A Charmed Life

The Story of the Charms

So, about those charms at the top of the page.

Like a lot of girls born in the '50s and '60s, I had a charm bracelet that was added to every year at Christmas and significant events in my life. I don't remember how young I was when I received it--I can't remember a time when I didn't have it. It must have been when I was about 5, though, because of the ballet-themed charms (I only took one year of ballet but dined out on the memories for years) and I got my hair cut short that year, too (comb and scissors).

My dad's sisters, who were always well-dressed, beautifully groomed, and bejeweled (and still are) and who were unmarried and had only one niece to dote on until I was 11, gave me the charms. Their first cousin worked in the jewelry business and had access to the finest. And, let's face, it, they just don't make charms like this anymore. You see the jack-o'-lantern and the birthday cake? The tops open to reveal candles inside. The "mad money" cube has a real dollar inside (oh, the times I seriously considered cracking it open and using that dollar!), the purse opens to reveal a teensy coin (it's attached, or I would have lost it decades ago), the delicate ballerina does her arabesque bedecked with sapphires, rubies, and a pearl, and so on. The older charms came with an antiqued patina. I had the Greek charms (bouzouki and pointed evzone shoe) soldered on when I was in my teens. We picked the bracelet up from the jeweler and all the antiquing had been polished off. "We cleaned it, it was so dirty!" the young clerk said to my astonished and crestfallen face.

I have to laugh when I look at some of the charms. The Valentine heart and Christmas charms I get. But a skate? I haven't been on skates since I outgrew my double runners. An artist's palette? I always fancied myself an artist but that was more ego than talent. Same for the ballerina charms. And, did you notice, there's no typewriter or pen? It seems that the charms I requested represented my dreams rather than my reality.

When I was a child I wore the bracelet to any dress-up occasion, which included church, weddings, family birthdays, and holidays. As an only child I was invited to a lot of events that were otherwise attended mostly by adults, and the charms often served as my companions. I would play with the ones that opened and closed, imagine myself as the graceful ballerina dancing to the sounds of the orchestra, or gaze at the heart and dream about meeting my own true love. I would fantasize about spending that dollar.

I love my charm bracelet. It's magical to me. It reminds me of my childhood. It reminds me of my aunts who love me unconditionally and mean the world to me. I wore it as my "something blue" on my wedding day.

It's part of my story. My charmed life.

Breathe with me

Whew, sorry about that last post. This is supposed to be a fictionalized account of gracious living (i.e. bad stuff edited out of my life), but sometimes, you just have to lay it on the line. Anyway, it's all better now. So, all together now: Ohmmmmmmmmmmm.

Those are my daughters' initials, actually, propped up on the mantel until I figure out where to put them. Mine and hubby's are up there, too. For some reason--the weight distribution or the lack of a flat bottom (hmmmm, sounds like my body), the C would not stand on it's own. So my husband said, "Lean on me," fully aware of its double meaning. I DO lean on him to get me through.

Here's what handy hubby did while we were away in Vermont:

There used to be a solid door here in the kitchen until my husband made a clear improvement with this salvaged French door. The crystal doorknobs and carved brass thingies that hold the doorknobs on are original to the door. Considering there are six doors in the kitchen (to the mudroom, pantry, dining/tea room/parlour, cellar, hall, and back stairs), this adds variety, light, and spaciousness. And it's just cool. Thanks, HH!

A little tarnish on the charm

My fellow bloggers, sometimes, I think, people forget that this is a public forum. As someone who has been a journalist for half my life, I am very aware of the dangers of plagiarism, intellectual property theft, etc. I am also sensitive to the fact that when you write publicly, you are open to a variety of reactions. Not everyone gets your jokes, agrees with your point of view, or interprets facts the same way you do.

I have not had any problems so far with this blog, and I re-read everything very carefully before I hit "publish." There are a lot of things I would like to put out there, but I don't because who knows who is reading this? I know that I get some 450 hits a day here, and though I realize about 259 of those are just me checking in to see if anyone has commented, I'm definitely "out there." In fact, because of my line of work, which has my name on just about everything I do, a Google search of my name brings up several pages. Articles I wrote when Google was still just a noun are still floating around out there. So I try to be careful. I realize that as intimate as I would like this space to be, our comments are not just "between you and me."

So, what is this all about? I can't go into detail. Let's just say this: if you feel someone has done you a wrong, I strongly recommend you contact the person first to get the facts before blogging about it. Intellectual property theft is serious business, but so is defamation of character.

Blue Plate Special

It's school vacation week and I took the girls to Vermont for a couple of days because a) we wanted to see even more snow (not!), and b) we wanted to visit some wonderful friends of ours who live there (absolutely!). Eloise and Olivia became friends while attending middle school and as a bonus, Nick and I were lucky enought to get her parents, Wendy and Chris, as friends in the bargain. You may remember Chris, who manages a farm up there, from this picture; Wendy is everything I love in a friend: honest, self-deprecating, down-to-earth, smart, well-read and quick with the witty remark. She's a fabulous writer and an incredible photographer/artist/web designer to boot.

While the girls bonded over sledding and video games, Wendy gave me the grand tour of S. Woodstock and Woodstock. The area is just chock-a-block with charm, from the undulating hillsides to the antique homes. I was getting whiplash from trying to take in all the scenery at once. I would show you what it looked like, but forgot my dang camera. However, we stopped in a darling antiques-and-more shoppe (they're all "shoppes" around there) and while the prices weren't outrageous, they were mostly over my budget. Until I found the $2 basket tucked under a table. There I scooped up these two soup bowls by Royal Worcester for a total of 4 bucks.

On Tuesday night, we let the big girls have a teens-only sleepover and Meredith and I decamped to a 250-year-old bed and breakfast, Grist Mill House. We were the only lodgers that night, but my guess is that the proprietor treats everyone who stays there with the same amount of attention and care. We stayed in the Miller's Room, so named because the miller stood there while he tended the mill: there is a spot worn in the wood floor where he planted his foot as he worked, and Meredith had great fun standing in the spot. (Photo from the Grist Mill House website)

Before we went to bed, we sat on the warm leather sofas by the wood stove and Meredith showed me how to play mancala and then proceeded to trounce me several times over. The next morning we rose to the aroma of fresh coffee, hot chocolate, and freshly baked scones; our proprietor, Peter, had also lit candles, placed bowls of fresh fruit at our places, and turned on soothing flute music recorded by his son's friend in a canyon in the desert. Then he brought out eggs, hash, and homemade bread in addition to the incredible scones. It was all delicious.

By the time we reluctantly left for home yesterday, I had a full-blown headcold, so I enjoyed sleeping in my own bed last night. And, my handy hubby had yet another surprise for me when I arrived. Pics of that in the next post.

Wishing for Spring

This charming book is based on a fairytale by Sibylle von Olfers and a modern quilt by Sieglinde Schoen Smith. The story talks of how below the winter snow, Mother Earth and her children prepare for spring, dusting off bumblebees and painting fresh, colorful coats on the ladybugs before emerging through the earth as the first flowers of spring. The story and illustrations are absolutely enchanting.

Banner Day

Cupcake wanted equal time on the blog, especially as she allowed us to take a picture of her with a thread over her nose. It was just too cute. She hates it when we say she's "cute." She says, "Tell that to the mice I lay waste to." She is a pretty good huntress. Lucky for the mice, Cupcake takes them to the girls' rooms while they're still alive and they can often escape within the piles of clothes, books, hair accessories, etc.

Do you like the new banner? I've mostly figured it out. Not sure why there's a border only on three sides, but hey, it's different from the boring one before. I used the free online image editor, by the way, and it worked great.

I thought about using this one, courtesy of my friend Cheryl, who is having a birthday today, plus it's her wedding anniversary in the same week as Valentine's Day. (Cheryl, what were you thinking??)

And then there was this one:

but I couldn't seem to get the proportions right. That picture is from my "studio," the former maid's quarters in our attic (where the maid lived LONG before we moved in). When I finally convinced my husband I would not hire a pretty French maid to live up there, he turned the abandoned room (about 6' x 7') into an adorable craft room.

For Valentine's Day this year, he not only made a lovely dinner (which, frankly, doesn't earn him a lot of extra points because he cooks all the time) he led me down to the cellar where he unveiled a Victorian bureau I had bought at a yard sale a few years ago, with lots of scratched yellow paint and balky drawers but some very nice molding. He brought it in from the garage, stripped, sanded, and stained the whole thing, painted the insides of the drawers and added new knobs. I was speechless. When he brings it up to the bedroom tomorrow I'll take a pic and share.

Today he and the teen are at a 24-hour sci-fi marathon and the little one and I are home alone. I think shopping and lunch will be on the schedule.

Happy Valentine's Day

This is an odd Valentine's Day. Usually there is much indecision over what kind of Valentines to make or buy, fretting (for the older daughter) over whom to give them to, and fussing over pink and red ensembles and accessories. This morning, not so much of that. Meredith, 11, made one Valentine, for her best friend, and Olivia, 15, is not giving Valentines at all, only hoping that a special someone will look her way in a certain way. "Only." Meredith did leave here in a flurry of pink. But aside from that, no fuss. Except for me, of course, I've bought them candy treats (ssssshhhhh) and am wearing my sparkly pink rhinestone heart earrings (with golden bows, no less) that my best friend gave me back in the '80s. And of course, there's the blog.

I promised Kim of Daisy Cottage that I would make her a vintage fabric heart, and this is as far as I got. But I promise you, Kim, I will finish and send it to you.

See? It's odd, spending time on a Valentine for a friend I've never met. And yet, I'm having so much fun with this blog (and must thank Kim for all the referrals). And, to my "real life" friends who haven't heard from me--I haven't forgotten you. I will be in touch. There is much to talk about and share. Love to all of you.

Hop on Over

...to Bella-Enchanted to get in on the Easter Basket Swap. Sorry if I'm seeming to rush the holiday seasons along, but sign-ups for the swap end Feb. 20 and Easter is early this year ("American" Easter that is. We celebrate both that and Greek Easter in my family). Easter is my favorite holiday, so I signed up for the swap quick as a bunny.

OK, you can go back to your Valentine preparations now.

Be mine

God bless my mother, she saved everything. These are my own personal valentines given to me in the '60s by my classmates. Back then we decorated boxes for our valentines. There was a prize for the best one, decided by the teacher. Or maybe we voted, I don't remember. I remember I never won, which really irked me. And then everyone paraded around the classroom dropping valentines into each others boxes. Later, on the bus, we'd open them and read them like tea leaves. Hmmm that one from Chuck has three hearts on it--does that mean he likes me? Or LIKE-likes me? Peter's says he has a "yen" for me--ewwwww! And the one from Barbara--she's popular--has a girl with a cool phone on it. Does that mean she thinks I'm cool, too?

Of course, your best friend always gave you the one with the prettiest girl on it. That's what made her your best friend.

Back to the valentines boxes. When it comes to art, I am really good at copying--not so great at being original. I don't mean stealing and taking credit for something. When someone compliments me on an arrangement of objects in my living room I'll readily tell them I saw it in a magazine. If they rave about the color of my bedroom walls, I tell them they can find it on a backdrop at Pottery Barn.

But I am NEVER the person who thinks up the new trend, the new twist, the original artistic thought. I remember one year I covered my valentine box with paper lace, red ribbons, and hearts. You just couldn't GET more valentiney than that. But Barbara Davies--my nemesis--made her valentine box look like Snoopy's house, with a cardboard Snoopy sleeping on top. Of course, she won. The next year, I made a Snoopy house just like Barbara's, and of course I didn't win. It was a beautiful box--just perfect--but not original. Someone with a paper lace-covered box won.

As this sort of experience has repeated itself throughout my life, I have come to ask, Can originality be learned? You can study techniques, erase and do over, silence your inner critic. You can get better at art. But can you improve your ability to be original?

As I struggle to put together this piece of art that expresses me, I try to breathe, let go of expectations, banish critical thoughts, and just go with what is me, and with the tools and talents I have. I try to go into a meditative state to capture that original thought. But it's like trying to make yourself fall asleep--the harder you try to make it happen, the more elusive it is.

I think I need to find a best friend for my art. Someone to tell me SHE thinks mine's the prettiest valentine's box. Hmmm....where did those children go...they're still at an age where everything Mom does is the best....

Puppy love

How did I ever get along without this dog? I mean, my husband's great, the daughters have their moments, but, this dog, my Senghe, he just makes my life worth living. I miss him when he's gone to the groomer for half a day, for goodness' sake.

OK, I'm exaggerating. Slightly. This puppy love just took me by surprise, that's all. I was always a cat person. I never considered myself a dog person. I liked certain dogs (my friend Jeanne's miniature schnauzer Gris comes immediately to mind--I still miss him). I even had a dog as a youngster. Linus was my birthday present when I was 11. I loved him, but he quickly figured out that my mother would feed him, pet him, baby him, and spoil him, more than I would--more than most humans would, in fact--and so he quickly became my mother's dog.

"You treat him better than you treat me!" I once accused. And she readily agreed, pointing out that, "He doesn't talk back."

I was furious, of course (I was a teenager; I was always furious), but now I understand. When I come home, the kids say hi and may even give me a hug, but Senghe greets me as if he hadn't eaten for a week and I'm wearing a steak suit. After 18 years of marriage, my husband is still affectionate, but if I want some real cuddling on the couch, I just have to give Senghe the eye, and instantly he's molded his fluffy body to my lap.

He likes to play in the yard with the girls; he helps my husband with "manly" chores like fence building and yard work (true, he doesn't actually do much heavy lifting, but he patrols the perimeter while Nick works).

But, like Linus, Senghe knows who butters his bread, so to speak. And so, he adores me. And at this stage of my life, who can blame me if I favor the one who puts me on a pedestal?