the young summer of plenty




Today’s book and garden tour finds us in a tucked away garden in Multnomah Village, with a vintage 1945 copy of Flora Thompson’s memoirs: Lark Rise to Candleford.

The garden is one of my peaceful pleasures in the midst of the city—it sits snugly in the backyard of Jacqueline’s Found and Fabulous’ of Multnomah Village, full of soothing fountains at every turn, romantic statuary, and the most pristine of plantings.


This is one of the best garden destinations in town. Not to be missed is the interior of the house–a charming old 1910 bungalow–a shop that offers a variety of expertly curated goods for home and garden.

Lark Rise to Candleford, Penguin edition

Lark Rise to Candleford, Penguin edition

Now for the book: Every bit of Flora Thompson’s beautifully voiced memoir of growing up in rural England is a delight to read, but my seasonal choice for this garden tour is the chapter titled ‘Summer Holiday’.

The account places us sometime in the 1890’s, and it is when little Laura and her younger brother, Edmund, are allowed to take their first walk–without an adult–to go visit their cousins at Candleford. They travel a distance of eight exhilarating miles over summer dusty country lanes.

‘They—[Laura and her brother]—knew every slight rise in the fields and the moist lower places where the young wheat grew taller and greener, and the bank where the white violets grew and the speciality of every hedgerow—honeysuckle, crab-apples, misty purple sloes, or long trails of white bryony berries through which the sun shone crimson as it did through the window at church…And they knew the sounds of the different seasons, the skylarks singing high up out of sight over the green corn, the loud, metallic chirring of the mechanical reaper…and the rush of wings as the starlings wheeled in flocks over the stripped stubble.’


What a beautiful world Thompson recalls for us. It is though she has–in memory–the equivalent of perfect pitch. The only other poetic chronicler of youthful days I know of to equal her is Laurie Lee.


Thompson published her first memoir, Lark Rise, in 1939. It faithfully recorded a pre-Great War vanished world—her childhood spent as Flora Timms in Oxfordshire, daughter of Albert Timms, stonemason. Two sequels followed quickly, as the public was hungry to remember What It Had Been Like Then:  Over to Candleford (1941) and Candleford Green (1943). (My 1945 London Reprints edition of tiny print and fragile paper has all three bound together.)

Attempts at biography have been many, but the reality was that Flora was an intensely private person. What we know of her, and indeed, what she wanted us to know of her—was chiefly from the luminous accounting of the young girl—‘Laura’. The timing of this memoir is significant, and particularly poignant, as it covers the decades both before and after the Great War. What a difference in worlds!medFlora_Thompson

An interesting distinction is made by the author between an English hamlet, and a village. The hamlet of Lark Rise is where Laura’s gently impoverished family lived, and the nearby village of Candleford is where her cousins lived in slightly better circumstances, and, socially speaking, in a richer, more varied world.

A hamlet, in Laura’s case, consisted of about thirty cottages. Everyone who inhabited these cottages was of the same general income and outlook; poor but proud, simple in habits but clean and well fed from their own gardens and pigsty. Their means of life and brief entertainments revolved around the rhythms of nature.

‘In spite of their poverty,’ she writes, ‘they were not unhappy, though poor, there was nothing sordid about their lives. They had their home-cured bacon, their “bit o’ leanings” their small wheat or barley patch on the allotment; their knowledge of herbs for their homely simples, and the wild fruits and berries of the countryside for jam, jellies, and wine, and round about them as part of their lives were the last relics of country customs and the last echoes of country songs, ballads, and game rhymes. This last picking, though meagre, was sweet’.

The last relics. The last echoes.IMG_6858

This chapter ‘Summer Visits’ is also a favorite because this is the occasion when Laura first discovers books. After they have arrived on their visit to cousins in the village of Candleford, Laura is once left alone in the attic where the children have been playing dress up in the old clothes they found there. Laura, in aged bridal finery, ponders her reflection in ‘the tall, cracked mirror’…


‘But her own reflection did not hold her more than a moment, for she saw in the glass a recess she had not noticed before packed with books. Books on shelves, books in piles on the floor, and still other books in heaps, higgledy-piggledy, as though they had been turned out of sacks…That attic was very quiet for the next quarter of an hour, for Laura, still in her bridal veil, was down on her knees on the bare boards, as happy and busy as a young foal in a field of green corn….’

Oh, does that sound lovely! And rather familiar—although I can’t say ‘me and my olfactory receptors’ could ever be lost in a book while wearing bridal ‘finery’ made up of old, musty nineteenth century lace. Or carry–as did Laura–an ancient feather duster standing in for the bridal bouquet. Fits of sneezing ensure that one doesn’t stay lost behind a stack of books for too long. But that’s twenty-first century reality—what was I thinking? Back to the delights of Candleford:

“Laura’s a bookworm, a bookworm, a bookworm!” Amy sang to her sisters with the air of having made an astonishing discovery, and Laura wondered if a bookworm might not be something unpleasant until she added: “A bookworm, like Father.” 

via pinterest: Morau, Paul Charles (1855-1931)

via pinterest: Morau, Paul Charles (1855-1931)

After the heady discovery of Uncle Tom’s books in the attic—who I’m happy to say generously shares his books with the delighted Laura—there are boat outings on the river, taking their tea in the fields, and of course, more reading.

‘It was just as pleasant to take out their tea in the fields (Laura’s first experience of picnics), or to explore the thickets on the river banks, or to sit quietly in the boat and read when all the others were busy. Several times their uncle took them out for a row, right up the stream where it grew narrower and narrower and the banks lower and lower until they seemed to be floating on green fields…They had taken their own lunch, which they ate in the field, but at tea-time they were called in by the farmer’s wife to such a tea as Laura had never dreamed of. There were fried ham and eggs, cakes and scones and stewed plums and cream, jam and jelly and junket, and the table spread in a room as large as their whole house at home, with three windows with window seats in a row, and a cool, stone-flagged floor….’

‘Afterwards they straggled home through the dusk with a corncrake whirring and cockchafers and moths hitting their faces, and saw the lights of the town coming out, one by one, like golden flowers, as they entered.’

Jumping ahead in the book just for a fitting conclusion to our brief tour, we find a slightly older Laura, engaged in thoughtful reflections on many such summers of plenty from Lark Rise to Candleford…(oh, and not-so-surprisingly, there we have gossamer again!)

‘As she went her way, gossamer threads, spun from bush to bush, barricaded her pathway, and as she broke through one after another of these fairy barricades she thought, “They’re trying to bind and keep me.” But the threads which were to bind her to her native country were more enduring than gossamer. They were spun of love and kinship and cherished memories.’


To read memoirs such as these, is to think deeply about what life used to be like, and what life could be like again. Oh if only we, as the human race, would spin enduring threads ‘of love and kinship and cherished memories’.

Can it be done? Yes. It will be done.

Scent, Senses, and the Sciential Rose


‘All seasons, and their change; all please alike.’ Milton

The roses of June are now gone.

We’re moving rapidly through July, with all its over-blown, heat saturated splendor. Soon this blog will be checking in with the seasonable Mr. White of Selborne to see what he’s doing with his whortle-berries in late July of 1781.

But that’s for later. Now it is still roses, a book by Diane Ackerman, and a Curious Word courtesy of Charles Lamb (‘sciential’).

The garden, where I took these pictures, is Heirloom Roses, of St. Paul, Oregon.

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Heirloom Gardens is no ordinary rose garden. It’s a wonderful resource for the rose connoisseur. For one thing, space isn’t really an issue. There are acres of roses to be seen in their display gardens. For anyone with a garden of normal proportions, who has ever wanted to see an old rambling species rose take over a pergola, or allow the mighty Kiftsgate to swathe an entire evergreen in its thorny embrace, you know that space is an issue. Few gardens have the room to indulge the passionate rose enthusiast with all the abundance of shape, size and drapery the world of roses can boast.

Rosa moschata, species rose

Rosa moschata, species rose

Thus, it is exciting to see species roses allowed to be all they can be.


This giant climber is almost identical to the Kiftsgate climber, but its name tag was too obscured to see.

I say that in all sincerity. It really is exciting. ‘Here be fountains’, cascades, waterfalls and mountains of roses. The air is perfumed with a fragrance that the likes of Cleopatra might have worn.

The digital memory of my rose garden tour is now stored on, and perilously afloat, what I call the If and Ineffability of iCloud data storage. Download-able at any moment, and lose-able more often than that.

Just as precariously, the memories of my June rose adventures are now packaged in little quivery bundles of ephemera I house in my neurons. The wafting esters of scent, the tactility of petals, the rustle of sound as I moved my dreamlike tread over freshly mowed lawn; these impressions have been shelved in my mind alongside the enormous database of other neurons of memory.

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Fragrance, though, is the great fixative of memory. Scent fixes memory to an emotion and pins us to that place in time. It is the download button for instant retrieval of data, and an instant rush of accompanying sensations.

What is fixative? It is a term used in the perfume and fragrance industry. Every famous, lingering scent has a fixative. These began as natural substances—often animal derived, such as musky civet oil— that will preserve and stabilize that which is volatile. Fragrance on the skin can be volatile, as the accompanying look in the eye may well be. But the fragrance can be released into the air where it will dissipate quickly unless it is given staying power with a fixative.

In A Natural History of the Senses, Diane Ackerman wrote:

‘Nothing is more memorable than a smell… [they] detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines, hidden under the weedy mass of many years and experiences. Hit a tripwire of smell, and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.’

Ackerman is called ‘the finest literary interpreter of science and nature’, and for good reason. Her work, A Natural History of the Senses is my go-to book whenever I want scientific answers to questions I never thought of asking, and poetic descriptions I never thought of writing.

Another great thinker, Virginia Woolf, wrote, in her ground-breaking work A Room of One’s Own:

‘We think back through our mothers, if we are women.’

This, in the light of current science and the unfolding mysteries of mitochondrial DNA, is a potential powerhouse of possibility. ‘A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth…’

For surely there is a dimensional quality to scent and fragrance that goes far beyond the physical aspects of touch or sight. There is so much in the physics and neuroscience of smell that scientists still don’t understand. It is likely that our mothers, and all the mothers of distant mothers who stretch back through the centuries, loved roses.

Is it possible that our own deep inhalations takes us back through those centuries of memory? Some roses are centuries old. We may not realize the process that is at work every time we take a breath, swill it through our own essence, and exhale it ‘gently altered for having known us‘; but our inner selves remember moments most vividly through the medium of scent.


Diane Ackerman, not surprisingly, would reference Marcel Proust, ‘that great blazer of scent trails through the wilderness of luxury and memory’, as an example of a writer who captured ‘flights of comprehensive remembrance’ based on the power of a chance encounter with a smell.

Ackerman writes evocatively of the Song of Songs–The Song of Solomon–‘the most scent-drenched poem of all time’.

She relates her adventures tagging Monarch butterflies, studying Indonesian flying foxes in Texas, and interviewing that brilliant prodigy of noses, Sophia Grojsman— “For a world-class nose on a deadline she seems relaxed and alert”.

She takes us on an imaginary tour to the boudoir of an ancient Egyptian beauty, mixing and applying her fragrant unguents in preparation for a dinner party.


And of course she writes about roses. In all of this she gives forth her observations and understanding in the most lyrical prose. It’s a beautiful book to read, whether you are strolling a rose garden with a parasol or striding about the Giza plateau in a pith helmet.

Since the time worn cliché has become more of dictum that resembles ‘call your Mother’.… We shall, instead, linger in our perambulations and breathe deeply of Milton’s roseate dews.

But go ahead and call your mother.

‘For we think back through our mothers if we are women’….said Virginia.

(began here, and to be continued)


No Ordinary Doll Head


Kewpie with CarlyleThe DPChallenge is… Leftovers.

‘For this week’s writing challenge, shake the dust off something — a clothing item, a post draft, a toy — you haven’t touched in ages, but can’t bring yourself to throw away.’

You may wonder why I keep Kewpie around. But if laughter is good for the body, Kewpie’s head has done wonders for mine. I like to think of her as a leftover smile. True, she gets dusty, sitting on her shelf. (she prefers a spot next to Thomas Carlyle, as Sartor Resartus is her favorite book).

Sometimes she scares our dinner guests, who might be unsuspectingly browsing the library. But as so few people read Carlyle these days, Kewpie usually escapes detection.

I ask you, how can you throw out something that loves chocolate, fresh flowers, and warm hats?




How can you throw out something that primps like a teenager?


Sometimes she’s painfully aware that she resembles a butternut squash. And then we definitely don’t throw her out.


Sometimes the smile fades a little. Just briefly. It’s hard to be the embodiment of mirth when you lack…well…everything but the mirth.


Once, when relaxing by the fire, she looked very tempting, and was almost eaten.


But other days she puts her Carmen Miranda on and sings without a care in the world.


She’s notorious for trying to sneak a slice of zucchini bread when no one is looking.


Life with Kewpie is never dull. How can you toss out a leftover smile?



All That Resonates


Cepeda  019

“It’s a piano.”

It was one of those upright monstrosities many of us remember. Full of creaks and groans, with ivory keys like aged teeth, all tobacco stained and chipped. The toothy, gapped leer it gave me upon entering the house was more interesting than fearful. It took my dad and a few of his bulky friends powered by pizza and beer to move it into its prized location. The new arrival took up precious real estate in a shabby living room that was already bulging with the paraphernalia of five boisterous children.

I loved it instantly. (I should mention that I was only four years old at the time, but that is an age when impressions are formed with astonishing vividness.)

It had Presence.

It emanated something new. Something of old worlds and ancient wisdom, of gnarled hands and craftmanship, and somehow…the singing of stars. Naturally I could articulate none of this at the time. I only sensed within it an innate power to do something wonderful.

Cepeda  018

It was a thing, but such a mighty thing it was. We couldn’t afford it we didn’t have space for it the dining table had to be moved to accommodate it no one in our family could play it but its greatness had just been heaved, shoved and groaned into place against the wall. And my father was smiling. The tough ex-Marine ex-boxer ex-dancer of uncommon grace was smiling with pure joy.

Something significant had just happened. My father rarely smiled with pure joy.

At first, there was cacophony. When piano keys are struck by eager childish fingers, much more happens than a frightening eruption of noise. There are amazing vibrations. I could feel this curious phenomenon because I had squeezed my little four year old body between the back of the piano and the wall.

As the instrument was for my older sister at that point no one was interested in me or my reaction to it. No one noticed I had disappeared in to the piano. I wanted so desperately to understand this new thing. I pressed my flushed, excited cheek against an old wood rib at the back and let the piano twang into my head. It resonated thunder, and was horribly out of tune. What did I know? What did I know of vibrational energy? Or of tight bundles of string tension that can exceed twenty tons? Did I know that piano strings must be made from the toughest steel; not only because they endure constant high tension, they are subject to repeated blows? What did I know?

In the late nineties scientists discovered a black hole that was singing. That was the best description they could think of for the sonorous pulse it had been emitting for millions of years. We could detect this ancient ‘singing’ only recently, and it was in something like the key of B flat. Is there an echo here of Pythagorean music of the spheres? Do the planets and stars form a type of celestial clockworks that chime out colossal tones?

My next piano, like my teen years, was a product of the seventies. Newer was supposed to be better so we bought a lusterless Kimball, of no particular vintage or story. It was just new. It possessed a particle soundboard of indifferent quality. I have no idea what sort of wood it was. Nothing exciting ever happened on that piano. Still, it was an important box with strings. I kept playing, wondered about boys, wrote some bad poetry, and started to explore Bach. And somewhere the empty spaceless voids were still singing while no one listened.

Then I married. Even in the honeymoon of sweet distraction, I knew something was terribly wrong. One month went by, then two. A sickening dread came to me, but I knew. I had to confess. I had no piano. I had to have the singing box with strings.

My father had just died. On the dance floor. He simply dropped out of my mother’s arms. In mid step. And that was that.

Anguish lingered in slow motion aftermaths. A small inheritance of possibilities rippled past. I took my share—oh the hateful money.

I bought a piano. A cherrywood console of consolation. A box of rich warm tones.

Now the city apartment had The Box. Impassioned, liquid sonorities flowed out on to the street; I turned grief into sound.

The power of the box was at work.

I could dispel a crowd of pot smoking thugs by playing Rachmaninov louder than their angry babble; a cluster of loitering latte-sippers would coalesce on the street below while listening to a Chopin nocturne drift out our opened windows. I could play my father’s smile and give a call out to anti matter in the frightful void in case it was listening.

In time we moved to a small town, into a vintage house that sat within view of the resonant sea. There were gardens and scented roses, and always the sound of the sea. For my piano, I ‘inherited’ a wonderful old blind tuner and his faithful Labrador. My piano was never better cared for, and my acoustics had never been so sublime.

The stage was set for something exciting to happen.

It started with a want ad, and a bit of casual conversation over white wine and margarita shrimp.
“Did you see the ad for the Steinway?”
“Oh yeah. Crazy.” Said I. “Like a dream but not. You don’t dream about things like that.”
“We should go look.”
“Why?…I don’t want to.”

I didn’t want to look. Who wants to get a glimpse of perfection only to have ‘access denied’?

I looked. I was overcome. Of 1879 vintage, it sat and glowed in innumerable shades of incandescent beauty. Of old worlds and old woods; of grain and resonance not just any tree of yesterday possesses. And the strings…almost six feet of big, shining percussive potential that rippled out to the murmuring ocean and returned in lilting waves.

Its current home, when I first saw it, was a concrete garage; reminiscent of an abandoned airplane hangar that had become a glue factory for castaway piano relics. There was only one tiny wood stove for warmth, and it was surrounded—guarded by—several chain-smoking ex-cons. The experience was as incongruous as seeing an aging diva trapped in a dumpster.

We brought her home. The diva. The chain smoking ex-cons expertly moved her and lovingly set her up. (they were a motley crew of soulful music lovers, as it turned out). For the how of the rescue, I refer you to my Ways and Means Committee.

Steinway piano

Home–where there is always a piano, lots of books, and plentiful dog toys

But with this new piano came my next tuner—a slouching hulk of a gentle giant who played Debussy, Brahms and Chopin with the delicacy of a puff pastry. His tiny dog Minuet accompanied him every time he came to tune, and, when he was finished, he would play Clair de Lune while I stroked Minuet’s silky ears.

In the garden roses bloomed and baby deer frolicked.

I’m not exaggerating. I’ll even mention Charlie, my dog. He loved music. Absolutely loved it. Sitting at my feet while I played, looking much like this. This was Charlie’s signature pose. Sometimes he would place his big clumsy paw on my foot that worked the damper pedal. His sighs and snufflings of contentment became part of the resonance.


Must I leave this picture? Yes, I must, for then came darkness and so much that followed is blank.

Strange hands, lifting hands, then my own hands resting awkwardly on hospital sheets. I recognized none of them. My ears rebelled against the ugly beeps of monitors; chronic, cankered beeps that I couldn’t shut out. Unnatural sounds that formed a hateful chorus from a Greek tragedy chanting “die”.

The music went silent. The piano movers came and I was not there. That was the good thing. I was not there to watch it go. But I was going, too. It didn’t matter.

Somewhere anti matter was singing in deep booms of awful reverberation.

If the sound from the singing black holes is just now reaching us after millions of years, where did my sounds go? The sounds from the old upright in the sixties and the Kimball and the cherrywood console and big diva from 1879 that reflected back the flickering light of the ocean…are they still resonating? Have they reached another type of sounding board, where the old songs, the old laughter, is still being heard?

Light did return. So did the music. The hands regained some, but not all, of dexterity. Music came back to the inside of my mind. I gradually awoke to a new reality. I had lost Rachmaninov, Chopin, and so much more, but something of their sounds were still there. I could still play. I was still a flushed and eager four year old with my body pressed against the sound board.

The Box with strings, however, was different. It was so very different. There was no replacing my beauteous 1879. But I went and sampled pianos; the replacement options. I played by inches. Life came back by inches. I went for as many inches as I could. Why not? I finally found one that was just right. Lovely crystalline tones.

She’s a vintage beauty from 1920, with a ‘story’. Story is important when you’re trying to fit a 5’9” mahogany box of sound in a cramped living space. Our new life. Life. What a sweet resonance that word has.

I play gratitude now, along with memories of other music. I play in the key of B flat. Usually minor. Gratitude is always in a minor key, for gratitude can only come at a price. That is my key. Mine and the black holes in space.


Our home in the city is four stories up. There are tops of trees outside the window, and when I play, the birds sing in answer.  A flock of finches will begin to gather–perhaps a few sparrows– there are certainly twitters in little undulations aplenty as the music begins. The chickadees hang upside down from a limb and peer inside with a sweet curiosity that makes my heart ache for their innocence.

If this sounds like a scene from Snow White—well, perhaps. If you can imagine Snow White with a Steinway. And scars.

I am beginning to resonate again. And somewhere a black hole is playing in the key of Bb. It finally found me. It’s playing my father’s smile and the glint of light on the ocean. I’d like to think it’s playing for Charlie, too. He would love that.

Yes, it’s just a box, a wooden box on three legs. Inside it bears scars and strings of the toughest steel.

It’s the world to me.

[You asked me what is my most precious Thing (as in object), and I can tell you it's a piano.]

[And you asked me about my experience with a favorite instrument. This is the long version.]





So Strangely Stiletto



A request for contrast from The Daily Post:

There is a delicate shell chandelier that hangs over the piano. It has a curious affinity for light, and as the light fades, dusk begins, and champagne is poured…it comes strangely alive. The transformation takes it from soft luminosity to a faint menace.

Perhaps the champagne was flat.

To offer further contrast to this newly disembodied atmosphere, there is even turgid, nonsensical poetry to be had after dinner:

Sweetly sings she
her song of sushi
while chandeliers of
light filled shells
chime and shimmer
as champagne sheens
and sparkle chills;
what shadows you 
oh, luminosity?