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.

Wild and Free

What I really wanted was a pair of Nancy Sinatra go go boots

“What I really wanted was a pair of Nancy Sinatra go-go boots.”

When you are in the third grade, earnestly drawing pictures of horses, lost in dreams of riding with wild horses over the open plain, punctuated by dramatic moments of having your life saved by a wild stallion (who fiercely tramples a rattler poised to strike you)  and subsequently writing all of these dreamed-of adventures into stories with titles like ‘Wild and Free’; you have no idea you are fulfilling a stereotype.

In the third grade, you have no concern for stereotypes. You don’t know what the word means, and it wouldn’t matter if you did. You are just free to Be.

You are one of the vast numbers of little girls who did not excel at math, but that was fine–English was far more interesting at the time. You were squeamish in science, when it came to the dreaded Dissections of small, helpless creatures; but that was okay, too. The obnoxious and smelly David M. excelled in cutting apart dead things and you definitely didn’t want to be like him.

I did manage to avoid the ‘playing with Barbies’ phase, or dolls in general. I was never attracted to Barbie. Her life was so plastic. It had nothing to do with rounding up strays in Big Sky country.

In the third grade, life of home, school, and Grandma’s kitchen is small, but the possibilities are vast. In the third grade, you are Wild and Free.

It is only later that you find you have traveled on well-trodden paths where other eager children have passed before you. It is even possible those youthful, trampling feet were clad in similar Saddle shoes of two-toned leather thrust upon us by our well-meaning mothers. (I hated those shoes, and wanted to dispose of them much as my stallion savior disposed of the venomous snake.)

Yet the universe was out there, waiting. I say that because  a.) I am highly imaginative, and b.) ‘Stereotypes’ is actually a daunting topic about narrow, constrained pathways that we suddenly find ourselves in to the glee of marketing analysts everywhere. A sort of ‘help I’m trending and I can’t stop’ dilemma.

I am not referring to damaging stereotypes that come from people’s minds and prejudices, but those that have to do with genetics, inherited traits and Preconceptions that grow up into Misconceptions which further translate into Missed Opportunities. I have some half-baked kindergarten physics ideas that universal laws are somehow involved. I don’t know…like giant laundry chutes that sort us into efficient loads, a quantum compartmentalization, if you will. (okay, so I failed more than Dissections in Science Class)

If you would like to read a real and useful discussion about stereotypes, read here. (article by Art Markman) In his blog, he makes this comment:

‘We suggested that having a negative stereotype puts you in a defensive motivational mode. You are prepared for negative outcomes…’

Wow is that true. I learned to sew in spite of my mother, who always insisted that my older sister took after Grandma (both of them excellent seamstresses) while I, on the other hand, took after mom, who hated to sew. She even accused it of giving her a Nervous Breakdown In Home Economics Class. Apparently she was struggling to sew on a zipper with the teacher watching and had a complete meltdown. Thus, when she came to visit me one day after I was newly married and saw me (rather furtively) sewing up curtains for my kitchen, she was indignant. “I was not supposed to like sewing because SHE didn’t like sewing.”

Therefore, while I did learn to sew with a fair amount of proficiency laced with anxiety and a sense of looming failure, I was never confident that I actually ‘knew’ what I was doing, because somehow, in the universal view of fate-like conduits and laundry chutes, I wasn’t supposed to be sewing at all. (side note: the curtains turned out really pretty; very Laura Ashley and the quintessential cottage sprig of the ’80’s but as google analytics will tell you we’re all more Downton Abbey chic now).

Even now, as I type this blog entry–a fifty plus baby boomer with all the latest devices and gadgetry (‘Not Without My Garlic Press!!’), Facebook likes and ‘friends’, personalized ring tones, Instagram posts of…wait for it…latte crema perfection, my own etsy store where I can compete with 45 million other people trying to sell a necklace and yes, multiple pinterest pins–I am aware that I am a stereotype of the brave new world. Marketers know what sort of advertisements to thrust into my view and that I will, most likely, click on the link that leads me to the Anthropologie lace cardigan and leather riding boots that look too young for me.

It’s alright, really. In my heart I’m a carefree third grader with dreams and stories, and the universe yet to discover. In my heart I’m still wild and free. Oh, but did I mention that I just received my AARP card in the mail? The one that touts ‘Real Possibilities’? I didn’t even ask for it. It’s wonderful how these things work. They Just Knew. The laundry chute journey into quantum conformity continues!

Just to show a tiny whisper of the freedom my heart longs for, I’m going to start a new pinterest board with nothing but pictures of wild horses. It will thrill me to look at them. Just like yesterday and my starstruck third-graderness.

Wild Horses

I wanted one in every color

So follow me on pinterest (genusrosa) and join me as we click and drag together! The universe will be pleased.