When I was writing yesterday's post I mentioned the delicious little thrill I get when I am watching a movie set in London and I catch a glimpse of a place I have visited.  The other night it was Westminster Abbey while watching The Da Vinci Code, and I was immediately transported back to my first visit there, and my feeling of awe as I paid respect to Queen Elizabeth I's recumbent effigy in the Abbey.  I thought it so strange that Elizabeth and Queen Mary, her half sister, are buried together in the same tomb, as in life they were certainly not close. The Latin inscription on the tomb translates to "Partners both in throne and grave, here rest we two sisters, Elizabeth and Mary, in the hope of one resurrection."

Over the holidays we watched A Christmas Carol, and every year I get excited all over again when I catch a glimpse of St. Paul's Cathedral in the distance.  It is such a beautiful building (although I must admit I have this really strange desire to burst out in song, singing "Feed the Birds" from Mary Poppins every time I see it!).  In the same movie we are also transported to the vendor stalls at Covent Garden, for which I have particularly fond memories.  The first time my husband and I visited London I was sitting on a bench in Covent Garden, taking in all the hustle and bustle, when a flower vendor approached me bearing a single red rose.  Surprised, I accepted the rose and discovered a note from my husband.  He had written 'dreams really do come true' on a card and sent it over to me via the vendor.  I had dreamed of visiting London for years and I was so excited to share that time and place with both my husband and mother!  How I treasure that note and rose!

St. Paul's Church and benches, Covent Garden
The "Actor's Church"

Sitting on that bench that long ago day also reminded me of one of my favorite books, A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett.  Published in 1905, it was based on Burnett's 1888 serialized novel titled Sara Crewe: or, What Happened at Miss Minchin's Boarding School. It's been named one of the 'Top 100 Chapter Books of all Time' by the School Library Journal, and with good reason.  If you haven't read this heartwarming story of a little girl orphaned and left in the hands of a cruel headmistress, Miss Minchin, and how Sara's imagination and belief in the goodness of others sustains her, I suggest checking it out and settling in for a lovely night's reading.  I have always particularly enjoyed the version illustrated by Tasha Tudor.

But what does this have to do with Covent Garden, you are probably wondering?  In the book, Sara and her father, Captain Crewe, go shopping for a Last Doll, the doll that will keep Sara company while her father returns to India.  This delightful picture shows Sara and her father window shopping at Covent Garden for her new companion.  I found a doll shop there with dolls in the window that would have delighted little Sara, and oh, how badly I wanted to bring one of them home with me!  Perhaps another trip, another time, and I will have my own Last Doll.  

A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett
Shopping for "The Last Doll"

“If nature has made you for a giver, your hands are born open, and so is your heart; and though there may be times when your hands are empty, your heart is always full, and you can give things out of that--warm things, kind things, sweet things--help and comfort and laughter--and sometimes gay, kind laughter is the best help of all.”  (Sara Crewe in A Little Princess)

Westminster Abbey
http://fineartamerica.com/featured/graphic-westminster-abbey-mark-e-tisdale.html

My mind was still on Downton Abbey yesterday, thinking about my trips to England and how much I love London.  After work I was flipping through television channels (confession time--I did nothing at all productive yesterday evening!!) and landed on The Da Vinci Code, starring Tom Hanks.  I wasn't a huge fan of the movie, as it was really difficult to translate this particular book into a movie and keep all the action and interesting history intact.  So I was only paying partial attention to the television until the characters landed in London, which made me sit up and take note.  I get such a thrill from watching movies set in London and identifying a familiar landmark that I have visited.  And what landmark is more inspiring and unforgettable than Westminster Abbey?

I will never forget the first time I walked through the doors, arm in arm with my mother.  We were so excited to visit this Gothic church, and my mother was a couple of steps behind me when I entered the nave and gasped at the sheer enormity and awe inspiring presence of the place.  My mother whispered 'now now' and then stepped inside, where she looked around and her knees buckled.  (Sorry Mom, but they did!).  But don't take my word for it....here is a description from The Da Vinci Code (book, not movie) that echoes how Mother and I felt that morning:

Langdon’s and Sophie’s eyes, like those of almost every visitor, shifted immediately skyward, where the abbey’s great abyss seemed to explode overhead.  Grey stone columns ascended like redwoods into the shadows, arching gracefully over dizzying expanses, and then shooting back down to the stone floor.  Before them, the wide alley of the north transept stretched out like a deep canyon, flanked by sheer cliffs of stained glass.  On sunny days, the abbey floor was a prismatic patchwork of light.  Today, the rain and darkness gave this massive hollow a wraithlike aura…more like that of the crypt it truly was.

The nave, with the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier surrounded in red poppies

Making our way to the famed Poets Corner (the Southern Transept), we paid homage to the writers and poets that have touched our hearts, excited our passions and stirred our emotions.  Some are interred here, and others just have memorials.  Tennyson, Browning, Dickens, Kipling and Hardy are laid to rest in the Abbey.  Those with memorials include Milton, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Burns, Blake, Sir Walter Scott, Jane Austen, Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte.  The poet I featured in my blog yesterday, Sir John Betjeman, has a memorial in the Abbey, although I wasn't familiar with his work at the time and sadly passed by his memorial without a second glance. 

 You can see the full list of graves and memorials at http://www.westminster-abbey.org/visit-us/highlights/poets-corner. 

Here's a beautiful poem about The Poets' Corner, by American poet Thomas Bailey Aldrich (who is buried in Cambridge, MA).  I hope you enjoy it and have a lovely day!  All these English memories are making me hungry for a proper cup of tea and a warm  scone!

In Westminster Abbey

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

"The Southern Transept, hardly known by any other name but Poets' Corner"

Tread softly here; the sacredest of tombs 

Are those that hold your poets. Kings and queens 

Are facile accidents of Time and Chance. 

Chance sets them on the heights, they climb not there! 

But he who from the darkling mass of men 

Is on the wing of heavenly thought upborne 

To finer ether, and becomes a voice 

For all the voiceless, God annointed him: 

His name shall be a star, his grave a shrine.

Tread softly here, in silent reverence tread. 

Beneath those marble cenotaphs and urns 

Lies richer dust than ever nature hid 

Packed in the mountain's adamantine heart, 

Or slyly wrapt in unsuspected sand-- 

The dross men toil for, and oft stain the soul. 

How vain and all ignoble seems that greed 

To him who stands in this dim claustral air 

With these most sacred ashes at his feet! 

This dust was Chaucer, Spenser, Dryden this-- 

The spark that once illumed it lingers still. 

O ever-hallowed spot of English earth! 

If the unleashed and unhappy spirit of man 

Have option to visit our dull globe, 

What august Shades at midnight here convene 

In the miraculous sessions of the moon, 

When the great pulse of London faintly throbs, 

And one by one the stars in heaven pale! 

And....it's that time of year again!  No, I don't mean the 'taking down the holiday decorations' time, nor do I mean it's football playoffs time again.  It's something far more grand and breathtaking and addicting...it's Downton Abbey time!  Having waited almost ten months for Season Three, last night's premiere did not disappoint.  All the elements for fun were there...Matthew and Mary still squabbling, clear up to the wedding altar, sister Edith still rather catty and snide, and sister Sybil and her former chauffeur husband stirring up society.

Lady Violet is in rare form with her witty one-liners:
Countess Violet: “I’m so looking forward to seeing your mother again. When I’m with her, I’m reminded of the virtues of the English.”
Matthew: “But isn’t she American?”
Countess Violet: “Exactly”

Of course Carson the butler still rules the downstairs with his unyielding dedication to tradition and the family.  And then there is Bates, the wrongly imprisoned valet, whom Carson defends to Thomas, the snooty and scheming current valet: "May I remind you, Mr Barrow, that in this house Mr. Bates is a wronged man seeking justice. If you have any problems with that definition, I suggest you eat in the yard."  Oh my, what's not to love about this show!

With such a British start to the new week, I thought you might enjoy this utterly delightful poem I found yesterday, when looking for something special to include with my Downton post. This particular poem seemed rather apropos after an evening of formal dining rooms and parlor talk.  I was unfamiliar with John Betjeman, a British poet born in 1906 near Highgate, London.  He became a well known poet and served as poet laureate in England in 1969.  I'm going to be sharing a few more of his poems during the week, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I am. 

How To Get On In Society

 by John Betjeman.

Phone for the fish-knives, Norman
As Cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.

Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl had replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.

It's ever so close in the lounge, dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea
And Howard is out riding on horseback
So do come and take some with me.

Now here is a fork for your pastries
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know what I wanted to ask you -
If trifle sufficient for sweet?

Milk and then just as it comes, dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.

Have a lovely start to the new week..Cheerio!

Saturday has arrived, and here I sit at my computer, bleary-eyed from another sleepless night while our resident owl merrily disrupts my beauty sleep yet again.  This morning my backyard is full of really strange footprints, and I do mean strange.  And I live in the middle of town!  Evidently we have more wildlife than we realized because little tracks are everywhere, running from under our deck, through my garden and into the arbor vitae.  I wonder if 'my' owl has anything to do with these new tracks?  

At times like these, when am I tired and really not up for much of anything, I love turning to one of my favorite things...my childhood books.  There is such a comfort in re-reading a story that is familiar and you know has a happy ending, so you don't have to be nervous about how things work out for the heroine.  There is certainly a time and place for all the wonderful new books that are out there, but sometimes the best thing is to curl up with an old favorite book that feels so right in your hands, sip a cup of tea and escape back to an earlier time (both the book's and your own!).

One of my all time favorite books is the beloved Daddy Long Legs, by Jean Webster.  It's a sweet and funny story about an orphan, Jerusha Abbott, who is unexpectedly given the opportunity to attend college by an anonymous trustee of the orphanage, who thought her irreverent school essay about her experiences at the orphanage might lead to a career in writing.  She heads off to school as an aspiring author, changing her name to Judy along the way and changing the lives of the friends she makes with her zest for life and appreciation of the marvelous gift she's been given.  How can you not love a girl who exclaims “It isn't the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh--I really think that requires spirit.”  And then, of course, there is that mysterious anonymous trustee, whom she affectionately calls Daddy Long Legs because all she knows about him is that he is very, very tall. Who is he and what part does he play in her life?  I won't reveal more, but if you've never read DDL and its sequel, Dear Enemy, you won't be disappointed! 

Don't you just love the covers of old books?  Here's my copy of Daddy Long Legs, which I have read more times than I can remember.  I somehow romantically thought that my college adventures would echo Judy's, but college in the 70's was a far cry from what Judy and her pals experienced! Oh well, that's one of the reasons I love good stories--it gives us the chance to live vicariously through the characters!

 

 

Here's a great bit of wisdom from young Judy, maybe something we should all remember now and then...

 

“I've discovered the true secret of happiness, Daddy, and that is to live in the now. Not to be for ever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant...I'm going to enjoy every second, and I'm going to know I'm enjoying it while I'm enjoying it. ” 

 

And because not only do I love old books but also poetry, here is a fun little poem about the insect of the day, written by one of my favorite poets, Ted Kooser.  I'm linking today's post over at Mockingbird Hill Cottage so that you will have the opportunity to learn about other women's favorite things as well.  Enjoy!

 

Daddy Longlegs

by Ted Kooser 

Here, on fine long legs springy as steel,

a life rides, sealed in a small brown pill

that skims along over the basement floor

wrapped up in a simple obsession.

Eight legs reach out like the master ribs

of a web in which some thought is caught

dead center in its own small world,

a thought so far from the touch of things

that we can only guess at it. If mine,

it would be the secret dream

of walking alone across the floor of my life

with an easy grace, and with love enough

to live on at the center of myself.

You can find me at
 http://mockingbirdhillcottage.com/

Happy Friday!  Today's question of the day is......WHOOO is keeping me awake all night long?! 

The Night Owl and Harvest Moon Photograph - The Night Owl and Harvest Moon Fine Art Print - Wingsdomain Art and Photography

On the night before New Year's Eve, my husband rolled over about 3 in the morning and whispered "do you hear something?"  As a matter of fact, I did, and so, the ever vigilant mother, I stumbled from my warm bed and went to each bedroom, ear up against the door, listening for the odd sounds I couldn't quite place.  Daughter's bedroom...all was quiet.  Son #2 bedroom...all was quiet.  Son #3 bedroom...all was quiet. (Son #1 is married, or I would have been listening at his door too!).  Checked the dog kennel...Willow was quiet, although definitely awake and wondering what I was doing creeping around in the middle of the night.

And then...there it was again!  Whoo hoo........whoo hoo.......whoo hoo.  An owl!  I rushed to my bathroom window, which overlooks my backyard and our beautiful row of arbor vitaes, and cranked open the window.  And yes, there it was, drifting on the night air, the beautiful and plaintive cry of an owl.  That night it was magical.  New Year's Eve, still a little mystical and other-worldly.  After that, it's become downright annoying--doesn't he have anything better to do than hoot all night and keep me awake?!

Last night, as I was lying in bed tossing and turning and wishing the owl would take a long vacation and visit someone else's trees, I thought of the poem below that I read a few years ago by one of my favorite Midwest poets, Ted Kooser.  Ted Kooser has served two terms as U.S. Poet Laureate and won a Pulitzer prize for his book of poems "Delights and Shadows".  My personal favorite is his 1976 poetry collection "Not Coming to be Barked At."  I love the beautiful way he has with words and the way he can paint a picture with just a few well chosen words.  I hope you enjoy the poem below.  And I hope that my resident owl finds a new perch soon.

Screech Owl

by Ted Kooser

All night each reedy whinny

from a bird no bigger than a heart 

flies out of a tall black pine 

and, in a breath, is taken away 

by the stars. Yet, with small hope 

from the center of darkness 

it calls out again and again.

New Beginnings! 1960

Starting off a new year brings back vivid memories of 1960, when Mother and I started off not only a new year but a new life and a new family!  Following their Christmas Eve wedding and opening presents on Christmas Day, I have sketchy memories of sleeping in the back of the car as we drove through the night from Indiana to South Dakota.  And here we are...ready to unpack our belongings and start our new life.  I had new grandparents, new aunts and uncles and a whole bunch of excited new cousins to play with.

What a lucky little girl I was!  As you can tell from the picture, it didn't take me very long to settle in to my new dad's arms.  I think my dad would have agreed with this little poem I found, written by a Madison, Wisconsin poet.  We started where we stood, and oh, what a life my parents built!

Start Where You Stand

by Berton Braley

Start where you stand and never mind the past,

The past won't help you in beginning new,

If you have left it all behind at last

Why, that's enough, you're done with it, you're through;

This is another chapter in the book,

This is another race that you have planned,

Don't give the vanished days a backward look,

Start where you stand.

As a preface to the poem below--my dad DID make the bookshelf in this picture!  In fact, he built the whole house....

What Dads Do 

by Judith Viorst

Make bookshelves.

Make burgers.

Make money.

Make funny faces that make you laugh.

Scratch your back when you can’t reach where it itches.

Lift you up on their shoulders.

Snore when they’re sleeping (but they say they don’t).

Pitch – but not so fast that you can’t hit their pitches.

Play tickles with you when you feel like a silly person.

Snuggle up close with you when you feel like a sad one.

Dads explain electricity

And peninsulas

And help you count the stars.

I wish I still had one.

Happy New Year!  I'm not one for making resolutions, since I usually break them before the week is up, and  I didn't want to recap 2012 in any way, as the year held too many heartbreaks for our family.  So I have decided to just move forward with 2013 and focus, like Peter Pan, on learning to fly with happy thoughts for this new year.  I have loved every minute of working on this blog and the first six months of writing have gone so fast!  I'm looking forward to sharing many more stories and poems with you in the coming months.  I'm also looking forward to making more 'blogger friends' that share my excitement for good stories and beautiful poetry.  

Here's a lovely poem to start the new year off in fine fashion, written by Helen Hunt Jackson and titled "New Year's Morning".  I love the phrase towards the end of the poem All days are sacred days to wake new gladness in the sunny air.  There's my happy thought for the day!  

Only a night from old to new!

Only a night, and so much wrought!

The Old Year's heart all weary grew,

But said: The New Year rest has brought."

The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,

As in a grave; but trusting, said:

"The blossoms of the New Year's crown

Bloom from the ashes of the dead."

The Old Year's heart was full of greed;

With selfishness it longed and ached,

And cried: "I have not half I need.

My thirst is bitter and unslaked.

But to the New Year's generous hand

All gifts in plenty shall return;

True love it shall understand;

By all y failures it shall learn.

I have been reckless; it shall be

Quiet and calm and pure of life.

I was a slave; it shall go free,

And find sweet pace where I leave strife."

Only a night from old to new!

Never a night such changes brought.

The Old Year had its work to do;

No New Year miracles are wrought.

Always a night from old to new!

Night and the healing balm of sleep!

Each morn is New Year's morn come true,

Morn of a festival to keep.

All nights are sacred nights to make

Confession and resolve and prayer;

All days are sacred days to wake

New gladness in the sunny air.

Only a night from old to new;

Only a sleep from night to morn.

The new is but the old come true;

Each sunrise sees a new year born.