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The Spectral Dickinson

I have been reading two biographies about Emily Dickinson. The first, White Heat, is beautifully written. This book, which is a biography about the friendship between Emily and Thomas Wentworth Higginson, has many lovely passages, such as this one which describes the Homestead, Emily's home, now a museum, "The Homestead... is spare of furniture; the rooms are cold, and though the docents are helpful, the poet has fled."  I agree with Ms. Wineapple. The Homestead is indeed not haunted. But the same can not be said about The Evergreens, the house next door.  The Evergreens was built by Emily Dickinson's father for her brother Austin and his bride, Susan Gilbert as a sort of  bribe.  The elder Mr. Dickinson (Edward) was trying to convince Austin to remain in Amherst rather than go west to Chicago.

While The Homestead is decidedly ghost free, The Evergreens is not. The Evergreens ironically became a hub of Amherst society while Emily was steadily withdrawing from that same society.  Next door to Amherst's famous recluse, Emerson and Henry Ward Beecher were received and feted.  Today, the house is in a serious state of dilapidation, yet it retains most of the original contents. While dusty and seriously frayed, the chair Emerson is said to have occupied in the parlor looks as if he could emerge from another room and sit down once again, to engage in conversation about the lecture he completed at Amherst College a mere 142 years ago.  Yet, the house is eerie. When entering the dining room where Susan Dickinson entertained her guests, there is a noticeable drop in temperature (even in the summer).  A chill hangs in the air over the table which looks as though it is set for a spectral dinner party.  

But the downstairs isn't the creepiest part of the house, that honor belongs to the upstairs of The Evergreens. Ascending the creaky back servants stairs, the visitor is most acutely struck by the lingering souls of long dead Dickinson's. The nursery of Gib, Emily's  little nephew who died tragically of typhus at the age of seven, remains exactly as the Dickinson's left it after his death. Apparently, in her grief,  Sue just closed the door and NO ONE every went back in.  The feeling of voyeurism is palpable.

However, The Evergreens present a remarkable opportunity to look in on the past exactly as it was, not as a restoration or a recreation of a historical landmark, but as it actually looked (albeit with some deterioration) the last time the occupants left the rooms.  It sends chills up the spine.  It is just plain spooky.  The day I took the tour for the second time, by the time we reached the nursery, early winter darkness had decended and we gazed in upon the doomed little boys nursery by electric lamplight, the lamp swinging in the docent's hand, sending shafts of weak light into the poignantly charming, yet deathly stillroom. Emily's words echoed in my head, "I am out with lanterns looking for myself..."  The Evergreens  is the saddest museum in America.  If there are such things as ghosts, they surely walk at The Evergreens.

My Really Exceptional Stuffing (I made this up myself)

2 Boxes of Gourmet Seasoned Croutons - Crumble a bit with your BARE HANDS so they aren't so lumpy

3 Celery Stalks - chopped

1 Big Onion - finely chopped

1 Granny Smith Apple - chopped

1 Bulging handful of Golden raisins - (make sure they are dropping on the floor from your hand when you transfer them to the big bowl across the kitchen- that's how you know you have enough)

2 sticks of BUTTER (the better to kill you with!!!)

1/4 Cup Ice Water

3 Eggs - Beaten within an inch of their life

Melt Butter in an attractive, copper bottomed pan reminiscent of Julia Child. Throw the celery, onions, apple and raisins in the melted butter. Bubble around until the onions and celery are translucent. Taste them a lot. Beat the eggs during this interlude. Pour the celery, onions, apples and raisins over the crumbled croutons and stir and stir until mixed. Taste a lot before you add the eggs. Add the eggs. If you are feeling Russian Roulette-ish, taste again once the eggs are added. With a zig zag motion, pour the cold water over all and stir, stir, stir. STUFF THE TURKEY. Place left overs in a pretty casserole dish, choose the little one you received when you got married from a distant non relative friend of your mother who you called Aunt Patty, this type of casserole works best. If you do not have a non-relative named Aunt Patty who gave you a simple, yet pricey casserole dish, Pyrex works just as well. 

I LOVE MY STUFFING~~~~

It's Fun Being in the Peanut Gallery

I frequent a few blogs regularly. I think I have it whittled down to about five. Ann Althouse is one of my favorites. This is a public service announcement encouraging anyone reading here to look at her blog.

Some facts about Althouse: She is a law professor at U of Wis Madison. She is unbelievably open minded and fair. She took a vow of cruel neutrality during the election. She voted for Obama. She is very cool.

I make comments and occasionally - they show up in her blog posts - which is really fun.

Creating ourselves - or do we?

     In March of this year, researchers completed a study which concluded a certain degree of our ability to experience varying levels of happiness is indeed genetic. Likewise, there are studies which reveal the genetic markers controlling the degree to which humans will experience shyness as well as other behaviors such as hostility.  The secular, scientific age we live in gives us partial answers to age old questions. Yet, in spite of these conclusions, science is not able to categorically conclude all behavior or personality is something we are born with or derived solely from biology. It appears that at least fifty percent is left to chance and it is within that fifty percent we are either shaped by our own ability to decide or we are shaped by circumstance and other variables such as the influences of family, peers or society. 

     Self knowledge can be identified early in life. Certain symbols can become life long certainties. Like a ballerina spotting an object while she twirls, there can be focal points which remain with us always. These are decisions we formed on our own and are hard to dislodge. For a long time, I have privately referred to it as the Rosebud Theory and I base it on my own love of pink rosebuds. I can personally remember as far back as two years of age, wanting and needing to see, wear, have pink rosebuds.  It was visceral. I wanted my dresses to be adorned with them, I was drawn to baby dolls with “rosebud” mouths. Illustrations in picture books decorated with rosebud borders became my favorites. No matter what I have done or experienced in life, the one constant has been rosebuds.  Metaphorical rosebuds for sure, represented by the kind of books I like to read, the movies I like to watch, the hobbies I have. All are akin to the romantic beauty of a rosebud. This is the self I create and hold sacred; and while it may not necessarily be a ’rosebud’ for other people, I believe there is something similarly representative in everyone’s deeply embedded core. Something, which, like a rosebud, remains constant to define them, on their terms and will unfurl to become a complex person based on the bud that defines our innate preferences.

      When a boat is tethered by a single line to a dock, it may drift in a myriad of directions. Depending on the conditions of the wind it may drift close to the edge of the dock, safely bumping against the moorings, sheltered somewhat from the wider lake. Or, the wind may kick up and pull the boat out far from the dock, the line taut and strained to a breaking point, far from the original source of safety.  Humans are like this. We can be influenced by forces, be they powerful personalities or intervening circumstances, to drift a long way from our original mooring.  It may be hard to remain tethered to ideas we form on our own. We may indeed find the influence of ideas we encounter or people we meet overpowering and may even abandon convictions, change our behavior based on the tug of society’s powerful currents.  These changes may occur through personal choice or in subtle forms of coercion

    It is human nature to believe you are in charge of your opinions or actions. And while, as I briefly alluded to, science can explain some of our behavior as being genetic it also  makes sense this genetic basis is malleable.  In the happiness study I referred to, the researchers were able to conclude a person’s ability to increase their degree of happiness was dependent on circumstance. So while our “happiness set point” might be  one we are born with, the effects of circumstance can increase or decrease our propensity to experience true happiness. Likewise, it is logical to assume other kinds of circumstance can alter who we are or think we are.

     During the run up to the recent election, I found it intriguing to read the brief, yet explosive posts written on the social networking sight ‘Twitter’.  One in particular caught my eye. The person posting posited the question “Is it possible to be married to someone who votes opposite you?” The responses that poured in were overwhelmingly “NO!” This reaction made me wonder how many of those relationships were genuinely comprised of two individuals who came to a relationship with completely sympathetic views.  I pondered the possibility of one personality overcoming another to accomplish such a completely synchronized view.  In this way, it is easy to see the extent to which others can create us. If the tables were turned, perhaps if the individual was married to another kind of voter, their preference would or could be altered.  Like the boat tethered to the dock, the wind whips you in one direction or another and the circumstances of the situation, the inter-personal relationships, alters what may lie at your core. 

     However, you may never relinquish your most deeply held love of rosebuds...

     

The Dating Game - 21st Century

Lately, I find I find myself thinking the cosmic plates of history and the world are shifting.  I wonder if we are in the middle of a tsunami of cultural change. If we are, I am going to be like that girl in some asteroid movie I saw once and just stand on the proverbial beach and let the wave wash over me. It is all in motion and all inevitable, so why even think about it? I am completely sure I was not what Darwin had in mind when he was having his "I could have had a V-8" moment about survival of the fittest.  

I loved dating. I had the best boyfriend in high school. On alternate Fridays, he took me to Ponderosa Steakhouse and then a movie. He gave me pretty gifts like music boxes and lockets. I bought him shirts he hated and record albums and Brute colonge. We wrote 'like' letters that became love letters.  No, I did not marry him, but I cherish him just the same. It was a ritual, it was a necessary step toward what would come later. I loved being in love. I loved the possibility of marriage. I blatently and with premeditation, dreamt about wedding dresses. I tore pages out of Brides Magazine and kept them in my underwear drawer. Yes, I know. That is wrong. It is silly and probably the result of societal brainwashing. I was probably suffering from a national, gigantic version of Stockholm Syndrome. 

So, when I came across this article about the state of dating, I experienced my usual five stages of culture shock:  hot flash, denial, melancholy, relief I am past this crap, and finally, the shrug, which for me, passes as acceptance... See? I am definitely not a survivor, I will always, in the end, just shrug my shoulders and watch old movies with a vengeance. It is my recurring theme, my inner Betty Crocker...

Dody Gump

I am compiling a list of the great historical moments I will tell my grandkids about:

1. Assasination of JFK

2. Assasination of Martin Luther King, Jr.

3. Assasination of RKF 

(brief interuption - all this happened by the time I was 10. I actually thought famous men getting shot was a something that happened like clock work)

4. Woodstock

5. Moon Landing

6. Vietnam War

7. Resignation of Richard Nixon

8. Oklahoma City Bombing

9. 9/11

10. Election of Barack Obama

If anyone would like to help me with this list, please feel free to comment. 

Lock Your Desk, Not Your Heart

I can't wait for the election to be over. I recently lost a friendship as a result. I was probably overly sensitive in an email exchange, but I tried to apologize, to no avail.  Like I have said on Facebook and to other friends I love and cherish, no matter how it turns out I will support whoever wins, wholeheartedly.  Anyway, I link to the article because it struck a cord. Happy voting.

Carolina Blue

I live in North Carolina because of autumn.  It is the most gorgeous time of the year. The sky is Carolina Blue, there is a crispness to the air; all the humidity of the summer becomes a distant memory and life feels sublime.

 Even now, when the economy is on the ropes.  Here are some pictures of that sky...

Halloween!!!!

An old, old witch, believe me if you can,
Tapped on my window pane and RAN, RAN, RAN!
She ran helter skelter with her toes in the air
Cornstalks flying from her old witch's hair.

Swish went her broom
"Meow" went her cat
Plop, went her hop toad sitting on her hat
WEEEEEE! shouted I, 
What fun, what fun!
HALLOWEEN NIGHT WHEN THE WITCHES RUN!!!

Sheeples

We are now closer as a people to adding $700 Billion to our debt, but by god, we won't let sheep researchers go under...

www.whitehouse.gov/ history/grounds/images/she.

Ethics or the Lack Thereof...

This article by a revered, yet batty, ethicist with the goofy la-dee-da name of Baroness Warnock, suggests old people suffering from dementia should be put down. Wow. That’s kind of icky. I would like to suggest old people suffering from dementia can be looked at in a different light.
I remember when my daughter was five or six, she loved Madonna. I was a nervous wreck about this because Madonna was really NOT the kind of person I wanted her to emulate. In fact, I was concerned that by letting her listen to her little Madonna tape (a birthday gift from her friend who also loved Madonna) I could possibly be accused of neglecting my parental duties. Yikes.
One day, as we were driving along and listening to FM 99.5, Pop Rock, Material Girl started to play. I observed my sweet little cherub mouthing the words “Living in a material world...” and started to panic. I asked her, “Hey, why do you like Madonna?”
“Oh, cuz, she’s just like you, Mommy.”
“Like ME? How is she like me? What do you think this song MEANS?” Full blown panic. I was examining my unexamined life right there, on the way to the grocery store. I was doing a warp speed brain scan. I didn’t own any jewelry to speak of. Our T.V. was smallish and really irritating by modern standards. We only had two bedrooms and one bath. My car was ten years old. No. I didn’t scream materialism.
“How is she like me, honey?” I asked this in a high, squeaky voice.
“She’s a material girl, just like you and me. She buys material and makes clothes. Like you.”
Kids do say the darnedest things. As a matter of fact, so do dear little, slightly confused (medical term dementia) old people.
During our trip to drop our daughter off at college (who, by the way, is now completely over Madonna), my sweet little mother who is 80 and sometimes very confused, was asked how old she was. I think she had dropped some unusual verbal clues in a conversation she was having with the father of another student. For some reason, he felt compelled to ask how old she was.
“Oh, I’m 69.” I was busy dragging things out of the back of the van, half listening, This statement caused me to stop what I was doing and I found the father looked at me oddly.
“No, mom, you are 80.”
“80? No, I’m 59.”
“No, really, mom - you are 80.”
“I’m 89?”
“No, 80.”
“Are you sure? I feel 69.”
This exchange is every bit as priceless as the one I had with my five year old. It was worth having. She was so engaged and darling. I could tell the father of the other student thought she was charming. He patted her hand and agreed feeling your age is every bit as important as being your age. My mother smiled and waved her hand cavalierly over her shoulder. But if the Baroness has her way, my mother should be put down. For the good of society. To relieve the stress on the healthcare system. There really should be a line drawn. A line that means, “past this point, there are things we just won’t say.” Baroness Warnock crossed the line. There are some stresses medicine will just have to deal with.

My Summer Vacation

My summer vacation. Fifty summers. Fifty summer vacations. Like a homing pigeon headed north, I fly. North. To the Northwoods. To the land of lakes and birch trees and hemlocks. We drive two days through the mountains and the cornfields and finally the forests, my mother and sister and niece and I.
As we wind through the Appalachians, I remember the first time I saw a mountain. I was 17 and I was enchanted. I remember a feeling bubbling up inside of me. Like a hidden spring, the possibilities of topography dawning on me, all those embossed globes of my childhood, I could feel, like a blind person the memory of my finger tips running down the spine of a mountain range and now, here it was like a wall before me.

I wondered if I had somehow missed out on something deep and mysterious and ultimately more tremendous than the dark black Illinois loam of my mother's peony bed by having spent my first 17 years on the prairie. I would have had a similar reaction to the ocean except for the fact that Lake Michigan had prepared me better than my paper mache globe.

But now, in my fiftieth summer, as we round each curve in the Daniel Boone National Forest, my body pressed from centrifugal force against the car window, I find my heart beats harder the closer we come to Indiana and the vast expanse of corn fields all wearing their long lace collars of Queen Anne's lace. I am going North.

When I finally see the first corn fields ahead through the asphalt mirage of the highway and glimpse the dark heart of Indiana's hardwood forests beyond in the distance, I start to feel as if I am going home. I sigh, a long sigh, as if I have been holding my breath for yet another year when we finally stop for the evening, our first day of travel complete. I feel as if my own fetch greets me. The ghost of the girl I once was. It is the air swirling around me. It takes me back to my Midwestern girlhood. It reminds through flashes carried into my senses on the breeze. Like the ripple of playing cards in a dealer's hand I can see of all my summers. I shiver and It reminds me why I never wore sundresses without a sweater.

In my youth I resented having to cover my pretty shoulders and now as I stand outside the Comfort Inn in Crawfordsville, Indiana which stands in the middle of a cornfield, I ache to go back in time and cover my shoulders all over again. Now. Even now when I know about the mountains and the oceans and the sultry beauty of Savannah and Charleston, I want to go back to the time when all I knew was perfectly straight strips of highway hidden in the precise grid of gently swaying cornfields and the fact that summer was only, truly, three weeks long.

In years past, our daughters stood, teeth clattering at the edge of the Indiana motel swimming pool, lamenting the chilly early July evening air and yearning for their Southern summer swimming pools. Our Southern born daughters who understood nothing about their riches of sweater-less sundresses, our daughters whose lungs ached for the languid blanket of humidity which made it possible to always wear the thinnest cotton over a bikini in the pitch black midnight of Georgia. There is a beguiling sense of recklessness inherent in a Southern summer evening. Yet only a Northerner can truly spot it. Southerners, like our daughters, raised as they are in so gentle a climate are blissfully unaware of the joys of owning multiple sundresses and walking sweater-less on a summer evening. Yes, Sundresses sum it up nicely.

The next day we drive up through the straight center of Illinois, Land of Lincoln and Chicago and me. Dan Fogleberg once sang Illinois, Illinois, Illinois, I'm your boy. If Dan Fogelberg was Illinois' boy than I am Illinois' girl; I can barely stand to see the road signs which point to Decatur. I drive and glance continually to my left after we leave Bloomington and Decatur fades in my rear view mirror. For reasons I can't explain, the green interstate sign declaring this way to Decatur reminds me of my college love making conducted in a dorm room somewhere in Decatur and the sweet boy I left behind. I remember first kisses and secret good byes and because I know I can never take that exit again, my lips quiver a bit.

Soon we are flying by Rockford and then we are finally in Wisconsin and the flat land gives way to rolling hills and perfect farms with barns and silos and dairy cows that frame either side of highway. We accelerate a bit, in hurry now to exit from the lunacy that is interstate 90/94. We exit and find Highway 51, our impatience growing now to be on our island and rowing on our lake.

As the Northwoods loom ahead of us, my melancholy fades. I manage to shake off all the places I have left behind forever and turn my attention to the constancy of my ancient cottage, tucked away on a tiny round island. I am returning to the place I can always return to: the place where time stops. Here, bull frogs serenade little green ladies throughout the night and loons wail distantly in the hidden bays of the lake. Dragon flies who ironically wear Carolina Blue land on my knees and I remember I live in North Carolina now. The herons abide in marshy alcoves and otters play on their backs at the edges of our shore. A mother deer and her babe sneak across our filled in road to drink at the water's edge and we watch humming birds drink at the feeder we have placed on an old wrought iron lamp stand outside the window.

For fifty summers I have traveled north. North. Toward the stars. On my way to heaven. My summer vacation.

The Pursuit of Loveliness

Loveliness. There needs to be more of it. This past week we embarked on a movie watching spree of some of the supposedly best movies from 2007. All I can say is, oh my. I am going to sum these movies up in a blink. Here goes:

No Country for Old Men – Shoot, kill, monster guy, shoot kill some more, dreadful, horrible, greed, blood, shoot, shoot, hopeless awfulness, good guy loses, bad guy ends up with a broken arm, older generation is irrelevant and talks gibberish. The End. Okay, the writing was quite good. A watch -able (like a train wreck) film with a sick premise. Big Sigh.

There Will be Blood – They should have used this title for No Country for Old Men, because there wasn’t much blood, just a lot of dirty fingernails, grimy, sweaty, dirty, mean, horrid, awful, people and grunge. There was blood at the end when the despicable, selfish, most likely stinky due to lack of baths old guy whacks the stereotypical Jimmy Swaggert-like sniveling, ridiculously big crucifix wearing bible banger guy with a bowling pin. Oops. I should have said spoiler alert. Sorry. Plot ends midway through movie and it meanders to a short story ending of drunken, sweaty nothingness.

An aside about the short story ending…I have to say a few words on this topic. If you read a lot of short stories, you will find many just … end… boom. No rhyme. No reason. I myself use this technique occasionally because for some reason, it is seems to be the preferred way to wind up a short story, or not wind it up as the case may be. I personally think it is laziness. Some trendy, popular author (in the case of There Will be Blood, Upton Sinclair) ran out of things to say and said to himself “I think I will submit this to see what happens and like The Emperor’s New Clothes, the hapless, sycophant publisher thinking he must be missing something, but doesn’t want to give away his lack of sophistication publishes it and Voila! A literary technique is born. Oh well.

Back to movies…

Bella – Cliché, stupid, did I say cliché? Oh, and it is also cliché. Plot moves forward cliche-ly as follows- another aborted abortion, angst, angst. Cliché angst. Stupid use of scarf. No one wears scarves like this anymore. Movie is a combo plot: Like Water for Chocolate meets Sunshine of the Spotless Mind with a twist of Juno. And this won awards at Sundance? My regard for Sundance plummets. (What is it with Hollywood, and abortion? They are doing mea culpa’s for Roe vs. Wade at an alarming, head spinning rate. Their message is so confusing, no wonder so many young girls are getting pregnant and having the baby and romanticizing the whole thing, I think it is irresponsible.)

Into the Wild – This is actually a good movie. Read the book by Jon Krakauer first, it is really good. He is a wonderful writer then, watch the movie. However, I don’t think Chris McCandless is a hero. I think he must have been troubled and he was foolish. Google Into the Wild and read the many articles, like this one and this one. But so far – it was the best movie.

Live Free Die Hard – Why did I watch this? To make my husband happy. He fell asleep, Emma and I watched it to the bitter end. Why? Why? Oh Why?

And so I write again, loveliness. I am dedicating my blog to the pursuit of loveliness, hence, the picture. Isn't it lovely?

Bon Ton

I should have been a costumer. I think that is why I make dolls. So I have a body to make a pretty dress for.

June Bride

This is Beatrice. She is getting ready for her wedding day. Here she sits in her satin corset, waiting to put on her wedding dress, reflecting before her big day...

Gallery II

The Visual Bronte - Yes, I love them too

It may seem odd, but I had never actually read any of the Bronte’s novels before I was thirty one years old. For a Bronte devotee, this is rather late. Up to this point in my life, I felt as if all the movie and small screen adaptations had ruined the books for me. This is not to say I wasn’t in love with the storylines. Quite the contrary, I adored the early Hollywood attempts at Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. I watched both of these movies over and over on a program broadcast Sunday afternoons in Chicago, Illinois called “Family Classics.” As a small girl, I fantasized about running through heather and all things English; I was born an American Anglophile.

When I was an adolescent, sometime in the early 70’s, I saw another version of Wuthering Heights. It was more troubling, wilder and titillating than the 1939 version. If anything, it made my desire to actually read the book even more remote, because by this time I had seen Wuthering Heights at least once a year since I was five years old.

When I saw the 1983 BBC Jane Eyre production, I was enthralled but it seemed so thorough, I was convinced reading the book was completely unnecessary.

I came to my love for the actual novels of the Bronte’s rather late. I discovered them through the back door, so to speak. Being a great reader of biographies, I stumbled upon Rebecca Fraser’s book The Brontes, Charlotte Bronte and Her Family in 1990 and fell into the world of this remarkable family with a layman’s interest that has never abated. It was Rebecca Fraser’s biography which made me want to, no; need to read the books for myself.

Reading Jane Eyre at the ripe old age of 31 was amazing. In many ways, I was grateful none of my English teachers required the Bronte’s for any high school reading assignments. Reading Jane Eyre in the wake of the Fraser biography felt like one must feel when making an archeological discovery. For me, reading Jane Eyre for the first time felt like opening the tomb of King Tut. It seemed remarkable to read this novel and discover writing so present, so alive in spite of it having been published in 1847. I was amazed to hear Charlotte Bronte’s voice in my own head.

I went on a Charlotte Bronte spree, Shirley, Villette and when the Juliet Barker biography The Bronte’s was published, I devoured it even while I continued my self education by reading the novels of Emily and Anne.

When the 1996 film, Jane Eyre, was released, I was first in line at the movie theatre. I loved this version, and forgave its shortcomings. The look of Charlotte Gainsborough enchanted me and having a degree in costume design, I adored the costumes throughout.

This movie kindled a memory I had from Fraser’s biography. It was a picture of Charlotte Bronte’s wedding bonnet. For me, the visual aspect of the Bronte Myth had always played a powerful part in my measured self education of all things Bronte.

Perhaps this is what prompted me to make my very own adaptation of Jane Eyre. After finding some very old lace in an antique store, I felt compelled to create my own idea of Jane based on the bonnet pictured in Fraser’s book. I recreated Jane in doll form and in an attempt to interpret her inner purity, dressed her in white. Whatever the reasons; my Jane doll is an outgrowth of my early visual response to the Bronte mystique. My life long Bronte journey began by watching Hollywood’s visual re-creations of the novels. My Jane Eyre doll brings me full circle.

On a Lighter Note...

This is the first in a series of some illustrations I found in early 20th century editions of Emma and Mansfield Park. This lovely picture is by C.E. and H.M. Brock from Emma. The caption reads:

"Most Beloved Emma - tell me at once, say 'No' if it is to be said."

Don't you adore Knightley?