will be forever holy ground. For the soil that has upborne our baby footsteps and holds the forms of those we loved, is always sacred in our thoughts, though we may wander to the very ends of the world.

These famous lines are really only a stanza in a longer poem.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by.
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban:
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Quote du jour/Theodore Roosevelt

On this 149th anniversary of his birth, I offer a quote from a letter TR wrote to his son, Ted, when the boy was in college.

Blessed old fellow, you had a pretty hard time in college this fall. But it can't be helped, Ted. As one grows older, the bitter and the sweet keep coming together. The only thing to do is to grin and bear it; to flinch as little as possible under the punishment, and to keep pegging steadily away until the luck turns.
Theodore Roosevelt,
from A Bully Father
Theodore Roosevelt's Letters to his Children

Book Report/Jane and Prudence, 1953

The two books I have read by Barbara Pym, Excellent Women and now, Jane and Prudence are not as I expected - straightforward, serious stories; rather they are really quite humorous. Jane reminds me of the "Lady" in E.M. Delafield's Provincial Lady series. They both have a wry way of looking at life and quite often make me laugh.

Jane is described by her 18-year old daughter, Flora, as "vague" which is perfect. She lives in a bit of a dream world and very often has quite inappropriate responses to various situations. Quotes pop out of her memory and her mouth that have no connection with the actual conversation. She has a funny, almost wild, sense of humor that I just adore. There's a quality of the old screwball comedies and sometimes I could hear Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby, as she goes on and on talking nonsense that is clear and correct only to her.

I feel that a crowd of our new parishioners ought to be coming up the drive to welcome us, said Jane, looking out of the window over the laurel bushes, but the road is quite empty.
That only happens in the works of your favourite novelist, said her husband indulgently, for his wife was a great novel reader, perhaps too much so for a vicar's wife.

I do hope my daughter has been entertaining you, said Jane easily. I was suddenly called away, she added, thinking as she said it that this was the kind of thing some clergy wrote in parish magazines when people had died. Called away or called home, they said.

A piano tuner is in the other room, doing his job, when she spots his "bowler" hat.
She seized his hat and placing it on her head, pirouetted round the hall singing.

Someone comes to the door, and after a few words exchanged between them, Jane ponders:
He thinks he has come to a private mental home. The patients are not dangerous, but are allowed to take walks in the grounds.

A neighbor speaking of another woman says that one can learn a lot about men through their wives, and we see Jane's response:
Oh, dear... Jane considered herself ruefully. Yes, I suppose one can.

These sorts of things happen constantly. When the reader thinks the book is proceeding in a logical manner, Jane thinks or says something that makes us stop and laugh.

Jane is a settled matron of 41, and Prudence a "spinster" of 29. They became acquainted at college when Jane tutored the younger woman. Their lives are very different, and they don't always understand one another, but there is a great friendship. Prudence seems much older in some ways. She is "experienced" in love, and is oh, so serious. Jane is quite the opposite; married to a vicar, naive about the ways of the world, and very funny. In their own separate ways, they are quite content in being who they are. There are men in their lives, but each woman has a sense of self which is not dependent upon those men.

As the Talking Heads sing, "Heaven is a place, where nothing ever happens." This book is heavenly, and nothing very much happens. There are ineffectual men, and "excellent" church women. They live their lives from day to day. Along with the humor, there are some beautifully written descriptions such as:

I love Evensong. There's something sad and essentially English about it, especially in the country, and so many of the old people are there. I always like that poem with the lines about gloved the hands that hold the hymnbook that this morning milked the cow.

... a novel of the kind that Prudence enjoyed, well written and tortuous, with a good dash of culture and the inevitable unhappy or indefinite ending, which was so like life.

His own home was one of several standing round the little green with its chestnut trees and pond which formed the real centre of the village.

I expect that the many passages I've quoted say more about me than about the book. I love these characters and I love how Barbara Pym writes. She is intelligent and funny and kind, three of my favorite qualities. Her characters don't always end up in the lives they planned for themselves, but they don't complain. They have a moment or two of regret, but then go on in their mostly happy ways. I find them inspirational.

Quote du jour/Ellen DeGeneres

When I was a kid, the news was on once a day. You either caught it, or you missed it. Now the news is on twenty-four hours a day.
Ellen DeGeneres, The Funny Thing Is...

The Joy of Baking - Cranberry Apple Crisp

Cranberry Apple Crisp

From Susan Branch’s Autumn

She begins the recipe by saying: It doesn't get better than this!

4 large apples, peeled and sliced
1 cup cranberries
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup oats
3/4 t. cinnamon
3/4 t. nutmeg
1/3 cup softened butter

Preheat oven to 375 º F.
Butter an 8 x 8 pan.
Place apple slices and cranberries in the pan.
Mix together remaining ingredients and sprinkle over fruit.
Bake about 30 minutes.
Serve hot with ice cream or cold with whipped cream.

My notes:
1. Everytime I make this I think, well that's it. This is hands down my favorite crisp. Two of my favorite fruits together.

2. This is such a quick and easy and delicious dessert for a fall day.

3. Now, here is a tip that might really come in handy someday in your baking lives. I forgot the sugar. I know, how could I do that? Well, here's the reason. At the same time I was making this, I was trying to add a video to my blog; a movie of my own making, a little minute long feature called Black Dogs. After an hour I gave up. I guess a satellite connection just isn't fast enough. So, back to my very helpful hint. When I took it out of the oven, it looked a little dry. I tasted it, and thought hmm,this isn't very sweet. Having nothing to lose, I put it in a bowl and stirred in the sugar, and it worked perfectly. This feels a little like a hint Amy Sedaris would offer, rather than Martha Stewart.

Before: isn't this just so pretty?

After: can you almost taste it?

A win (I hope)

It's 10:45 pm on the east coast. The Red Sox are ahead 9-1 and I'm heading to bed.

Today's picture/October Sunset

Follow-up on resolution

It is very clear from all the comments you left that many people truly understand about this book buying thing. I wanted to tell (and show) you what I've done. I had the best time the other day. First of all I rearranged some chairs in my kitchen and set up a bookcase. Then I walked around to all the bookshelves choosing books, just as if I were in a bookstore except I had already paid for these books! I spent a very enjoyable time thinking about what I really, really want to read. I saw books I've had for years which have sat sadly neglected, and maybe even forgotten about, on the shelves. I filled the bookcase, and plan to do my reading from there (in addition to the celebrate the author challenge books) in the near (and far) future. If I'm tempted to buy a book, I'll just come and look at all those books, and surely I will find one I am just as excited to read, right? My next resolution is to sit down more often to do that reading. I get caught up in other things, and I miss it when I don't read often or long enough.

Today's picture/Milkweed Down

Evening Light in Mid-October