Downstream

When in the country the waterfall is the center of attention. It is majestic and loud and beautiful. It slows people down, they pause and contemplate. The stream it feeds into becomes an afterthought. So I've been trying to pay more attention to what goes on downstream. The smaller falls, swirls and eddies formed by rocks. The rocks themselves. Mossy, ferny twiggy things.

 Icy bits are starting to form.

Thanksgiving was an eclectic bunch of friends, everyone brought something. I  made my favorite applesauce cake. I boil apple slices in apple cider so it is very apple-y. Holiday lights went up in the little towns, a wonderful thing when it gets dark at 4:00. There were lots of leftovers, and Reader, I read Jane Eyre for the first time.

xo, Jennifer

on the waterfront

The Italian film Shun Li and the Poet, is about friendship, mostly, and immigration, poets and fishing. It is poignant and lovely and sad, a little bit heartwarming, a dash of toughness. I found it on dvd at the library, a great source for movies. I also recently read a fierce and loving book called My Brilliant Friend, by Elena Ferrante, the story of the friendship of two girls in Naples in the 1950's. So detailed and fascinating and infuriating. It is the first in a trilogy, and I am making myself wait a bit before I read the next one.

The above pictures were taken last weekend, on the waterfront in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

a country weekend

wildflowers along the stone wall

standing behind the waterfall

a barn with a rocket

a barn with a crocodile

the road to town

a visit to Bibliobarn

and more wildflowers.

a country weekend, arrival

My arrivals at our country house follow a pattern. Day or night I first check on the waterfall. I hear it as soon as I get out of the car, framing why I love the Catskills, wilderness and wildness set among rolling hills and dairy farms. The waterfall is fed by snowmelt and rain, so by the end of summer slows to a trickle, but big rains last week had it roaring.

Then I unpack the car, go in the house, open the windows, 

and if it's daytime go back outside. 

I arrived Friday late afternoon so had plenty of time to explore.

I walked to the frog pond to make sure the frogs were there.

So many species have become extinct in recent years that I worry, 

but there were tadpoles and frogs in every stage.

They leap away at any movement of my shadow.

Next I investigated the wildflowers.

Forget me nots, tiny and delicate,

that perfect blue with the yellow center, takes my breath away.

Everywhere I looked there were layers of nature.

I picked some flowers and ferns

and went into the house to put them in water.

I chose a couple of my nature books 

and took them, along with ice water, raspberries

and Denise Parsons' (of Chez Danisse) new book 

After the Sour Lemon Moon, and went back outside to read.

"The train pulls slowly to a stop. I tug my suitcase down from the rack above and exit into the blue hour. It is quiet. I can hear myself breathe."

                                                                               from,  After the Sour Lemon Moon

 Yes, I can hear myself breathe.

childhood flowers

A visit to Bow Street Flowers means a flower filled house.

The scent of lilacs is with me as I write this.

When I was a child we had massive lilac shrubs on the edge of our yard--

my favorite summer space in which to read and daydream.

Lilacs takes me back to the worlds of 

All of  A Kind of a Family, The Saturdays, 

A Wrinkle in Time, The Witch of Blackbird Pond

The Borrowers, Pippi Longstocking.

Places I wanted to live, families I wanted for my own.

Are there flowers that evoke your childhood?

armchair travel

The wind is howling and there's a blizzard on Cape Cod--I kind of wish I was in Provincetown in heavy snow and winds, the wild ocean surrounding that little spit of land, windblown tales of shipwrecks and endurance...

Speaking of endurance, I recently read two powerful works of non-fiction: Wave, by Sonali Deraniyagala, who lost her entire family (husband, children, parents) in the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami, is harrowing and beautifully written. Unbroken, A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption, by Laura Hillenbrand is also harrowing, suspenseful, and a real page-turner.

When I was sick I mentioned that I was reading the Bruno, Chief of Police detective series. I also read The Martian, by Andy Weir and thoroughly enjoyed it. Simply written, oddly compelling. Some brilliant short stories from Archangel, (natural science and history) by Andrea Barrett and The Things They Carried (Vietnam War) by Tim O'Brien balanced things out a bit. 

I've discovered something about short stories--it's good to mix them up. They can be intense, and sometimes stories by one author can have a similarity of tone. Following the voice of one author with a different one keeps it fresh. I know a lot of people don't think they like short stories (we discussed that here) but they can fill a niche of time or mood.

When I felt better I had a craving for a big India book. I have a lot of novels that take place in India and I feel compelled to keep them together. You can see many of them in the picture above (and a glimpse of the foot of my bed--always have book choices handy). I remembered that I'd only read the first book in Paul Scott's Raj Quartet, and had mixed feelings about it, but I read the second book and loved it, so now I'm reading the third.

In the last month my reading has taken me to Sri Lanka, Japan, France, Mars, Vietnam, and India. Is there a book you love that has a strong sense of place?

winter reading

Looking for answers I am reading Winter World, by Bernard Heinrich. I've not discovered the secret of deer winter watering holes, but I did find out why ice doesn't sink:

There is something quite remarkable, simple, and yet profoundly important that happens when water turns to ice in a pond. Compare this with what happens when water turns to ice in a cloud. In a cloud, the ice crystals fall because water and ice are heavier than air and the gas phase of water. However water becomes lighter when it transforms from a liquid to a solid state.

Is that something I should have known?

 I just finished rereading The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje. Oh, that man can write.

Sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their prayers before dawn. He walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between South Cairo and her home. The beautiful songs of faith enter the air like arrows, one minaret answering another, as if passing on a rumor of the two of them as they walk through the cold morning air, the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound. 

###

Read him slowly, dear girl, you must read Kipling slowly. Watch carefully where the commas fall so you can discover the natural pauses. He is a writer who used pen and ink. He looked up from the page a lot, I believe, stared through his window and listened to birds, as most writers who are alone do. Some do not know the names of birds, though he did. Your eye is too quick and North American. Think about the speed of his pen. What an appalling, barnacled old first paragraph it is otherwise.

I keep thinking about the phrase "appalling, barnacled old first paragraph". The brilliant use of the word barnacled. I've read most of Ondaatje's books, but not In the Skin of a Lion. That's next.

we are the night ocean

 So many birds stop by before it snows. I fill the feeders and scatter seed on top of the old snow, watch them swoop in, cluster, chatter. It's bitter cold again and I'm reading a wonderful book, Body & Soul by Frank Conroy. New York in the 1940's, a lonely, neglected young child prodigy taken under the wing of a neighborhood music store owner. A book filled with heart and soul.

I'm going to have tomato soup with grated cheddar cheese in it for dinner, while the rest of the family eats Cuban pork sandwiches from leftover pork Bob made last night. (I have never acquired a taste for pork.) I have some good clementines too.

Whenever I post something personal (like family pictures) I have to overcome the urge to remove them, and then I usually put up another post the next day, a more impersonal one---birds, books, mugs of tea...

We are the night ocean filled
with glints of light. We are the space
between the fish and the moon,
while we sit here together.
                            
                                   -Rumi

flowers and books in the winter house

White freesias from the supermarket mix with garden greens and reds,
for a nice winter bouquet.

(The scent of freesia is too strong for some, but I love it--it's
the top note of Antonia's Flowers, one of my favorite perfumes.)

How to survive the polar vortex.

And, I have some book recommendations for you.

 I'm always looking for literary detective/crime novels (no that's not an oxymoron). Norwegian by Night by Derek Miller is smart and suspenseful, with appealing characters and an interesting setting. An American widower (Korean war veteran, early stages of dementia) living with his granddaughter in Norway, protects his traumatized young neighbor (who witnessed his mother's murder). The two of them flee the killer, and their ensuing adventures are a poignant mix of humor and terror.

Submergence is breathtaking, and will stay with me for a long time. An English spy and an Australian oceanographer meet and fall in love at a British seaside hotel. The book goes back and forth between their points of views: he, captured by Somalian terrorists and she, on a ship off the coast of Greenland, preparing to dive to the ocean floor in a submersible. Love and science, deserts and oceans, wonder and terror. Read more about it here.

I'm late to the 66 Square Feet blog, but I'm catching up, and was moved to buy the book 66 Square Feet: A Delicious Life, One Woman, One Terrace, 92 Recipes. It's a lovely combination of beautifully written essays, recipes and photographs; each chapter encompassing one month. I've been savoring it--reading one month at a time.

Now jump on over to Jane's to see more Flowers in the House. You'll be glad you did.

Jen

books...gift ideas

Books were always under the tree when I was a child, and I kept up the tradition with my family. The other day my son Matt and I went to the New England Mobile Book Fair (when I first saw the name I though it was a book mobile) to buy some gifts. They used to shelve their books by publisher, not subject or author, which made a lot of people crazy, but I loved the randomness--it became a real exploration. I was disappointed to see that the books are now conventionally shelved, but it's still a great store. Half of it is older bargain books, which is always fun.

I freeze up when people ask me what my favorite_______ (color, movie, book) is, but I do enjoy reading other people's lists. It's been a great year of reading for me, so here are my absolute favorites that I read in last year or so--substantial books that could make great gifts.

Literary Novels 
The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt
The Roundhouse, Louise Erdrich
A Constellation of Vital Phenomena, Anthony Marra
Swamplandia, Karen Russell 
Live by Night, Dennis Lehane
The Dog Stars, Peter Heller

Memoirs
Wild, Cheryl Strayed
Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness, Alexandra Fuller

Older Gift-Worthy Novels  I Read This Year
The Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz Zafon (thanks to Amelia for the recommendation). It would be fun to pair this with Mr. Penumbra's 24-hour Bookstore.
All the Pretty Horses, Cormac McCarthy (The entire Border Trilogy would make a nice gift.)
A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth
Winter's Tale, Mark Helprin (The third time I've read it.)

Advice on Love and Life
Tiny Beautiful Things,  Cheryl Strayed

Poetry
The Ecopoetry Anthology
New and Selected Poems, Volumes 1 and 2, Mary Oliver (Dream Work is my favorite single volume of hers)
The Four Seasons Poems, Everyman Library Anthology
The Everyman Library Pocket Poet series is wonderful--attractive little books, reasonably priced. Great gifts!

And
The Best American Series is terrific. I buy several of them every year--always the essay, travel writing, and sports writing volumns. Don't feel you have to limit yourself to this year's books--the older ones make good reading too.

I hope to do another post of detective/espionage suggestion (and maybe on some other random book gift ideas). I read all kinds of books, so feel free to email me (or comment) if you want some suggestions. I'd love to know any favorites of yours too.

Jen

p.s. Comments from Alicia and Petra remind me that the majority of people who comment here don't live in the U.S.A. and therefore have no (or limited) access to the books I mention. I didn't think about that when I wrote the post. If you live in another country and have a favorite book or two from there I would love to know what they are. I found the Zafon book when asking Amelia for books by Spanish authors. thank you, merci danke gracias grazie spasbida cheers!

unharvested

It's been a beautiful autumn, brisk and crisp, leaves from green to gold, scarlet, orange, bronze, glowing yellow. The windows are open and I'm taking long walks and trying to savor, store it up for bleaker days.  I've discovered pink lady apples, (they've edged out honeycrisps as my favorite) and beautiful sunsets from my studio windows: fat pink clouds and streaks of gold over the old mill town of Lowell.

I've been culling my books, pruning, paring, streamlining, saving only the ones who touch my heart.

The rest go to More Than Words  a used books store that trains teens in foster care: "Empowering youth to take charge of their lives by taking charge of a business."

You know when you go into someone's house and look at their books, you get to know them? Here are most of my surviving A, B, and start of the C (by author) novels, those that aren't scattered elsewhere or in the country. It's scary how few there are, but it feels good too, that I've passed along the ones I'm pretty sure I won't read again, stripped down to the necessities.

"May something always go unharvested!
 May much stay out of our stated plan,
 Apples or something forgotten and left,
 So smelling their sweetness would be no theft."

from Unharvested, by Robert Frost

I wish I had a river

I couldn't bear to leave my flowers from Bow Street behind, so they made the four-hour drive to the country with me, listening to podcasts (I'm so modern) The Moth and Judge John Hodgman.

Saturday we had friends over for dinner, great fun except for the part where Bob sliced his finger on the mandolin (onions not music) and had to go to the hospital for repairs.

But we carried on--there was pumpkin soup, gingerbread ice cream and a typically eclectic Catskills mix of folks--half gay, half straight, lives filled with journalism, art, Harley Davidsons, vegetable gardens, the Bronx Zoo, poetry, and a delightful five-year old named Ruby... 

The high hills were frosted with snow, and the raw days of November have arrived.

 I am stockpiling books for the winter. Loved The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt--great writing and great story. I also enjoyed Elizabeth Gilbert's The Signature of All Things (Victorian botanists. Lots of moss.) Deep hefty books filled with engaging and eccentric characters--you might want them on your own winter list.

On the way home, the flowers and I listened to music, songs that remind me of my California years.