Spotlight on the Brontes

Re-reading after many years.

I first read Wuthering Heights when I was about eleven or twelve years old, and since that time, I've been fascinated by the Brontes.

When I read Wuthering Heights, I became bewitched by the moors, Heathcliff, the ghostly presence of Catherine, yet most of the content went over my head which was a good thing because from the beginning the book steams with intrigue and pulls the reader into a wild world of cruel dysfunction and passionate obsession.

Recently, I watched the  2009 TV production Of Wuthering Heights with actors Charlotte Riely as Cathy and Tom Hardy as Heathcliff.  Tom Hardy draws the viewer into the black hole of the Heathcliff's volatile, repellant yet magnetizing psychopathic personality swiftly; he's definitely the wild man of the moors. What an outstanding performance!

Jane Eyre...Not as tumultuous as Wuthering Heights but it's another wild excursion fraught with passionate characters. Consider Jane with her carefully constructed stoicism that ripples through still waters that run deep, and, of course, Rochester contorted by betrayal, fired by anger and smoldering with need. Rochester could be defined as {a}"man who broods over his life like night above a lamp." (A wonderful line snipped from the Collected Poems In English by Joseph Brodsky.)

In the Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Helen is brave and insular woman who can't speak the unspeakable, but whose shocking story is read: conveyed to the reader via a diary. A framing device that creates distance, but also serves to pump up the suspense.
 
Emily, Charlotte, and Anne were courageous writers.  They ventured into the darkness to spread light  on the things that people, then and now, are shocked and haunted by and still tend to hide.

And what of the father, Patrick Bronte? I cannot understand why he dropped his daughters off at Cowan school and drove away without so much as a peek inside.

Charlotte's depiction of the school in Jane Eyre must have caused him great pain when he read her novel. And it's naive to assume that the clergy are insulated individuals. Long before Patrick's daughters were grown women, he had probably seen and heard it all.

And what were people in the village saying about his daughters and about their books? Could they afford to buy the books? What was the literacy rate in the village? Did Patrick read Emily's and Anne's books as well? Obviously, Patrick recognized his daughters' genius, but just how progressive and open minded was he? Maybe his daughters' novels tell that tale.

At this time, since I can't visit the parsonage or haunt the moors, (I'd love to visit) I'm off to search for biographies about Patrick Bronte.


(Interesting to note and something I recently read stated that Bronte ( the surname name chosen by Patrick ) was a Greek God whose name means thunder.  (Fitting because the sisters used storms to foreshadow moods or events, and because they are still taking the world by storm.) 

Progressing...

A favourite: Matcha Latte.

After trying a few different methods to join yarn, I finally settled on the overlap join. I had planned to begin again with the yarn from the rest of the hank and join on the lace section, but I decided against ripping it out. Of course, I think I can see the join, so the following slogan applies.

On the plus side, the colour is gorgeous and I love the design. You can see the one I made for my sister here.

I hope to find a tea cup with this pithy bit of advice on it.

Enjoy the weekend...

The Ides and Beyond

A wee pom pom made with a fork for a bit of fun.

On past the Ides of March and soon we will cross the line to meet the first official day of spring as it creeps slowly up the eastern seaboard. In the meantime, I am writing short stories, enjoying the sunlight, and knitting a few rows now and then.

Unfortunately, as I was knitting my shawl the yarn broke at a weak spot. I've tried a spit splice, but for some reason it didn't work, and I've tried a Russian join but that looked too bulky. I'm thinking of adding yarn at the beginning of the row and weaving it in later, although if I Russian join looked less than stellar, I am not sure about weaving in the ends. I've never had a problem with a Russian join before. Oh!  If anyone has other suggestions, please let me know.

                                                          Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Looks Like Leisure

When I saw this picture, I had to take a photo of it. Although sparsely furnished, I think the only thing missing from this room is a rocking chair; however, like the link suggests, the room was probably part of the kitchen and the chair Laura sits in was likely pulled from a nearby corner.

The ornately dressed mantle, like the rocking chair, may not have been practical or affordable for many households at the time, but a hooked rug would have added a little warmth and style to the room.  I have an old hooked rug made from scraps of wool.  I'll post a picture of it soon.

Courting Favour

Even before wool courted royal favour, I loved it. Royal favour?  (European citizens are probably aware, but on this side of the pond, because I've just tumbled off the turnip truck, for me, it's big news.) The news: Prince Charles is the royal patron and initiator for The Campaign For Wool.  Thanks to Prince Charles' efforts runway models are now wearing more knitted garments and more wool products are enhancing homes. And because of the increase in demand for wool, farmers are now raising sheep for their wool instead of, in some cases, only for their meat. Prince Charles' campaign has, no doubt, also helped save a few rare sheep breeds.

With so many great indie knitting designers and yarn dyers to choose from, I've been prompted me to be a bit more daring with some of my purchases. Of course, I've ordered a few hanks of wool that I was certain, after I touched them, that I wouldn't like, but I've learned that you can't always judge a hank by how it feels, looks, or by the hype attached to the ball band or lack there of.  Of course, after I cast on and knit a few rows I know if the yarn works for me. Although I've had a few disappointments--one recently, thankfully, there have been many more wonderful surprises. As those who knit know, when the yarn and the knitter mesh, it's cloud nine elation: pure bliss.

Samples from my blue hoard.

Although the camera didn't capture it, the blue yarn is indigo. It's gorgeous.

I've heard some of you are enjoying spring. Hurray! We, the winter weary folk, are still besieged by banks of snow and cold temperatures. However, since March arrived like a lion, I am hopeful that it will go out like a lamb. I can't wait!

Thanks for reading...

Birds of a Feather

A visit to the bird sanctuary brought unexpected surprises. When I got out of the car, the Chickadees flew to me looking for food. I found a fortune cookie in the car, so I thought I'd share. As you can see it  wasn't entirely appreciated, although for politeness sake they did try a nibble.

 

WHAT"S THAT? Where are the seeds?

ANY on the ground?

I drove to the next town for supplies.  That's better!

I told you I 'd turn my tail on you if you didn't stop taking my picture.

That red dot is a cardinal. The first one I have ever seen. There were eight around. Thrilling!

The doe came to see if I had a treat for her too.

Off the needles....

Shaelyn Shawl. The colour reminds me of the Chickadees, so I thought I'd add the pic to this post.

Illumination

In this part of the world, daylight is increasing by one, sometimes, two minutes a day, and Daylight Savings Time begins March 9th.   So now instead of getting dark at 4:20, it stays light until successive washes of blue deepen around 6p.m. (That's almost 10.5 hours of daylight!) 

Once upon a time, I lived in the Arctic where, during the winter, it was dark for nearly 30 days. Clocks seemed useless, although most of us lived by the clock, but in what, at times, seemed like slow motion.  Finally, after the long dark siege, the truant sun clipped the horizon on the 6th of January.

Watching the sun sneak a peek at the world at approximately 1:45 p.m. on Jan., 6th was a welcome sight. It made me feel giddy, relieved, and sent my spirit soaring.  And even though it was beyond cold, almost everyone came out to celebrate the Sunrise. 

Standing on the frozen Mackenzie River in the dark, cold air, I distinctly remember watching a dizzying array of fireworks ignite the sky--fireworks that, for me, never looked so magnificence, nor boomed with more applause.

Enjoy the light that lingers... 

And have a Happy Valentine's Day!   
      

         That love is all there is

        Is all we know of love

         It is enough, the freight should be

         Proportioned to the groove.

           Emily Dickinson

Tapestry

Set in a wooden frame. Circa 1860's.

As soon as I saw this gorgeous tapestry, I wanted to know more.  Because it was on the floor, near the desk of a museum guide, it was difficult to photograph properly.

The guide knew nothing about the tapestry, but that doesn't wash with the curious.  So I'll be writing, as I go along, an imaginative interpretation based on conjecture and a little research.

I think the men are French because the shirts they are wearing were first manufactured in France. The man on the right looks over his shoulder in a carefree pose. Reclining on plush (velvet) fabrics, or furs (sable ?) and dressed in fine embroidered breeches, complete with gold buckles at the knee and fancy shirt, points to wealth that may have been procured by "other means"--given the pistols and the dagger, and the gold medallion that are in full view in the ornate belt of the man, or they maybe the spoils of war. To the right, a cast off plumed military helmet.(?) The man's mauve cap resembles a revolutionary or liberty cap.  (Although his cap is not the customary red, nor is it tipped forward like the revolutionary cap of his companion.) Expensive to make, purple cloth symbolized royalty, wealth etc, so his cap may, in fact, point to new wealth, democratic freedom, and a stronger social status for the common "man" of the republic.

In the background, to the right, a large country estate with cultivated trees. ( The old rule?) The cultivated flowers fringed with a frill of grass and the ordinary trees, in the foreground, may point to less rigidity and a more relaxed equal, ordered state. Is that a hosta on the left, or a Rex begonia? Was a Rex begonia available then?  Might these plants symbolize new trade, etc.? ( Too much symbolic conjecture might be a dangerous thing!)

On the left, a servant (?) dressed in the revolutionary colours of red, white and blue. (He seems to be gathering up the blankets). The man on the right wears revolutionary colours too, but they are secondary.  In fact, he may have the French flag draped around his waist. I won't go further because the French symbol of liberty is a woman and she's an apt fit.

Before I began sleuthing, I knew nothing of the liberty cap, and, now, I think it might be fun to try and knit one.


I love the mens' shoes/sandals. They were fashionable and obviously worn for leisure.

 As you can see, I gathered up a few facts along the way that, of course, are not definitive. The man wearing the purple cap could symbolize the new relaxed hold of the monarchy/nobility, or the new republic. (Given the time line, I believe the scene fits with the second wave of the revolution.)  If you have any thoughts, other interpretations, ideas or suggestions, please leave a comment; I'd love to read them.

Enjoy the weekend...

Take the Plunge

I know what my currently reading sidebar says, but diversions do spice a life.

Over the years, people have asked me about the books I read, or why, God forbid, I horde books.  Puzzling questions. After all, what you reads depends on your preferences. I've had many books recommended to me, or made random discoveries and, of course, my choices have changed over time. I read everything, including can and cereal box labels, graffiti, and, occasionally, over another person's shoulder, or the writing in the sky. ☺

When pressed I'd say I read for enjoyment and, hopefully, to learn something, buy not all books are enjoyable. They can lead us into places that we'd rather not go, or can not imagine, but most allow us to see life from a different perspective.  Books equal (time) travel; they can place us in other people's brocade/leather/plastic, or worn out shoes. They can also comfort, surprise, delight, raise questions, and, more importantly enhance our critical thinking skills.  

Recently when I was listening to an author's interview, during question period a member of the audience asked the writer why he/she wrote an elitists book. (Elitists, these days, is a dirty word, but writers, are not generally of the ruling class, but, then again, perhaps a few do influence educational policy, which might be a good thing. But I digress.) The writer was surprised and a little annoyed, I think.

As far as I could determine, the condemnation had to do with the intellect and education of the writer--the  writer who wrote a hard book to read. ( If I only had that brain!) My first thought was HUH? and O, come on. (Not exactly articulation at its finest. Perhaps, I should read more.) 

My second thought: dictionaries are free, and, these days, they are built into whatever device we might be using.  If necessary we can, of course, Google one, or dust off an in-house copy. Most information--also free.  We live in a country/continent where we can get our hands on a lot of information and any book we choose. That's freedom and that's what keeps several writers (unfortunately, many with first hand experiences) writing fiction that tells of the horror of losing that freedom. (As we know, most totalitarianism regimes start by burning books. They know that a populous who reads can, for them, be a dangerous thing.)

I hope that particular individual will exercise that freedom. That they will be a curious and radical reader. That they will read whenever they can and whatever they choose, that they will use the library, and discuss books with neighbours, friends, or join a book club. And should reading lead him/her, to Google a dictionary, or other information, I'd say: for heaven's sake dive in--take the plunge!

The in between reads: The Judges.  Unfortunately the Year of The Flood was recalled by the library before I could finish it. Time to find another copy.

“Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another's skin, another's voice, another's soul.”
Joyce Carol Oates

Fleeting Moments

 

 

If you turn your back for an instant this time of year the backdrop changes. Last week I ran inside to get my camera and when I ran back outside the sky had completely changed. Although not as lovely as that particular evening, I did capture these pics recently.

On the go a pattern that I might be happy with soon.

 

A touch of the whimsical.

Basket Tales

Tucked into my basket, Misty Alpaca ~ soft as water.  I can't decide what to make with this yarn. But I'm certain that when I ordered it, I had a concrete plan.  Obviously, I should have made a note.
                                                           
A while ago, I did just that and indecision wasn't a factor when I cast on a lacy head-turner scarf.    But while knitting, I noticed that a few of the slipped stitches looked a little askew. At the halfway mark, (I'm a quick study) it couldn't be ignored. I quickly pressed all the right buttons and crash landed on the Raverly project pages and discovered that a few other projects had that same weepy edge look.  O, dear won't do, I said to the walls as I began to rip with muted satisfaction, boarding on the uber superior notion that I wouldn't settle.



A few days later, armed to the teeth with my needles and a spare, I tried again, then moved on to socks-- tried two different patterns and, you guessed it, another scarf.  Not so dearie o.

Recently, on a stash dig, I happened upon that ball of yarn. As I fondled it, it spoke to me of its charms.  I soon came to my senses; frowned and slipped it into a nearby garbage bag bound for Agape. Last week, in a blinding snow storm, as I threw the bag with the determination of a Javelin thrower, from a distance, into the bin because I couldn't climb the mountain of ice guarding the receptacle, ( I tried, but that's another story ) I felt a twinge of guilt for foisting that ball of yarn off on someone else.

Later, safe from the storm, with my booted feet near the heaters at Tim's, (coffee shop) decked in my wet (redolent) woolens, I imagined (although I wish for visions) sure, nimble fingers skipping that ball of yarn into something miraculous.  And as I munched my muffin and gulped my boiling tea, I decided that perhaps, after all, I had done the right thing.

Warning: to those in the northern hemisphere:  The following photos are for entertainment/daydreaming purposes only. Not intended to overwhelm.

Enjoy the weekend...

Reveries

My old January friends.

Many years ago, under the mature trees on an old farm property, I stood and looked at naturalized banks of daffodils and snowdrops. As I looked, I wondered who planted the bulbs, and where, since the property was deserted, they might be living, and if their thoughts were drawn back each spring to bulbs they once planted that so beautifully painted the landscape that lay before me. 

At that time, I was sorry that I didn't have a camera with me. But a camera was not necessary because, even now, I can easily recall the field where bits of snow reluctantly wept in the dark shadows. And I can still feel the cold, soggy earth beneath my boots, the weak sun giving off a bit of warmth in sheltered places, and the intermittent breeze that turned the heads of the daffodils. 

We are, happily, in the throes of a January thaw. I am pleased about that, but it does make me long for spring.

An antique linen in need of TL, and a thoroughly admired book of Garden Quotations given to me by my garden pal, Joan.

A garden planted with love will always bloom.

A Clean Slate

The New Year has arrived, bringing with it the hope of something better. I've been thinking about  something better, but I believe the best practice encompasses being grateful for the year that I just stepped out of instead of running from it toward a clean slate like some fashions dictate.

I've heard that 80% of all New Year's resolutions fail. Exercise and losing weight are, no doubt, near the top of the resolution list. Great things to want to do, but having spend many years in the gym, I've watched some of the New Year's crowd enter with gusto and a never say die attitude that soon lead to exhaustion and failure. I am not suggesting that I was warned by the oracle, or just knew better. In those days, after a bit of weight lifting, five minutes on the treadmill was, thankfully, all I could muster. Yes, I felt a wee bit embarrassed, especially when I looked around and saw greatness, but I survived. (These days it's walking and a little yoga.) I've heard Rome is still a work in progress.

In the past few years I haven't made any outright resolutions.  So this year I've decided to throw caution to the winds and resolve. Of course, we all have our private resolutions, but among those that could due with an airing, I resolve to be absolutely grateful for last year. (Lessons were learned. Good times had with family and friends. Things were accomplished. The sun burned away the clouds. etc.) Also, I resolve to enjoy the world around me more; take more time to dwell on the beauty, and last, but by no means least, I resolve to be a little more creative because that's where bliss lies for me.