Thrift-in-Trifles Decorating

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Although the Doctor’s daughter [Lucie Manette] had known nothing of the country of her birth [France], she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most agreeable characteristics.  Simple as the furniture was, it was set off by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy, that its effect was delightful.  The disposition of everything in the rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours, the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr Lorry stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seem to ask him, with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this time, whether he approved?
             ~ Charles Dickens in A Tale of Two Cities  

I’ve been in homes that have this pleasant, comfortable, tasteful ambiance.   They are lovely places to live.

I think decorating know-how is a gift, don’t you?  Just like some women can wear rags with panache, some folks can take cast-off furniture and make a cozy home.  It doesn’t come naturally to me, but I can be taught.  My oldest sister and my youngest brother have “an eye” for placing furniture, for hanging pictures, for creating visual balance. 

Where did you learn this stuff?  From catalogs, magazines or television?  From floor models of stores?  Did anyone take interior decorating classes?

I have to see it modeled, usually in a friend’s home, and imitate it. 

One Paragraph, Eight Hours

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Move over, David McCullough.  Make room for another Pulitzer Prize winner, Barbara Tuchman, to stand next to you on the pedestal of my high esteem. 

Folks, I have found an  Important New Author. (“New to me,” she shrugs and grins.) I’ve only read the preface, the introduction and the first paragraph, but I am twitterpated. Tuchman’s success in writing, given in the preface, is “hard work, a good ear, and continued practice.” 

…hard work, a good ear and continued practice…

What does that look like, fleshed out?  It took Tuchman eight hours (!) to write this opening paragraph, all five sentences, of  The Guns of August.  

So gorgeous was the spectacle on the May morning of 1910 when nine kings rode in the funeral of Edward VII of England that the crowd, waiting in hushed and black-clad awe, could not keep back gasps of adminration. In scarlet and blue and green and purple, three by three the sovereigns rode through the palace gates, with plumed helmets, gold braid, crimson sashes, and jeweled orders flashing in the sun.  After them came five heirs apparent, forty more imperial or royal highnesses, seven queens–four dowager and three regnant–and a scattering of special ambassadors from uncrowned countries.  Together they represented seventy nations in the greatest assemblage of royalty and rank ever gathered in one place and, of its kind, the last.  The muffled tongue of Big Ben tolled nine by the clock as the cortege left the palace, but on history’s clock it was sunset, and the sun of the old world was setting in a dying blaze of splendor never to be seen again.

The Shield Ring

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The Shield Ring is a story of the Vikings and the Normans in the Lake District of England in the eleventh century.  The reader is rooting for the Vikings (for a change!) who keep a secret stronghold from whence they repel the Norman northern onslaught.   Sutcliff weaves the elements–a boy with a harp, an orphan Saxon girl, a sword called the Fire-drake, the Road to Nowhere, intrigue and espionage–into a vivid and vibrant story.

Sutcliff is the master of historical fiction.  Her prose lifts you from your modern surroundings like a hot air balloon. You land in a place and time and culture that is very Other but also faintly familiar.  Sutcliff does not explain every cultural reference; she lets the reader to work it out.  However, when I read Sutcliff, it is always her prose which delights me: her bright shining, shimmering prose.    

There has been a revival of interest in G. A. Henty’s books; I have a bookcase full, myself.  But if I had a choice between a Henty and a Sutcliff, I would take Sutcliff every time. 

It was a curlew that they were watching now, a curlew at his mating flight, weaving, it seemed to Frytha, a kind of garland of flight round the place where his chosen mate must be, among the heather.  He skimmed low over the ground, then suddenly swerved upward, up and up, hung a moment poised on quivering wings, and then came planing down, his wings arched back to show the white beneath, skimmed low again, and again leapt skyward.  And all the while he was calling, calling; a lovely spiral of sound bubbling and rippling with delight.  But his whole dance, undulating, floating, swerving, with always that flash of underwing silver on the downward swoop, was a dance of sheer delight.  p.16

Another Sutcliff review here.

Fine Art Friday – Velázquez

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The Old Woman Frying Eggs, 1618

Today is the birthday of the Spanish painter, Diego Velázquez (1599).
I love pictures of ordinary people fixing food.
What astounds me is that he painted this when he was 19!


 Las Meninas (The Maids of Honor) 1656

Notice the self-portrait on the left, the blurred image of the king and queen reflected in the mirror.
The Infanta Margarita became the empress of Austria at 15, but died at 22.

Google tipped their hat to Velázquez today:

Infant Voices

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The day we arrived home from our trip to Scotland and England we got a phone call.  Carson and Taryn are expecting their first baby!

The next day, before we sat down to eat dinner with Chris and Jessie, they told us that they were expecting another child.  Big brother Gavin, my favorite three year old, is overjoyed.

Two new hearts are beating!  One is due December 25th and one is due December 26th! 

Blessings are abounding.  Prayers are being answered.  Really answered.  In real time. 

This great news energizes me to continue praying, to keep asking.  You know who you are…I’m praying for you, too!

 (from Jesus Shall Reign, a favorite hymn).

People and realms of every tongue
dwell on his love with sweetest song;
and infant voices shall proclaim
their early blessings on his name.

I’m only going over home

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In the sweetness of life, there is still a yearning… 

a longing…

I’m a poor wayfaring stranger
While traveling thru this world of woe
Yet there’s no sickness, toil, or danger
In that bright world to which I go
I’m going there to see my Father
I’m going there no more to roam
I’m only going over Jordan
I’m only going over home

…I’m going there to see my Father

…I’m going there to see my Mother

…I’m going there to see my Savior

Eva Cassidy’s memorable rendition (the whole thing!)

Kiyo’s Story

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Dandelion,
How long have you been stepped upon?
Today you bloom.
haiku, author unknown
Kiyo Sato tells her family’s remarkable story of endurance and perseverance in Dandelion Through the Crack.  Sato’s father and mother emigrated from Japan to the Sacramento area, grew strawberries on a twenty acre farm, and raised nine children.  Ordered to evacuate, in May, 1942 the family, carrying what they could, were sent to the Poston internment camp.

Kiyo was allowed to leave internment in the fall to go to Hillsdale College. Every free space in her schedule is filled with a job to help pay her tuition.  After the war is over, the family returns to their farm, beginning the arduous process of rebuilding and replanting.

It’s been a while since I’ve stayed up into the single digit hours reading a book I Could Not Put Down.  The writing is good, but not cracking good.  The graphics and layout of the book have a feel of self-publishing.  The cover doesn’t call out, “Read me. Read me. Read me.”  But the story carries all the baggage and propels you through the pages. 

Sato family

I can’t help but love Tochan (Japanese for father) and Mama, the strong, hard-working, long-suffering parents whose daily graces and passions infuse their family with love and devotion.  Tochan loved books, plants, music (he began violin lessons while he was interned), his children.  Mama loved cleanliness, working, making food for her family, nurturing her children.  Kiyo, a youthful 85 year old, writes with the fidelity and love of a very thankful daughter.  Her words remind me of George Dawson in Life is So Good who remarked that if he could give anyone in the world this gift, he would give him the experience of having his (George’s) father as his own.

If you want more first-hand accounts of the Japanese internment, you can find them here. You can also watch fourteen short video clips of Kiyo Sato talking about her experiences.    

Thank you, dear Rachel, for giving me this book.