I Capture the Castle

The title of this post is from the marvelous book by Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle.  The story is dreamy and funny and shimmers like a crystal bowl in a shaft of sun.  A timelessness clings to the pages but it reads as though it were written yesterday afternoon.  Cassandra Mortimer overcomes poverty and dramatic family secrets to come of age in a decrepit old castle that she does indeed, capture.

I especially love the character of Miss Blossom, the ever-present dress form that resides in Cassandra's ramshackle room and to whom she throws her voice when she and her sister, motherless, are in need of consolation and advice.  (I used to do a Miss Blossom bit for my niece Hillary and she still addresses her letters to me with "Dear Miss Blossom"). These days, Miss Blossom is speaking to me as I begin to fall in love with my house all over again...warts and all.  Her voice is soothing and comforting as she says over and over, "all will be well" and "in due time, my dear".  The feelings of being overwhelmed are slowly dissipating.

Of all things, a simple shower curtain has helped too.  I saw it in a window at a local curtain shop.  It has all the botanical beauty I can stand with trailing vines, wandering wisteria and roses - always roses.  I walked by it three times before ducking in to finger it and then order it.  Lucky me to find an old "Miss Blossom friend" working there, from my favorite once-was Laura Ashley shop.  When Judy told me I should have it, my mind pictured my bathroom and I asked if there was a valance for the window too?  And fabric to make a cafe curtain for my vanity?  Oh yes, yes, and yes, I was told.  And a sale price.  I thought of the dresses the Mortimer girls crafted for the dinner party they were invited to that promised to elevate their status with a marriage proposal.

I left the shop with a fabric swatch large enough to hang over the rod. But the funny thing is, this scrap of fabric had me taking my floral plates off the wall and cleaning them, rearranging my potions and lotions and generally tidying up while I wait for my new things.  When I was done there, I finally opened the door and took a gimlet eye to the bedroom my daughter recently vacated.  What will this space actually be?  With (floral) notebook and pen in hand, I set to work scribbling a list of furnishings and belongings I would move into the room:  style books, my desk, a sleeper love seat, television and cabinet, baskets for files.  The closet will hold off-season clothing and hats.  I had a plan after flailing about for a few weeks and nearly purchasing another place to begin all over with.

But this house has tender memories, creature comforts, and a certain charm I wasn't able to find in the other one.  I have a comfortable and beautiful terrace that abuts a wooded grove with hidden ferny grottoes.  The property lines are encircled by an ancient stone wall most like built by the Native Americans who lived in this spot centuries ago. The sea is over the tree tops from my second story windows.  Yes, there is work to be done including painting which I hate.  But little by little, twig by twig, I will tend to it all.  I am a one-woman show but I will ask for help, hire when necessary, and stick to my plan.  I WILL capture this place.  A wise woman once told me that intention becomes reality.  Now it wasn't Miss Blossom who said that - but it sure could have been.

~

"I can't dance or sing but I can turn a house into a living, breathing thing".

(Paraphrased quote that I cannot recall the source of, but I love it!)

This I Shall Tell You

Recently I changed my name back to my maiden one.  When I went to the social security office, the clerk glanced down at my divorce decree, quickly looked up at me and asked, "What took you so long???" I had kept my husband's name to make things easier for my daughter.

It's been 28 years since my former husband placed a one hundred dollar bill in the empty space on the bookshelf that was left by the stereo he yanked from the wall.  For the record, he also took our sterling silver flatware his parents gave us seven years before on our wedding day. The money he left was meant for a month of diapers, food and gasoline but even in 1987, it didn't go far.  Something else was missing that afternoon too - beach towels from the hall closet which eventually led me to the discovery of the new young lady in my husband's life.  Suddenly the world tipped on its axis and I was a grieving single mother of an infant.  In order to divorce me quickly, my husband filed "Cruel and Abusive Treatment".  I remember the judge's scoffing question to my husband, "Did she hit you with a rolling pin or something"?  But the judge divorced us anyway and I rushed home to nurse our baby.

I could tell you all the indignities I suffered, the hardships, the friends that fell away because they were suddenly uncomfortable with my singleness.  I could tell you about the smoke detectors he knew were not hooked up the day he left, the time his mother said I needed to do some yard work so the house would sell faster (his family owns an industrial landscaping company which had stopped coming weekly).  I could tell you about the day the young lady sped up the driveway in a new car to hand deliver another overdue child support check, the day my mother-in-law stopped by to collect her son's tuxedo for a big party, and the time the electricity was turned off (again) because he didn't pay the bill on time.  But no...no, I won't tell you all that.

Instead I will tell you how I learned to be both mother and father to my daughter.  And I will tell you about the time I stayed up all night teaching myself to quilt so that I could finish a pretty flower-sprigged jacket for her.  And how the next day when I photographed her wearing the jacket at the playground, there was no one to delight in it with me or delight with me in her but how we enjoyed the bright October sun anyway and began the rhythm for our future days.  And I will tell you the story about the day we moved from our big house to a three room apartment and my daughter whispered that first night, "Mommy this feels like home too".  And there is the story about the revolving door of babysitters and how hard pressed I was to find her most favorite who eventually came with matching bunny slippers and chocolate chips to bake cookies during The Great Chicken Pox Week when I couldn't take off from work.  I will tell you about my mother's unending rescues and how she lifted me up with encouragement and checks when I was lonely and broke.  I will tell you about the surprising tears I shed at my daughter's first ballet recital when she twirled to "Somewhere Up There" in a white tutu, silver shoes and a shy angelic smile.  That was the day my sister leaned over and squeezed my hand - tears in her eyes too, for a precious little girl who never knew a daddy.  And there is the story of friends who ran out to the drugstore for me so I didn't have to take my child out of her sick bed in the middle of the night to get her medication, and friends who thought to ask us to dinner on especially painful long holiday weekends in summer.  A church that welcomed us and had fathers who told my daughter she was pretty and good.  Oh I will tell you so much more - the years at a new middle school when the mean girls finally got to her and how months later at graduation, she was called three times to the stage for three separate awards, including "Nicest Classmate".  And her other graduations, including the night she received her graduate degree and how I embraced her and whispered, "Now go find your geek!"  And I will tell you how she did just that and fell in love with a smart and fine young man with kind eyes who loves her back.  And I will tell you that in a few weeks she will marry in front of family and friends, colleagues and bosses who tell me over and over what a wonderful woman she is and a gifted Special Ed teacher that is making a difference in our
world. 

Yes...yes, this I shall tell you.


Note:  the picture is from a card I bought and framed in 1987 for my bedroom wall.