A hurricane swept up the coast, and the dregs of it reached us last night. Torrents of rain. . .We all huddled in the parlor, and it was deliciously like sitting in the belly of a ship tossed on stormy seas. The wind creaked in the eaves, and the rain thwished at the sides of the house like waves. I had been hauling around my brick of an Early English Literature textbook all day intending to settle down to my first bit of course reading, and so by the light of a lone candle passed around, we read Beowulf aloud.

“A few miles from here
a frost-stiffened wood waits and keeps watch
above a mere; the overhanging bank
is a maze of tree-roots mirrored in its surface.
At night there, something uncanny happens:
the water burns. And the mere bottom
has never been sounded by the sons of men.”

The candlelight cast eerie shadows upon the wall and I wished the storm wouldn’t end.

And yet, there’s something delicious in the morning after a storm. It seemed to take something with it as it whirled away heralding the end of summer. The crows had begun spreading rumors of autumn in early August, but a starkness to the morning light marked a true turning today. Glorious autumn. I can’t wait to set a jack o’ lantern out on the step and fill Patty’s Place with the spicy scent of pumpkin pie and apple cider.  And. . .

This fall shall find my steps turning towards a small bookstore. Finally, I have finagled a way out of my department-store retail job downtown: my last day there’s the 19th. And then. . .part-time hours as a bookstore clerk. As the proprietor showed me around and instructed me on her organization of the genres, my heart glowed. To think I will be paid to sell books! I can’t wait until every nook and cranny and volume of that bookstore is familiar to me–and somehow, I don’t think it will take very long….:)

Neither Here nor There

Today marked the start of my fall semester of courses. . .I wore a pair of new boots I had worn to a Very Important Meeting last week for they seemed good walking shoes–and good luck, judging by the effect of the meeting! But I hadn’t even hoofed it across campus to my first class before I was ready to take them off and walk barefoot. The sight of two wildly expectorating young males (Grace’s embellishment), however, convinced me to suffer my martyrdom of new shoes. By the time I came home, though–ooh! Worse blisters I’ve never had!

Still, though, I have wandered about barefoot ever since, and have almost forgotten about them. In that way, blisters of the sole are much easier to bear than blisters of the soul. For the longest time, certain things have been chafing away at me, and my soul has been a miserable, blistered little shred. You see, you can’t just walk around bare-souled to alleviate the pain, especially in the present climate. Souls are so much more susceptible than soles to cold, and a cold soul is something very hard to recover from. Take Ebenezer Scrooge for example: It took a heavy dosage unpleasant memory and then a strong poultice of his own mortality administered in the dead of night to put him on the road to recovery.

But what I had been meaning to write before I got side-tracked was. . .

Dear me, what was it? I can’t recall.

Oh well…

A Day In The Life Of Grace

Grace sat in the window seat of her bedroom and gazed out at the sunlight shimmering through the leaves, creating intricate patterns on the emerald lawn and flower beds—both in pristine condition, of course, since the girls’ neighbor had taken pity on them and offered his services in return for a pie on the third Thursday of every month

Thoughts flitted through her head as she sat with her head leaning against the window; thoughts almost as numerous as the amount of pillows with which she had recently bedecked her bed and window seat.

Judging from what happened next, it would seem that one thought suddenly became quite significantly more dominant than the rest.

“That’s it!” She burst out suddenly before jumping off the window seat and dashing down the narrow staircase. “I refuse to stay cooped up in the house one instant longer. I’m going on a picnic.” She announced grandly as she sashayed through the main room and into the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen, Grace enveloped herself in a Very Large and Voluminous Apron proceeded to fly about as only Grace could. It wasn’t very long until she had a woven basket setting on the table stuffed to the brim with a jar of cold water, a salad too beautiful for words to describe, a bowl of fruit, all the necessary eating accessories, a large ivory-hued blanket, a book, and her sketch pad and paints.

She discarded the apron, jabbed a hatpin through her hat, tossed a quick goodbye over her shoulder, and headed out the back door.

A few minutes later Grace was dotting down the street on her bicycle with the basket secured to the back. She carefully guided her bicycle onto a gravel path and slowed her pace to enjoy the beauty around her. The trees on either side stretched their arms to each other and created a tunnel of cool shade broken up by dapples of sunshine. Lilac bushes long bereft of their fragrant blossoms from the springtime lined one side of the path, and a small bubbling stream edged the opposite side. Grace stopped her bike by a small grassy spot where the stream widened and dismounted. After spreading the blanket and partaking of the contents of her basket, she laid back and smiled dreamily up at the cloud faces above her. This was bliss in one of its fullest forms.

The sun was several degrees past its zenith when Grace rubbed her eyes and sat up in confusion. A soft gasp escaped her lips as she suddenly realized where she was and the danger she could have been in had a chap of less-than-honorable motives happened upon her alone deep in the woods. She quickly dismissed the thought with a grin, contemplating on how much more exciting things were when they could turn bad, but didn’t, and proceeded to repack her basket.

A twig broke. Grace jumped and spun around on one foot to ascertain where the sound had come from and if she was in imminent danger of being carried off or eaten alive (for we all know how common it is for citizens to be eaten alive in this part of the country…). A man emerged from the bushes not ten feet from where she was standing. He straightened his hat and brushed the leaves and spiders off his jacket before looking up.

“I wondered when you would wake up.”

“Oh…” Grace looked startled. This fellow had been watching her?

“Don’t be frightened, my dear, you have no cause to worry. I am Cornelius Vartoli.” He looked as if he expected the young woman standing in front of him to . . . do something when he announced his name so grandly. He probably was not certain himself what he expected her to do, but it was obvious he was not intending for her to just stand there staring blankly at him.

Grace soon regained her composure and closed her mouth. The fellow standing in front of her cut a rather interesting picture, and her eyes twinkled as she realized it. He was wearing a small-brimmed straw hat and none of his clothes matched. He looked rather thrown together, Grace thought. His face, though, was quite another matter. When one looked at this part of his personage, one quite forgot the thrown together-ness of the rest of him. His face was firm and strong—it looked as though it could have been carved by one of the classic sculptors—and yet it had the softness and gentleness of a delicately painted canvas. He held a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“How long had you been watching me, Mr. Vartoli?” Grace asked, for lack of anything else to say. She seemed to have lost her infamous ability to make small talk without a second thought.

“I had walked by at half past the hour and saw you,” he said and pulled a gold watch out of his pocket, “and after I had completed my errand” he motioned to the flowers in his hand, “I was returning to town. I had just heard a crying sound in the woods as I came up on you again and went to investigate. It must have been some animal crying for its mother, because my investigations were all for naught.”

“That must be what awakened me.” Grace replied as she gathered the blanket off the ground and folded it. “I’ll admit I was rather startled to wake up and see you emerging from the bushes.”

Cornelius Vartoli smiled. “Thought I was an ill-bred chap, did you?” He reached to help her heft the basket back on to the back of her bicycle and secure it.

“I hadn’t the time to actually formulate any real thoughts about you, actually. But, aside from the rakish angle at which that long twig is sticking out from your hat, you don’t exactly look the part of a rogue.” She grinned archly at him.

He returned the grin and tossed the offending twig aside. “Are you headed home, –“ He trailed off as he realized he didn’t know the lady’s name.

“Grace.” She offered simply.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Grace.” He swept his hat off his head and tipped his head respectfully. “You are on your way home, I presume?”

“I am, yes.”

“May I accompany you?”

She smiled her permission at him and began pushing her bicycle back down the gravel path. He strode along beside her, hands behind his back clasping the flowers tightly.

They made small talk as they headed toward the small town. He told her about his family and background in enough detail that she was able to fully put to rest any lingering doubts she may have had about his motives. She talked about herself in a rather vague manner as was her custom—not purposefully, but because she talked about everything in a rather vague manner during the first half hour after she had slept.

When they arrived at the doorstep of the small white cottage with the sign out front reading “Patty’s Place”, Grace parked her bicycle and turned to face Cornelius Vartoli on the front doorstep.

“Thank you for the enjoyable walk back, Mr. Vartoli.” Grace said pleasantly.

“It was my pleasure, Miss.” He replied. He stared down at his feet for several moments before looking up. “My grandmother lives down that path where you were resting…and I was down there visiting her…and…she always makes me take flowers from her garden when I leave…and…well, would you take these as a gift from me?” His voice veritably cracked from nervousness as he handed her the bouquet.

Grace accepted them delightedly and stuffed her nose into the middle of them, inhaling deeply. “Lovely.” She sighed. “Thank you, sir.” She smiled at him and he turned and walked down the steps and into the street. He turned around and waved. Grace watched him round the bend and disappear before going inside and being accosted by the girls who had been peering curiously out the window. She set any rumors to rest before they ever got started and told them of her lovely picnic.

And that was the last time any of the Patty’s Place girls ever saw Cornelius Vartoli.

The bouquet of flowers holds a place of honor on the kitchen table.

Let The Rain Fall

Rainy days are always idyllic at Patty’s Place, especially when no one has to be off to work. At least that is what I thought to myself, as I baked a pan of the most delicious-looking brownies. Leaving them to cool, I found my latest half-finished book and my workbag, and headed out to the porch to get a bit of work - if it can be called work, it’s so pleasant! - done whilst watching the rain fall.

I suffered a severe shock when I went back inside, some half an hour later, to find Rissa cross-legged on the floor in our sitting room, a glint of fiendish glee in her eyes, tearing one of her journals to shreds and tossing the pieces into a completely unnecessary fire.

“Rissa!” I gasped. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Happy the people whose annals are vacant,” she said darkly. “Thomas Carlyle.”

I have not Rissa’s gift of remembering a quotation, but I cannot bear to see anyone destroying a book so wantonly, particularly since I had not read it, and should never be able to do so now. And I intended to let her see it. “Well. Tinkerty-tonk,” I said, leaving the room, and by Jove! I meant for it to rankle.

Grace was upstairs looking irritable, staring outside while her fingers beat a staccato rhythm on the windowsill (incidentally, I always thought that word was “stattaco” until more recently than I care to admit! But that’s beside the point) and I poked her with my crochet hook.

“Please don’t tell me I’m the only one who adores stormy days,” I begged. “It seems to send Rissa into strange moods wherein she demolishes all the chronicles of her early years - no, don’t even ask. And here you are, looking all moody and - oh.”

I ceased my monologue upon glimpsing the focus of her moody gaze - the front gate of our mysterious and handsome neighbor’s house. He was standing under a large black umbrella with a rather pretty specimen of the female persuasion - I need hardly add that she was also quite human, of course. He appeared to be bidding her farewell in what seemed to me a rather unnecessarily familiar manner. Don’t let anyone tell you there isn’t anything romantic about the rain. It’s positively dripping with the stuff.

(Author’s interjection: Har har)

Grace looked a trifle sheepish, and then suddenly bounded up from her seat. “Come, I want to show you something - my latest purchase from that favorite clothing catalog of ours - you know the one. Anthropologie. It’s a new dress, and simply marvelous…”

“You goose, Grace. Very well,” I said amiably, “if I must be shown, I must be shown. Undomesticated bovines couldn’t stop me from being shown.”

Suffice it to say, I was shown.

The End.

(Which is to say, my pen hand begins to cramp, and I was just seized with a sudden wish for a steaming cup of Earl Grey. So I hastily and disjointedly finished this entry - you must admit, that last sentence is rather pointless …or do I mean, beside the point? Anyway, it definitely doesn’t go with the story. But it struck me as a rather snappy closing statement. So I wrote it. And now I am leaving. Goodbye.)

*makes a face at journal and leaves it somewhere as equally conspicuous as the place from which it was picked up*

“as of innumerable wings…”

I am sitting, as I write, underneath our spreading maple tree as the sky fades to dusky lavender and green and a fresh breeze swims up from the shore. It is nearly August, and I am thinking constantly of the first few stanzas of Longfellow’s “Prelude” to Voices of the Night.

Patty’s Place is wafting through the summer on a sea of dreams. I shall let some of them swirl around in the deeper currents for the time being lest the bubbles burst as they reach the surface. . .

Hmm. Grace had written her entry on the liberating effects of not feeling obliged to list off everyone’s news every time one writes in our journal. Obviously, what with the strange and twisting metaphors I have been indulging in for the past two paragraphs, this doesn’t work for me. If I don’t write about these wonderful fellow-residents of Patty’s Place, what’s left except trees and dreams, after all? I suppose I could try filling the space with my news…

Great Scott, have I any? Hmm. Well, I am putting in many hours at work and lately it has seemed that every day I am convinced anew of the total depravity of mankind both in general and particular–oh, the stories I could tell you about this one outrageous woman today!–But then I come home to Patty’s Place and realize that even “if unholy deeds ravage the world, tranquility is here!” Last week, I spent more time doing the office work than usual, and nearly bled to death from paper-cuts. I am trying to dream up a brilliant way to sell all except my most essential books, but am not having much luck. Also, I’m reading a book written by a pioneering woman who rowed down the Nile by herself in a little rowboat, and am feeling inspired to pick up a certain Egyptian Vacation story I had been writing once upon a time with a few other people.

I think that covers it. Thoroughly. Hmm, is it just me, or was that rather deathly dull? So I can’t write of things in general and still be coherant, and I can’t write of my own doings and still be interesting…Sorry, Grace, it looks like I’ll have to fall back on the habit of plundering everyone else’s big news!

Ahem. So then. Abby has gotten a job! Hurrah, hurrah! Of course, they hired her practically the instant they laid eyes on her. She is going into the same line of business as I am in, in fact, working for the same company. I wish her infinitely better luck.

Grace is working herself to death, as usual, and in her time off (when she could be napping like I do) has been loitering around the sewing machine and working on some projects she’s getting paid for. There’s industry for you.

Once again, Jacinta has sort of fallen off the radar. The last time I saw her was when we arrived back at the train station after our vacation, where she promptly ran off shouting of plays and plans over her shoulder. She had gotten a role in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, you see. I wonder if her performances have started yet? The abominable creature (I write that most affectionately) hasn’t bothered to invite us or even tell us when and where they are. But I suppose she is busy and preoccupied.

We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of our lovely house-sitter and neighbor, Queen Anne, lately, too. Every once in awhile a voice murmuring excerpts from Shakespeare comes from over the lilac bushes which separate our yards, though, and I take it as a good sign of her continued existence.

Oswald has moved into our cozy attic room. Or anyway, we think he has. Being a ghost, he unencumbered by much in the way of luggage when he arrived, and we hadn’t had to lug his steamer trunks up the staircase or anything, you know….But our best evidence that he has followed us home from Colorado is that all of a sudden there is a kitchen drawer that will not stay closed, and frequently we will come into the sitting room to find our film projector on, but running down as if it had just been cranked, and our collection of Meg Ryan films in a state of disarray. Oswald is a particular fan of Meg Ryan, you see.

But the sky has deepened to a dark, starry blue now, and I’m only writing by the light of our kitchen window. The breeze is turning a little chilly, and I think I shall go inside, leave this small volume in a particularly conspicuous place, and finish my journey down the Nile.

“Because I am afraid, I press on…”

I think the reason that we don’t update this journal very often (other than because it keeps getting lost in the piles of sewings supplies that are each of our rooms), is because we feel pressured to write some long entry detailing the lives of everyone of us.

This should not be.

I shall change the trend.

I had been keeping to my room a lot lately until I decided that I was sick and tired of being holed up all alone with only my sewing machine to yell at. So, I decided to haul the sewing machine down to a table near the kitchen. I’m much happier there–I have more room (though we have no table on which to dine) and I have more to yell at than just my sewing machine. *halo*

I’ve been hooked on bags lately . . . (not to be entirely anachronistic, but I’m not sure how to get around it) as you can see here. They all turn out so adorable! All of my friends are getting quite laden down with bags and totes of all shapes and sizes. Hee. It makes me happy. Skirts and blouses are also high on the list these days, but those haven’t really seen the light of anyone’s days but mine.

Rissa has had a long and, I’m sure, grueling day at work, so I’m off to comfort her and make her some tea while we chat about the day. Toodle-pip, dearies!

Well, we’re home.

And have been for an eon or two, it feels. I can speak for all when I say that we had a simply wonderful time vacationing in Colorado. In fact, it was indescribably wonderful–probably the reason none of us have attempted to write in our Patty’s Place journal about it until now. Indeed, an account of our travels is a tall order, and I’m not sure I feel equal to it! I can try to make our beginnings, however.

The first question that the curious reader will no doubt want answered is: Did Abigail meet any cowboys, and if so, what mayhem did this result in? Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately for us,) she didn’t see a single one. Well, while strolling in Estes Park, we espied a few gentlemen of advanced years sporting cowboy hats, but they were hardly what Abby had in mind as far as matrimonial prospects go. No, the truth of the matter is that there were cowboys in Colorado, and the fates simply conspired to keep her from seeing them. It continually happened that Abby would be peering into her camera to capture spectacular mountain vistas, and we would raise the cry, “Look, Abby! A cowboy! Over there!” And she would immediately look up, but in all the wrong directions, and they would have wandered off around a corner by the time she realized where we were directing her vision. In her defense, though, it isn’t as if we were flailing wildly about and overtly pointing. It is probably our ladylike discretion that has preserved our Abby’s heart.

Ah, but in the words of our esteemed Jane Austen, “What are men to rocks and mountains?” It is probably just as well that Abby never got her cowboy fix, because we had a hard enough time dragging her home with us at it was.

As has been mentioned before, we spent the 7th to the 14th of June in a little mountain cabin, and the three or four days on either end of this week we were able to trespass upon the hospitality of Grace’s family. Naturally, as we boarded our west-bound trains, we regarded the cabin-week as the main Event of our vacation. It turned out, though, that we enjoyed the time we spent with Grace’s family just as much if not even more. It was perfectly beastly of her, but Grace never mentioned just what delightful friends and relations she has. We were absolutely smitten with the lot of them, and feel as though we’ve all gained family members, ourselves.

Good grief! But I’ll have to hurry off to bed if I’m going to make it to work by six tomorrow morning! I shall leave you, then, with a snapshot of Grace and Abby taken by Frank (oh! and we haven’t yet introduced Frank in this account! A frightful ommission) at a little cove we named Outlaw’s Hideout–and the promise that you, dear reader, will be regaled by tales of Oswald the Ghost, impromptu moonlit dances, Wilterdink the Pufferfish, and dive-bombing hummingbirds in the not too distant future. Who shall take up the threads where I leave them? Abby? Grace? Jacinta? Frank?

Welcome Home!

I have already blotted ink all over this page before I’ve begun. Alas, such is life these days. I suppose my writing here warrants some kind of explanation or introduction, but as I’m pressed for time I hope I’ll be forgiven if I do it only briefly. I’m Anne, and have been keeping house at Patty’s Place during the recent absence of her usual residents. (I do feel the need to refer to this house with a feminine pronoun–”it” sounds altogether unsuitable for a place so full of welcoming personality.) I live not too far from this dear place, and am very fond of dropping in for a visit on occasion.

Any road, here I sit in the parlour, amid the merry chaos of welcoming the adventurers home. I have secured a promise that details of their travels will be forthcoming as soon as the tea table has been laid, for truly, one cannot expect a lady to launch into a narrative before she’s had some madeleines, cucumber sandwiches, and (my personal favourite) strawberries and clotted cream.

All has been well here in your absence, my dear friends, and though I have been madly dashing back and forth between various engagements and rehearsals for the Shakespearean Festival, I have still found time to water Grace’s geraniums (how I wish mine at home would thrive as yours do!), give all the rooms a good airing (which is to say that upon one evening during a summer rain I threw the windows and doors all open to let the glorious scent of it soak the air inside), play a very little on Rissa’s piano (you must give me some Beethoven now that you’re home), and make excellent use of both the bookshelves and the teacups. I have also made the acquaintance of the White Lady in the garden; one evening at twilight she was strolling pensively among the roses and I happened upon her before she went out through a gate that is no longer there.

I shall put down this pen, now, though I’ve barely had a chance to begin–the tea kettle is singing!

We’re on our way, pack up your pack!

My grandfather, whenever harnessing the horses to go picnicking in the country or traveling to neighboring cities always used to sing this little ditty:

We’re on our way, pack up your pack
And if we stay, we won’t come back
How can we go? We haven’t got a dime
But we’re goin’ and
we’re gonna have a happy time.

I am sitting in the midst of a Stonehenge of steamer trunks and hat-boxes, and in about five hours, Abby and I will be at the train station waiting to board!

Just had to leave that little bon voyage to our dear Patty’s Place. In the meantime, we’ve preyed upon the kindness of an old friend to house-sit at Patty’s Place, and are leaving the journal in her keeping.

I should probably try to get a little sleep tonight, at least….

Cheerio!

Let’s Get Away from It All

It is One Week till our vacation. Grace has traveled on ahead to Colorado, and the rest of us are scheduled to depart by train in a week. Less than a week! Six days and…seventeen-or-so hours! The picture pasted at the top of our journal is a hand-tinted photograph Grace posted to us as soon as she arrived. Mainly to make the wait longer and more tortuous, I expect.

Every free moment I have, my brain is suddenly flooded by all the packing lists I haven’t written yet…and the mysterious sound of a disembodied train whistle.

Since Grace has gone, and her friends with her, Patty’s Place has become fairly quiet. You wouldn’t believe all the ruckus she’s capable of…people coming and going at all hours, off to picnics or getting up impromptu games in the park…But yes! The only sounds now are the hum of the sewing machine upstairs and the whistle of the tea kettle which I have to go pour out before it boils itself dry….

Anyway. I must be feeling very elliptical today. Abby and I keep squabbling over the sewing machine. I think she’s gotten the most time with it by far, but I’ve still managed to eke out one new summery frock and two skirts. One of the skirts–the one I made specifically to be a part of my traveling suit for this vacation–is particularly garish. (Not to mention anachronistic!) Abby has informed me that if we get separated at the train station and she doesn’t recognize me–it won’t be because she doesn’t recognize me.

I could really say the same thing, though. She has been exercising her millinery skills lately, and let me tell you, the thing she’s come up with looks precisely like a muffin. A blueberry muffin. With frosting. I can easily imagine her wandering around the wilds of Colorado with her new hat on…like a pastry perched atop her head. We’ll have to watch out that some wild animal doesn’t decide she looks like dessert with whipped cream on top and carry her off.

Kidding, kidding, Abby! All right, dear readers. It has to be admitted: Abigail is quite adorable enough to carry off even a hat that looks like a muffin with charm and ease.

(As for me, I think I’ll stick with store-bought from our local milliner’s…)

I feel like I’m forgetting to mention something. Well, there’s Jacinta. We’re not quite sure what’s become of her, really…While she was in college for the spring term, we at least had the thump of her textbooks and the furious clacking of her type-writer to assure us that she was really still here, but now we’re quite at a loss as to what’s become of her. She is supposedly going to be traveling with us in a week, though, so perhaps we shall see her then. That is, if she doesn’t refuse to be seen in public with me and my skirt and Abby and her hat…

Well. I finished out my semester, too. Am waiting earnestly for my grades, because there were a few courses I was a little iffy on this year. I’ve been putting in a few more hours at my part-time job now, too…

Oh, piffle. What am I doing, talking about grades and dollar-signs when it’s summer and we’re going on vacation in a week!!