Holly Hoarding

I awoke early on Wednesday to snow, or at least that's what they call it here.  Where I come from, we'd laugh at this.  "Just wait 'til winter comes and the snow's so high you can't open the front door.  You've got to shovel yourself out, sometimes more than once in a day.  That's snow.  This?  This is nothing." That's what my people would say, but here there was pandemonium.  Our room was cold.  I got up to feed the cat and put on the heater and then went back to bed.

When it came time to rise, the snow had stopped and frost clung to the grass, holding fast against the warming rays of the sun that intermittently came through the clouds.  Bits of snow still lay clumped and wet in beds of frozen leaves, but mostly it was gone.  I pulled on my boots, tied a red scarf around my neck, and shrugged on a green wool coat.  I packed a canvas bag with my camera and a pair of kitchen scissors and began my walk to the wood.

The path was muddy and slick with decaying leaves which forced me to plan each step carefully.  Where I was going was the small wood near the park.  To enter, one must walk through a field which is quiet except on warm days when the sound of children playing nearby is carried by the wind. Before stepping into the wood, I looked to make sure I was alone.  A woman was walking with her dog at the other side of the field, whistling for him to stay close, her breath escaping in a white cloud.  Truth be told, I wasn't sure if what I was planning to do was legal, per se, and I was feeling the need for secrecy.  I felt a surge of adrenaline as I walked between the naked trees and found the thing I sought: a thicket of wild holly.

The air was still.  I could hear the woman with the dog coming closer as I took the scissors from my bag and carefully reached through the barbed leaves to cut sprigs that I found pleasing.  I paused as she and the dog walked along the edge of the wood.  Her boots broke small twigs with a soft snap and water dripped from the trees and bushes with a sound like spring.  The woman passed; I continued cutting.

When I'd finished, my bag was full of holly. I came into the clearing and saw that I was alone.  Walking carefully up the muddy path toward home, I passed a man hauling large branches toward the edge of the wood.  I assumed he must be employed by the city to tend to the common land and surely he would know what I'd done when he saw my bag.  I said hello and walked quickly away, half expecting him to call after me and make me confess my crime.  A sprig of holly poked through my leggings, making my skin itch and burn.  The man did not call after me.

Along the sidewalk grew more holly.  A different species, perhaps, with smaller, darker leaves and bright red berries.  I slowed my walk and when the road was free of cars, I again extracted my scissors, my heart beating excitedly as I whistled a tune.  Fa la la la la, la la la la.
                                                                                              

With the help of my (maybe) illegal holly gathering as well as my favorite shade of red lipstick, I'm feeling a little more festive now than I was at the beginning of the week.  Cox Quarters could use a little more decorating before it truly exudes the spirit of the season and I'm thinking about doing some kind of birch display instead of a tree.  Another trip to the wood is in order, but this time I might need a bigger bag...

An Autumn Walk

Autumn is almost over.  A few leaves cling to the branches still, but before long they'll reach long and naked toward the sky and the wind will blow with a hallow whistle.  With the wind will come the cold and the winter will be dark and damp and will chill us to the bone.  Or that's what David says, anyway.

As always, I am sad to see the leaves change color and the autumn pass.  I don't know how I will like the English winter, but thoughts of sweaters and hot mint tea warm my mind and make me feel comfortable in spite of the forthcoming cold.  For now, anyway.

Along with the leaves, I saw this, too, on my walk yesterday.  I pass it often when I go into town and it always makes me happy.  The logo- I like it.  A lot.

Countryside

We've been escaping into the woods lately, taking long walks on paths that weave between trees and fallow streams.  When it's dry, the path is dusty and easy to traverse, but when it's wet, every step is studied as we maneuver the high ground, avoiding the spots of deep and slippery mud.  It's quiet- so quiet- in the wood and we often walk with only the hum of insects, the pounding of our hearts, and the noise of our own footsteps sounding our ears.  The air smells of the color green and also of dirt, unless we're by a stream where you can also smell the natural scent of decay mixed with the sweet scent of fresh water.  Occasionally, voices echo between the trees- a woman calling to her dog or the excited scream of a child- and we spin in place, searching for the source which is hidden by the greenery around us.  When we're in the wood, we let our senses take over and guide us through.  At first it feels as if we'll never find our way out, but when we stumble back upon the entrance we're always sorry to have found ourselves right back at the beginning again. 

Alas. 

Weekend Walk

My wonderful friend Greg was in town for a fast and furious 24 hours on Friday and I spent the day strolling the city and dodging rain showers with him and the Redcoat.  The photos above were all taken in Chelsea.  I have a major soft spot for the vine-covered home in the top photo on the left.  I bet the people who live there are really lovely.  They probably have a library stocked with first edition hardcovers and collect art from around the world.  She probably has the elegance and composure of Maryl Streep and he still wears tweed waistcoats and gets his hair cut by a proper barber.  They probably laugh a lot and always have someone staying in the guest bedroom.  They are probably fabulous! 

Speaking of fabulous, today is David's birthday!  He's being all grumpy and quiet about it, but I'll force some tequila down his throat and do what I can to cheer him up.  I'm a lucky lady to have such an upstanding gentleman as a husband and I think he's worthy of celebration every day.  LET THE PARTY BEGIN!  

Mad Men + Weekend

I'm lucky to have an unconventional weekend.  Instead of battling with crowds of shoppers and diners who have Saturday and Sunday off, I have Sunday and Monday to roam the city, run errands and recharge my fem-bot batteries.  This weekend was no exception.

After a week of bare legs and tank tops, the weather once again reminded us that it is, in fact, March.  As wonderful as a warm breeze and sunshine can be, I relish the cool spring air and took great delight in starting my Sunday with a chilly walk along the harbor with David.  Along the way, we stopped at Flour in the Seaport for delicious sandwiches that we ate with cold fingers as we walked. 

Just like everyone else, David and I settled in last night for an evening of television.  With a tumbler of Jameson in hand we cozied up for the two-hour Season 5 premier of Mad Men.  Reading the reviews today makes me feel as though the episode was perceived as being on par with the second coming of Christ, but I have to say that it left me a little underwhelmed.  Though I'm thrilled it's back and can't wait to see how the rest of the season plays out and am fully aware that it's difficult to pack a lot of character development into a two-hour time-slot, I've compiled a few notes about the episode and why it made me go Meh: 

•  I don't like Don Draper when he's happy.  I know he's still slightly moody and twisted, but his killer instinct seems to be gone and I just can't stand for that.  A man like Don lives for his work and no woman- no matter how young and beautiful- can keep him distracted from his job for the 15 months (or however long it's been) since we last saw him.  Back to work, Don!  I want you to WOW us again.
• Megan is a poor-man's T-Mobile girl.  No one who sleeps with the boss, marries the boss and then gets promoted to their "dream job" is allowed to be that naive about the cynical underbelly of their chosen profession.  I can't wait for her to quit her job, get pregnant, and for Don to start resenting her as he focuses all his emotional energy back where it belongs, on his work.  
• I cared for the painfully awkward phone conversation between Lane and the lingerie-clad hussy about as much as Don cared for Megan's silly song-and-dance number. 
• Across the board, the characters seemed to have lost some depth and briefly become caricatures.  For example: Joan's mom = bitch, Trudy = tired housewife in an ugly house coat, Peter = petulant and whiny career hungry account manager, Harry = sleazeball, Roger = handsome sleazeball, and Lane Pryce = secret (& British) sleazeball.  Barring Joan and Peggy, I really didn't feel as if anyone had a genuinely dynamic emotional storyline.  Though I found it to be a little one-note, I must say the characters sang their single note relatively well (especially Megan, ughhhhh) and I have high hopes that they'll regain their depth as the season goes on. 

And so concludes my first (and maybe last) television review.  Did you watch last night's episode?  If so, what did  you think?  Like me, are you dying to see what Betty's up to?

p.s. I mailed my UK visa application today.  Eeeek!

@ Saloon

In case you couldn't tell by my last post, I was starting to go a little stir-crazy in my apartment yesterday and was in desperate need of a walk by the end of the afternoon.  After a little coaxing, David and pulled ourselves together, walked down the front steps and turned left, which is something we never do.  The air was humid and warm last night and we walked down streets we'd never been down before.  It was like a mini-vacation in our own back yard.

Eventually, we made our way to Davis Square and accidentally stopped in the speak-easy style Saloon.  We both fell hard for the atmosphere and the snacks and cocktails didn't disappoint, either.  I'm already looking forward to going back. 

After a drink and sit, we made our way down Highland Avenue toward home.  Along the way David stole some balloons from a sandwich board which brought much joy to my heart even though stealing is wrong (tisk tisk).  Seeing him clutch those balloons as they tugged in the wind allowed me to see him exactly as he was at the age of three.  The sparkle in his eyes as he gazed up at the balloons, the happy grin on his face and the lightness of his walk, as if the balloons themselves were putting more of a bounce in his step.  It was adorable to watch him with his balloons, and when he let them go we both took a deep breath and felt as if something important had happened.  We watched them float away until they disappeared into the darkness, and then we walked to another bar and had a drink.