A Little Announcement

    Tomorrow morning, my family and I are leaving for a two-week road trip, which will include visits to Wyoming, Utah, Idaho, Washington, Oregon, California, and possibly Nevada and Arizona.

    I have been to the seashore once: my family stayed for a little while on an island near Corpus Christi, Texas. I cannot wait to see it again.

    Not that I post with a great deal of frequency *apologetic smile*, but if you should worry after me, that's where I'll be.

    I'll bring back lots of pictures. :)

Lucky me . . .

A Romantic Miscellany, Part One

    An opening comment: if you think that I'm just writing this as an excuse to post the above picture, you should be ashamed of yourself. I would never do anything like that.

    Well, you can't ruminate long upon Audrey Hepburn (see previous post) without romance being a lot on your mind. And since romance is on my mind a lot anyway, this time I just couldn't bear the strain. 

    I've been thinking about love songs. What a singular way to express one's feelings! I don't know about the rest of you, but when I hear epic love songs I imagine that the words are directed at me. I'm not saying I need my future true love to burst into song whenever he feels particularly charitable; rather, that if his feelings could be put into words, the lyrics of a certain song would be what they said.

    I have long mulled over what makes a great love song. Sometimes it's a beautiful tune; sometimes it's a passionate vocal; sometimes it's particularly well-chosen lyrics; and sometimes . . . it's not any of those. Sometimes you just hear a song and recognize the love behind it, whether the song is in itself remarkable or not. With all that in mind, I give you:

    My Top Ten favorite Love Songs*

    Or,

    A Chance to Babble About Good Music    

    1. Longer, Dan Fogelberg

    I love listening to him croon this song in his peculiar voice. The gentle guitar and orchestra accompaniment are masterful. The lyrics are truly poetry, possibly the finest I've ever heard, and clearly communicate love at its deepest, strongest, and most eternal. My favorite verse is the last:

Through the years, as the fire starts to mellow

Burning lines in the book of our lives

Though the binding cracks, and the pages start to yellow

I'll be in love with you

I am in love with you.

   

     2. Danny's Song, cover by Anne Murray

    This was originally by Kenny Loggins, but Anne Murray had no problem doing it justice. I've always said that if I could switch my singing voice with anyone's, it would be hers. So strong, so winsome, it shines in this song even more than any other I've heard her perform. I've read that Murray is Canadian. Howsoever that may be, her singing, high-quality and inspired, makes me feel truly and gracefully and immortally American.

    There's something so real about Danny's Song; something that makes you truly remember the magic of such things as the coming of children and being in love. It makes you realize how valuable it all really is. It makes you think about the past and the future and the blessings you have and the simplicity of truest love. I regard it as a breath of fresh air.
   

    3. I Cross My Heart, George Strait 

In all the world, you'll never find

A love as true as mine.

    You don't have to like country music to appreciate this song. I sneer at country music in general, but have a special place in my heart for George Strait. The acoustic guitar intro lends a sweet American flavor to the proceedings, and the profound lyrics, consisting of a promise and and a declaration of love, are impossible to forget.

    4. A Thousand Years, Christina Perri

    I had never heard of this song until two or three weeks ago, when Mary Basquez showed it to me on YouTube. That was all it took; it instantly had a place on my list.

   

I have died every day waiting for you

Darling don't be afraid

I have loved you for a thousand years

I will love you for a thousand more.

    In almost all of the songs on this list, there are at least a few lyrics communicating constancy; the faithfulness of love. Is that why they have been so popular for so long? Deep down, I guess we like to hear songs about love that is not only passionate, but lasts, forever and ever and ever. Though of course there are lots of other lyrics in this song dealing with other thoughts, the concept of love that never ends is what it really means to me.

 

    5. Love Me Tender, Elvis Presley 

    Now, my observations of Elvis-haters (Dad and Ben Franklin) are that any song of his, no matter how good the lyrics or fine the sentiments, is insufferable to experience. If that is the case for any of you, then Norah Jones' remake is also very palatable. In my mind, however, Elvis doesn't need help with this song (or indeed with any of them). He, a master of crooning and a connoisseur of romance, crafted its soul. His rich voice and gentle guitar (again!) leaves you in no doubt of the heart behind it. Timeless is the word. 

    6. To Whom it May Concern, The Civil Wars

    Mary (who else?) introduced The Civil Wars' music to me (and bequeathed upon me their album Barton Hollow). They have a marvelous collection of love songs, but in many ways this one is the most important, because it's about a love story that hasn't happened yet. 

    Those of us who are single can really relate to that. The way it's performed reminds me so much of my own imaginings. So I guess the song is proof that everyone does that; everyone has a special, nameless person living in the back of their heart, waiting to be breathed into life.
    The harmony is, as always, flawless, the guitar gentle and skilled, and there is so much patient love behind the words. I was so surprised to realize that it's all genuine feeling; it's actually possible to love someone you've never met.

  

    

    7. Miss My Love, Lou Rawls

    The main attraction of this song is his voice. It is absolutely the most velvety, chocolaty, suave voice in history. The man could make the Happy Birthday song sound hot.

    His voice, along with the simple, sophisticated background music, remains unflustered throughout, telling you the singer is absolutely certain of the truth of his words. "You'll never find another love like mine . . . "

 
    I don't always prefer the sad love songs, and the lyrics do suggest that the woman to whom they refer was leaving her love. Once, however, when Mother and I had finished listening to this during a 1970s music marathon, I raised the question: "If this was written for a real woman, how could she stand to leave?"
    Mother smiled. "If she did, she came back."
   



Ah, the seventies.



    8. Best of My Love, The Eagles

    This one will make you cry if you listen too hard. It is possibly the saddest love song I've ever heard. It tells about a romance that is ending; about a man with a lost, throbbing heart that still holds an endless tenderness for the woman he is parted from.

   

    I prefer happy love stories and happy endings, and the thought of such a futile attachment leaves a desolation in my bones. I could go on about why I think an ended romance where true love is involved is wrong, but I won't. I will simply say that whatever I think about this song, I will never miss an opportunity to listen to it.

    9. I Will Always Love You, Whitney Houston  

    I can't get over this song. I heard it for the first time after Whitney Houston's death, and was immediately converted into a fan of her music.

    It is so magnificent. The lyrics are quite simple - another sad song - but that's not important. I wouldn't care if all the lyrics were "I will always love you" over and over again. The point is the passion with which they are sung. (What a voice!) It may be the best of all.     

    10. You've Got a Friend, James Taylor

    This song presents yet another facet of a true lover: that of a good, dependable, trustworthy friend. Looking carefully at the lyrics, there isn't anything in this song that exactly indicates that it is romantic. They might illustrate anyone's feelings for their best friend. But if you listen to it, there's no mistaking the romance there, simple and abundant. When I find my true love, the words of this sweet, sweet song are exactly what I'll feel for him.   

    Now, I realize that these are the only the best love songs according to my own taste, which is very antiquated. But I believe there's something in each of these songs that touches a space inside everyone, no matter how modernly inclined they are.
  

    In a few weeks (tomorrow I'll tell you why it'll be so long), I'll present to you part two of this extremely educational stuff. In the meantime, may your life be filled with romance.

   

    Note on the title: My brother, Ben Franklin, has a book (which, considering my love for The Lord of the Rings, I really ought to have read by now) called A Tolkien Miscellany. And I thought: why not take a little idea from that charming little title? Tolkien won't mind.

    *I apologize for not posting accompanying YouTube videos. You see, the Household Teenager Computer has no Audio, so I cannot stake out the best ones for the songs. And I would rather die than unwittingly post a cruddy video.
    The Sacred Dad Computer has audio, but the Sacred Dad computer is, by definition, sacred. One of these days he'll probably even post security guards around it to ward off nearby delinquent offspring.

America's Favorite Brit



    
    Audrey Hepburn is a legend. I'd always known that. But, I figured, let Mary obsess about her; I had better things to do. I admit it: I was an idiot.
    Here is my new book (a present from Mother), recommended to me, of course, by Mary:

    I read the whole thing today. And through these pages, written by her son, Sean Hepburn Ferrer, I became familiar with the "elegant spirit". It was a very short amount of time in which to become so fascinated, but that's often how that goes. I had no idea what an amazing story she had; what an amazing life! Everything I read made a thrill of delight or surprise or sadness rush through me. The book, written through the eyes of love, made her character so clear. One cannot help but have an immense respect for someone who raises her child so well and inspires in them such loyalty. 

    I have seen a total of four Audrey Hepburn movies over the years. (And plan now to never rest until I've seen them all.) My Fair Lady was probably the first, but that was a really really really long time ago, so I watched it again a few years ago to critique it with my new worldly, polished, educated mind. (I was about twelve, I think.)

THE HAT!!!

    It was a hoot. Pure fun from beginning to end. I wonder: wouldn't it be better if all movies were musicals? The costumes rocked. I don't know if I've ever seen such ridiculously wonderful clothes. The romance was delightful, bearing the crowning seal of the best love stories: she got with the guy. I love that. I came away rather wishing for a snotty Englishman of my own.

    And Eliza Doolittle was bewitching.

    The second Hepburn movie I saw was Breakfast at Tiffany's. Holly Golightly was a batty, charming, and unexpectedly vulnerable character, whose windowsill performance of Moon River left a deep impression, making me think I ought to try learning guitar. Anything to be more like her, right? Her presence and style combined with New York sixties awesomeness made the story unforgettable.

    I awarded it the Romantic Seal of Approval. She got with the guy.

   

    Hepburn movie #3: Roman Holiday.

    I watched this with a sense of ever-increasing delight. The romance was charming, the setting was charming, the characters were charming (most especially the main two, the lovely princess Audrey Hepburn and the cynical news reporter Gregory Peck, ooh la la), the clothes were of course charming, and the plot quite original. I liked it so much I might even watch it again. 

    HOWEVER, it does not win my Romantic Seal of Approval. You see, (and forgive me for giving the plot away) She didn't get with the guy. Anyone who made a movie with these two in the leading roles should understand how important that is. 

    If I think about it any more I'll start crying. 

    And the latest pleasure, Sabrina. Now, to other Hepburn fans it may seem like blasphemy to say this, but I must admit that as a movie I prefer the 1990s version of Sabrina. It's one of the most stylish things ever to appear on screen. Also, though I believe my dear friend the Right Honorable L.R.K. might assassinate me if she found out, I do not like Humphrey Bogart. In this particular movie he seemed overdone, somehow, next to Audrey. Of course, Harrison Ford played Linus Larabee in the latest version, and thinking "Bogart vs. Ford" isn't being fair to poor Bogart, is it?

   

    There was a scene in the original which was thankfully not included in the later film, where a lovesick Sabrina Fairchild attempts suicide; that disturbed me a little. But, after all, the moviemakers at that time seemed largely influenced by the theatrical and poetic, and that's the sort of shocking thing they get up to in stories by Shakespeare and the like. 

   

    In spite of everything, however, Audrey Hepburn's performance in the original Sabrina was so endearing that it causes the film to rank equally with the remake in my estimation. One of those cases where the actor makes the movie. She carried herself as gracefully through the story as at any other time, and her clothes were charming. Oh, yeah, and it receives the Romantic Seal of Approval. She gets with the guy, you see.

    I have mentioned clothes a lot. Maybe it makes me sound too teenage-girl or something, but I flinch not a whit when I say that one of the things I admire most about Audrey Hepburn was her remarkable sense of style. She was quite possibly the most influential style icon of all time. I pored over the wealth of photographs in An Elegant Spirit; recalled the many others I'd seen; recalled her every garment in the movies I'd seen. And concluded that she was never badly dressed. Never. Even when unwell and aged before her time, she looked like a million bucks. 

    This is hugely important to me. For those of you who don't know, I love clothes. Handsome clothes, that is. And Audrey's clothing was always beautiful. Her attention to the way she looked, her determination that no one would ever look at her and regret it, was part of why she was so well-loved and influential. Like it or not, people judge by outward appearance. She said herself that the clothes are what people see first. She made it a pleasure for people to see her, and then established their regard by showing them that her character was no less lovely than her exterior.

    So why not wear Givenchy for a lifetime, if you can pay for it? Put it to good use, like she did.

    Naturally someone who knows her story would not appreciate a lack of mention of her work in third-world countries, helping ease horrible suffering. I don't elaborate on that because I wouldn't know where to start. It would take weeks to write something that did justice to the subject. Suffice it to say that my admiration is undying, for she went though a lot as a child in Holland during WWII, and nearing the end of her life, she was willing to see all that sort of thing again, for the sake of doing a little good, and of making use of her passionate love for children.  

      

   

    But the most important effect, I think, that her story had on me, was the the revival of my long-time dream of becoming an actress. Thinking about her successes, her influence, her deep attention to the science of acting, sparked a hot feeling of determination in my chest which I know beyond a shadow of a doubt will never cool. That dream that I didn't think about much just because it seemed so crazy is real; true; it's going to happen. My new role model has seen to it.

   

    I kick myself for not having been born earlier. Like, maybe seventy years ago. That way I could have had the privilege of meeting and perhaps photographing her myself. Wouldn't that be loverly? The photographer's dream subject: a woman who looks perfect from all angles at all times. 

  

    But it was not to be. She died a two or three years before I was born. Still, what a legacy she left. People like me, who paid little attention to her and didn't even share years in her lifetime, cannot escape fanhood for long. And because she is will always be fresh in the hearts even of people far past her generation, she is the only lady in history who will never truly die.    



The haircut rocks my world.



The Glass-Cabinet

    Very well. I will admit that this photograph, even for an amateur photographer, is pretty pathetic. But taking pictures in a kitchen means that the choices for orientation are extremely limited. (In other words, I didn't want you all to see the mulch of spattered cookbooks and wayward telephones beneath and around the cabinet.)

    And now . . .

    You may think you see an ordinary cabinet. (Okay, an ugly ordinary cabinet.) That's what I used to think, too. It's made of terribly plain, pinkish-hued wood, and is opened using those horrid little porcelain handles with the herbs painted on them. Little did I know how strong a hold it had upon me.

    I call it the glass-cabinet for two reasons: 1) because it has glass panes (duh) and 2) because it contains the collected muster of the family's glassware. It is because there are few places in this house which are designated and used for a single purpose that I consider the latter remarkable.

    You know how certain things gather in the dark corners of your mind and stay there awhile without your noticing? That's how the cabinet was. It should have been treated with more respect by yours truly, considering the fact that we have no others of its kind or for its sacred purpose, but I never bothered with it. I fingerprinted the panes, watched passively whilst grease and fly specks gathered on it, and never once pitied its plight. Worst of all, the glassware, each item of which is in itself very handsome, was jumbled about and mixed up and shoved in unceremoniously, so that behind the doors loomed chaos. One never remembered how many glasses of each kind there were, and had to fish about for long minutes just to find the ones one wanted.

    So the ugliness of that cabinet scratched up a nest in my subconscious and made itself comfortable. And it was only when the carefree Ben Franklin commented on it that I realized something had to be done.    

This something turned out to be pretty straightforward. I simply found a cloth and a bottle of Windex and started rubbing. Then it occurred to me that the glasses ought to be organized into proper rows, so I did that, too. Simple.

    But with complicated effects. I felt as I scrubbed, polished, and rearranged, that I was doing the same thing to my cobwebbed soul. That grime and disorganization had weighed so much on me in the past, along with occasional hard times and teenage brooding. When through, I felt enlightened, refreshed, empowered: finally emerging from the layers of weariness I'd gathered over the long winter.

    I daresay the affair was not so important to the rest of the family, for they offered cheerful comment as I worked, perched like a canary on the counter, but did not seem to grasp the pomp of the affair. No, this was a personal battle. To me, what had once been just another ugly cabinet was now a charming facet of a charming home. Looks like it belongs in Green Gables, I thought smugly as I surveyed the victory.

    "So what's the point?" You say.

    The point is that you should keep your cabinets clean. And dust those shelves in your mind's attic. And remember that all will be right in the end. In the meantime, it's best to be gainfully employed.

Notes on a Gentle Art

A long-winded epistle to the one and only Mary Basquez.

    In my room there is a closet. In the top of that closet there is a shelf. And on that shelf . . . there are shoeboxes. Lots of them.

    A few are stuffed so full that they are bound shut with shoelaces and odd bits of string. And one wonders: why does a girl who is so into throwing away junk tolerate these excesses?

    Because they are filled to bursting with letters. I've kept every letter I've ever been sent. Every one. And I will never admit them to be "junk". Junk is a knicknack that your dear old auntie gives you. Or an old library card, an earring with a missing mate, that lucky T-shirt with the tear in the armpit (you swear you'll sew it up someday). But not letters. Never, never letters.

    "Letter" is a small word we use to describe thoughtfulness and love, sealed up in an envelope and sent across kingdom come. A letter is a small, powerful of piece of faith: faith that it will reach its destination; faith that the time you spent on it, which could be so much more efficiently used sending an email or text message instead, was worth it. And when a person receives this gift, it means more to them than a thousand text messages. Why? Because when you send a letter, you send a little bit of your heart.
    That's why I keep them.
   

    Contrary to what many people believe, letter-writing is not some monstrous undertaking which can only be done by "smart folks", novelists, or the Queen of England. Letter-writing is for everyone. As E.V. Lucas says, "It is because plain talk is very often better than brilliant talk that education is of little service to correspondents, and the best writers of books are by no means the best writers of letters." My dear friend Cordelia once said, not long after we first met, that she did not send letters, and wouldn't know what to write. She obviously underestimated herself, because nowadays she is without a doubt one of my most entertaining correspondents. Rather more so, I believe, than even the Queen would be.

    In the old days, everyone wrote and received letters. I live in a time when one barely affords one's own relatives a passing wave, but long ago that passing wave was unheard of, and in its place lived a steady correspondence with any or all that you knew. It was not done only by adults, or spinsters, or elderly people, or professors, but by gentlemen, gentlewomen, businessmen, housewives, schoolchildren, young lovers, soldiers.

    Every sort of person, sending every sort of letter: a marvelous patchwork. 

  

   

    Before the typewriter was invented, every letter was executed with the personal touch of the sender's handwriting. I think such a thing would give me a kinder opinion of humanity overall. Even a typed-out letter with someone's actual signature on it sends me into raptures.

    There's something about knowing that at one time the person's hand touched that paper, held a pen to it, and marked it with the name that they had been taught since childhood to write. It is a pleasure to know that I am worth that special squiggle of ink, that expression of the sender's true identity, that certain moment in their busy life.

   

    I wonder sometimes what people think when they read my letters. Do they sound natural enough? Do they adequately express my feelings at the time that I wrote them? What is it, exactly, that makes a letter good? The key, it seems, is to not overthink it. "The less trouble you give yourself, the better it will be. Letters should be easy and natural, and convey to the persons to whom we send just what we would say if we were with them," says Lord Chesterfield, whoever he is. * 

    Well, I began to follow this advice. Not only do people seem to respond more quickly and cheerfully when you write to them as you speak with them in person (rather than as though they were your English professor), but letter-writing becomes an even more pleasant ritual for the sender.

    At times, of course, I get discouraged. Letters aren't always answered, and even if they were I wouldn't always feel like writing them. When that happens, it takes some reflection to get back in the mood. 

    The truth is, I love so many people so well, and sending them kind words on paper is the best way to show that to them, since all of them, friends and relatives, live too far away for me to see often.

    But even after I tell myself that, I protest again: I don't have anything to write.

    People, that is not an excuse. There is always something to write. Begin with "Dear", end with "Love", and in between tell the recipient that you are well, that you miss them. That is the heart of the letter, and the rest will follow: you'll remember something they did for you, and you'll thank them for it. You'll remember a book you read that they would enjoy, and you'll tell them about it (but just enough so they will want to read it for themselves). You'll tell them about how your life is going, and what the different members of your family are up to. Anything goes, because what their mind reads is not as important as what their heart reads: that they are loved.

              

  

*The quotes in this post were found in a sweet little book called "Writing Letters with Pen and Ink", by Edward St. Paige. Thus, I may not know who Lord Chesterfield is, but I like him anyway. 

P.S. It takes a lot out of me to admit to something like the above. I mean, what if Lord Chesterfield is one of those people about whom everyone knows except me? What if, upon saying so in company, the room rings with the words "You don't know who Lord Chesterfield is?......."

"..............you must be homeschooled."