Archive for the 'Corner View' Category
Does life get any better than this? Friends around wishing us the best, our family’s unconditional love, great food, happy memories in the making to sustain us a lifetime. From where I’m sitting, this moment in time is pure bliss. All it needs is my grateful heart to acknowledge it.
For more Corner Views visit Jane at Spain Daily.
I’m sure I won’t make any friends by confessing this, but I’m not too crazy about animals, as in pets. Whoever had the idea of domesticating cats did not take into consideration that some people would be grossed out by the interior of cats ears, and that cats need to have their ears cleaned really well as they are prone to ear infections.
Same goes for dogs. Just the thought that they are out there sniffing the behinds of others of their species and then coming to sniff my food puts me off eating for a week. Oh, they are cute! And I am a bit in love with cute, little ones. But what’s with all the sniffing?
And nothing that resembles a mouse for me either. The tails are slimy looking, the beady eyes give me nightmares, and every time I see one I am reminded of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, where Winston was terrorized by rats. When I see a mouse, I scream at the top of my lungs and jump onto the nearest chair.
I don’t like fish of any kind. They really stink up the place when they die. I don’t like any sort of snake or lizard. Nor do I like goats, although I do love goat cheese, and goats are great for using in place of a lawnmower. But since I don’t have a lawn, I really don’t see a need for one.
Bunnies are cute, but messy. Chickens are really only for fresh eggs and soup, as they can’t be house trained and they poop wherever they go.
I do like horses. Maybe I’ll get one. A gilded, carousel one that I can plant in the living room and let the kids ride.
Oh, I know I’m a horrible mother and must allow my children a pet. They have been begging for years and years. There’s only so much longer I can put it off. Any ideas?
It’s late at night and the rain is falling, knocking at my window, wanting to share its pleasant scent with me and bless me with its drops. I lift the sash a bit and breath in the smell of damp Spring earth, listen to the sounds of night, the muffled siren of the trains, the pitter-patter of night creatures I’m absolutely terrified of meeting close up. From my upstairs window the tulips and the daffodils are mere shadows, almost lost in the mist that envelops the house.
I love how the rain cleanses the air. I stick my tongue out, hoping to catch a droplet of rain on its tip. I get the feeling of being quenched of a thirst I didn’t know I have.
The house is silent, my lovelies fast asleep. I brew another pot of mint tea, wrap my shawl and tie it around my waist. I pick up my pen and get ready to write. Words are spilling out, tripping over each other in their haste to see themselves on paper, each one greedier than the last. I crack my stiff knuckles and obey their command.
Happy Earth Day! I have been too busy with my writing to join in posting specifically on the subject. Visit Jane’s sidebar at #mce_temp_url# for some wonderful Corner Views from around the world.
Also, all comments are entered for the previous post’s book giveaway.
Congratulations and Happy Anniversary to Jane of #mce_temp_url#on one year of bringing happiness in the form of Corner Views from around the world. I am new at this so I have no favorite to post, but looking through Jane’s I was inspired to post a photo of a beach and tell a story of one of my favorite times there.
Years ago, a friend and I took a few sunny summer days to explore the Pacific Northwest coast. Our main goal was to stay off the beaten path and experience life at a slower pace. Antique shops, flea markets, and art galleries were our destination, as were berry farms, deserted beaches, dusty book shops and coffee houses. We had reserved a couple of nights at bed and breakfast places along the way, provisioned ourselves with a picnic basket overflowing with Belgian chocolates, crusty bread, and the best cheeses we could afford, and set out.
She was to be married that summer, and soon after to move away. I suppose, in a way, we were gifting each other a last memory of our girlhood. Ours was a friendship that had carried us from childhood, through the turbulent, self-conscious adolescence, and into our twenties.
The views were stunning. Rolling pastoral beauty giving way to dense emerald forests. We followed a river that shined like mica and came into a village right out of a nautical painting. The sun was setting, all rose and apricot colored over the bay. We parked our car and strolled the heart of the main street in search of a coffee house. With steaming drinks and chunks of cheese filled bread, we made our way to the beach, content to sit on the sand and soak up the beauty before us.
As darkness was approaching, we didn’t linger too long. Somewhere along those dusty roads, the hostess of a white Victorian house was awaiting our arrival, probably eager to lock up and go to bed. Our bedroom, at the top of three flights of stairs, was under the eaves and decorated with a large-scale lilac print wallpaper right out of a Victoria magazine. The brass, queen-sized bed was piled up with fluffy pillows, and in the bathroom a claw-foot tub occupied most of the space. We loved it.
A misty morning arrived too soon. We took our time over breakfast in the ornate dining room, both decided that the food could be better, yet stuffed ourselves nonetheless, and set off for a day of treasure hunting. It seemed that time stood still. The clouds and morning drizzle cleared away, and our minds emptied of everything but the joy of each other’s company.
That night’s bed and breakfast was a far cry from the first. We took one look at it and turned our car around. It was spooky! Our overactive imaginations had us roaming the dark roads in search of acceptable lodging. Finally, after it seemed as though we drove for hours, we found a newly built hotel, devoid of character, as expected, but with views of the silver ocean lapping at the rocks below.
Before we headed home the following afternoon, we stopped into a local bookshop and sealed our three days together by each purchasing a copy of Jane Eyre. It was a favorite book to both of us, and a talisman to remember our friendship and our last adventure before matrimony.
In case anyone is wondering, each comment will be entered in the book giveaway. Now go on and visit more Corner Views!
Unfortunately, I haven’t been in any places with vending machines in the last several days, so this photo will have to do. Upon closer inspection, it is a highly appropriate photo as it invites one to choose between a selection of delicious yummies, just as a vending machine would.
I am reminded of the love story of one of my numerous uncles’ girlfriends of years past. This girlfriend kept a running tally of all the young men she had dated. My uncle was number 34, if I remember correctly. It wasn’t that she was a great beauty, she was just seventeen and lacking sophistication, yet already an expert in the art of seduction as some women are taught from an early age. The young men wanted to marry her, anticipating all that her body offered. She got engaged to one man, and on her wedding night snuck out to run off with another.
Choices, choices. And that’s how it is with vending machines. One’s forever second guessing the choices made.
For more on REAL vending machines visit Jane’s sidebar at: #mce_temp_url#.
We’re all a bit sick over here with coughing and sneezing and the high temperatures that accompany that. Nothing new, we get so every Spring. As it is cold and rainy we spend our days wrapped in blankets, deep in our favorite chairs, books in hand, board games scattered across the floor. When we venture out, we quickly hurry back to the hot soup simmering on the stove and chunks of bread and butter.
It’s hubby’s birthday on Friday. Our goal is to have this nuisance out of the way by then, so the attention could be totally his.
Happy Spring to you all, and a healthy one!
For more Corner View from around the world, visit Jane at #mce_temp_url#.
This is the architecture of my childhood. The stories behind these walls, the struggles, the joys, the day to day, from the most mundane to the most bizarre, are my inspiration. My grandmother and my Tante Marie loved to tell stories. In fact, they had a story for everything. I remember the time one of my aunts was bemoaning the fact that her daughter was not as beautiful as she. I was just eight and couldn’t understand what the big deal was. My aunt was stunning with her movie star looks and tremendous style. She seldom lacked adoration. Her daughter was certainly pretty, yet still a child. It was too early to tell. I felt they were being unfair.
My Tante pointed to the house down the street, the house where the redheaded woman lived. It was shuttered and mysterious. I had tried looking through the courtyard gates’ keyhole into the courtyard so many times, but the keys were always in the lock, blocking any chance of seeing in. The redheaded woman was a great beauty. Her daughter was not. The daughter had tried to strangle herself because of that.
I learned two things that day and regardless how much I tell myself it isn’t so, I still believe them both. One, a girl’s looks are her dowry, and two, a beautiful mother can be a curse to the less beautiful daughter living in her shadow.
(For more Corner View please visit Jane at #mce_temp_url#)
We had recently been invited to attend the baptism of the baby of one of our closest friends in the Orthodox Church. Having been raised a Protestant, I had rarely set foot within an Orthodox Church, let alone attend a baptism. Throughout the traditional Orthodox liturgy, I found myself transfixed by the golden icons of a suffering Christ adorning the wall separating the nave from the Sanctuary, and the bejeweled Beautiful Gates leading to it. I couldn’t help but wonder why it is that humans have such a need to explain God and the way to the eternal, when, in my opinion, it’s really a matter of manifesting God’s love daily that determines our immortal soul’s residence.
By the way, I am not picking on any particular faith. Also, I find religious rituals to be beautiful and comforting, serving whatever purpose they were designed for. I just don’t believe that anyone’s got the grasp on God and Christ as they all seem to think they do.
When I go to my parents’ church, the choir’s singing brings me to tears without fail. As soon as they open their mouths in song, I get chills and heaven is within my reach. When the sermon starts, however, it is just a rehash of the things I have grown up hearing. The majority of it is ego stroking, pointless, repetition. My eyes glaze over and I find myself checking the time.
Now if this doesn’t depress everyone, I don’t know what will. This post was really supposed to be about my front door (that up there is not my front door), and not about my issues with organized religion. But I guess it had to be said, because lately I find so much hypocrisy when I open those front doors of a church. Any church. And I wish it weren’t so.
For more, and much happier, front door posts, visit Jane at #mce_temp_url# and check out her right side bar.
I first came across the corner view series through my Italian blog pal Francesca at #mce_temp_url#. I was so fascinated with her corner views and the ones of the other participants, that I asked to be put on the list too. Jane, the creator of the series and residing in beautiful Spain, kindly obliged. Visit Jane at #mce_temp_url# for more corner views. This week’s theme was chosen by Cate at #mce_temp_url#.
I was given this paperweight about twenty years ago by a boy that liked me, but one I wasn’t too fond of. His parents were friends with mine, and there had been some hope that the two of us would unite the families. There was nothing wrong with the boy other than that he talked a lot, and as I liked being the center of attention his constant jabbering turned me off. When he gave me the paperweight I told him I didn’t want it, and that I didn’t want to be anything other than friends. He insisted that I keep it, and so I did and gave it to my mom.
Whenever I visit her I see it in her bookcase, keeping company with my other discards, each with its own story to tell. Sometimes I look at them and wonder at the person I had been, and how easily a different choice might have propelled me on a different path. And I start panicking at the mere thought that I could have led a life totally absent of the love of my husband and my children.
(Every comment on this post is entered into the drawing for the giveaway specified in the previous post. The more one comments, the better chances one has to win. Good luck! Now go visit Jane and check out her sidebar for more corner views.)