Private Magic

The difference between a house and a home is what Jeanette Winterson calls, “private magic.” Private magic comes about when you infuse an object or a space, with sacredness, let it wrap around you, and let it reflect your uniqueness. I could set up a single comfy chair with a reading lamp and a favorite blanket and it would be home. I could be left with nothing but my goose blanket, my pug, and my laptop, and create home.

Private magic happens in small ways, in small spaces. Storybook cottages and gingerbread houses and treehouses and dollhouses are tiny because that’s what makes them magical. Magic is not huge. Magic is tiny – one smile makes a person happier. One hug eases suffering. Magic is tiny.

Private magic creates a home in tiny ways. Unique objects all work together. I’ve never felt at home in a pristinely decorated hotel room, but as soon as I throw a sweater over the back of the chair, stack favorite books by the bedside, and put my toiletries in the bathroom, I feel at home.

Small things, done with great love. Great love infused into the things I surround myself with. Sheet music on the piano, taped together because I’ve played the songs so much. My favorite books, falling apart, dog-eared, stained with spaghetti sauce. My clarinet, the case smelling funny and the reeds chipped with age, those familiar scuff marks.

Sterility is not home. Things that are sterile, nothing but a black outline on white paper, interchangeable and soulless. They are as barren as dry earth. What makes something truly special is its full use, like with my books and clarinet and blanket – items I turn to again and again. This full use, using and living with the item day after day, infuses memories and breathes magic into the item. Private magic creates home. The items have a memory, because there is use and love in them.

Treasure hunting for private magic items in shops is fun. Seeking and seeking the next pretty thing to take home, to add to my fun collection. Will it be a porcelain skull head that flips open so I can use it for paperclips? Or perhaps a pink T-shirt with cows on it, destined to become one of my favorite pieces of clothing?

Old things and antiques already have use in them, and often I can sense their personal private magic as I gaze upon them. If my childhood home was decorated in a modern way, I’d feel that way about modern things, but my childhood home was decorated with antiques. It’s a pleasure to give old things more life and more private magic, and someday they’ll pass on to someone else.

I love the Victorian time period, but I’m continually defining it. I love the Victorian look as it looks now, with things pleasantly old-fashioned, charming, and infused with the private magic of an earlier time. I derive such pleasure from reading an old book with ancient notes on the inside flap or smiling at quaint faded handkerchiefs and squishy pillows. Things that are loved and used and may have been forgotten at some point, now rescued and bringing joy and the love of a private magic to life.

Private magic creates home. It is cozy, it is love, it is memory, it is comfort, it is belonging. Today I gently woke up, fixed my hot cup of coffee, took my laptop, and snuggled on the couch under my goose blanket, content as I could be.

Private magic comes from rituals like these. Carving out a space to write in the morning, enjoying a crunchy-soggy bowl of cereal at night, singing to musicals as I clean house, listening to Janie snore as I drift off to sleep, playing Josh Groban in the car. His songs are part of my private magic, now.

When I try to box in, sterilize, sanctify, or inhibit my authenticity, I destroy private magic. I do not make home, and the place I’m in becomes barren, unproductive. It is not healthy soil needed to germinate an abundant life. I need plenty of private magic, nutrients, sunlight, water, and the dark moist soil to fertilize and grow. I create private magic in my home when I allow myself to belong and flourish.

I'd rather have the everyday of private magic than the saved-up magic of the holidays any day of the year.

I turn towards the New Year. 2010 - Ten years since high school, ten years an adult in the world, creating my own private magic. I have done much this year and next year will be beautiful, too.

May private magic bless us all.

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A Very Merry Christmas to You All!

Janie (my pug in the picture) says hi and a wuff wuff for Christmas! She and I are heading (along with my husband) to Massachusetts tomorrow for a 3-day Christmas family extravaganza spanning two states, three towns, and three sets of parents. Whew!

I'm stopping by the grocery store tonight for ingredients for homemade wassail and dogfood. Haha.

I will be back Saturday night and I hope you all get what you wished for under the tree. What's the best gift you ever received?

Mine is a gift I got when I was five, and I remember opening it. It's my blue goose blanket, and it just doesn't feel like home without it. It's soft, fuzzy, reversible, and has geese on it. I've taken it everywhere, and Janie loves it, too.

Happy Holidays ladies!

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Sneak Peeks of a New Book!

I'm excited (and completely exhausted), since I've been working hard on my new book for you! I wanted to get it posted before the early Valentine's day rush ... and also for all you lovely dearies still searching for Mr. Right! Well, if your New Year's Resolution is to find a Prince, my Cinderella Guide can help. :)

This fun guide is based on the most timeless fairy tale of all - Cinderella - and goes through the steps in the story to bring you your own Prince and happily ever after.

It's quite a magical journey, from the kind and hardworking Cinderella in rags to the Princess of a palace, living happily beside her Prince. I hope all you dears enjoy.

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The Freshness

When it's cold and raining,
you are more beautiful.

And the snow brings me
even closer to your lips.

The inner secret, that which was never born,
you are that freshness, and I am with you now.

I can't explain the goings,
or the comings. You enter suddenly,

and I am nowhere again.
Inside the majesty.

~ Rumi

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Miles to Go ...

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

~ Robert Frost

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Whittier's Birthday

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall;

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet,

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

'Halt!' - the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
'Fire!' - out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag,' she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word;

'Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!' he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids nor more.

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewalls' bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

~ John Greenleaf Whittier

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Whittier was born December 17, 1807, and he was eight months younger than good friend Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Just one of Massachusetts' many famous writers, he was a staunch supporter of abolition and used his poetry in support of the cause. Quite popular in his lifetime, both for his moral leanings (he was a Quaker) and his political ones, he's fallen out of favor today.

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Happy Birthday Jane Austen!

Jane turns 234 today! She was born December 16, 1775 - a true Sagittarius if I ever saw one. With her barbed observations on life, her dedication to writing, long walks in nature, and her love of independence, she joins fellow Sag writers Mark Twain and Louisa May Alcott in literary heaven. :)


A BIRTHDAY POEM FOR JANE:

Upon my Little Desk I've Writ
Works of Literary Merit.
Heroines Meant for Fate's Smile
Whilst not falling Prey to Beguile.

Tho' Some shall my Ladies tease -
Entranced by Wickhams and Willoughbys -
I right their Lives in the End
With Seemingly the right Men!

But I did not in Marriage Lock -
My Life consumed by another's Clock.
An' I staid True to my Own Gift:
Conjoining Lovers Who'd been Adrift!

~ Meg North

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Dreaming of Rose Gardens ...

A flower was offered to me;
Such a flower as May never bore.
But I said I've a Pretty Rose-tree.
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree:
To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turnd away with jealousy:
And her thorns were my only delight.
~ William Blake

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Film Review - Wuthering Heights 2009

Wuthering Heights


I watched the newest adaptation of 'Wuthering Heights' last night. Starring Tom Hardy as Heathcliff, Charlotte Riley as Cathy, and Andrew Lincoln as Edgar Linton, this version played around with the story structure in an interesting way.

The novel opens with the arrival of a visitor - Mr. Lockwood - to Wuthering Heights, where he is met with Heathcliff, rugged and sullen, and Nelly, the nurturing housekeeper. He is Heathcliff's newest tenant, and also the story's first narrator. After a series of harrowing events, he is forced to stay at Wuthering Heights, and asks Nelly about Heathcliff, Cathy, and the Heights. Thus Nelly takes over the narration, and the novel's bulk is a flashback story between Cathy and Heathcliff.

The film, however, omits Mr. Lockwood and opens at Thrushcross Grange, where Cathy's daughter (also named Catherine) is being forced by Heathcliff to marry her ailing cousin, Linton. Although I'm familiar with the story, it did take me a few moments to figure out what was going on, since the narration was jumbled and very different from the novel. I did appreciate that a different actress was cast for the young Catherine, since it did irk me that Juliette Binoche played both roles in the 1992 version.

The young Catherine is wild and spirited, and after Heathcliff exerts his force upon her future, stays there. Meanwhile, her father, Edgar Linton, is also dying.

Nelly does not tell this young Catherine of her past; rather, in order to 'jump back in time,' there is a shot of Heathcliff looking up at a window. Suddenly, he is looking up at a young girl.

Then we are back in time, opening with the scene where Mr. Earnshaw (played by Pirates of the Carribean Mr. Gibbs favorite Kevin McNally) has just brought home the 'gypsy' boy. The child actors for Cathy, Heathcliff, and Hindley were very talented and looked remarkably similar to the adults. That's always a plus! A couple of scenes demonstrate Heathcliff's outcast nature - they stop going to church, and Heathcliff fights other boys. Then Hindley is sent away to school to become a gentleman, and Heathcliff and Cathy are free to roam the moors and develop their love.

Some fun highlights of the film were recognizing the actors. Burn Gorman plays the adult Mr. Hindley, most famous for being Mr. Guppy in "Bleak House". Andrew Lincoln, who played Mark in "Love Actually," was equally charming and handsome as Edgar Linton. He does get stuck pining over English ladies, doesn't he? :)

I've read "Wuthering Heights" twice, and, while always admiring its merit, have never sought it out as a 19th century favorite. This version had excellent performances from Tom Hardy and Andrew Lincoln, enough to make me seek them out in future productions.

I kept mulling over this film long after it was finished. I was not sure that I liked it and I wanted to know why. I must confess that while I watched it, I actually rolled my eyes several times.

Unfortunately, the weakest part of the story is the early development of Cathy's and Heathcliff's love. We see them as happy children playing on the moors, which is great, but then when they become adults, all of a sudden they're passionately in love. It is quite abrupt and I feel should have been developed further.

I found Cathy to be the most self-absorbed 'heroine' I've ever seen. She reminded me of Mary Crawford from Jane Austen's "Mansfield Park" - so indulged in her own whims and fancies concerning love that she neither knew nor truly cared about the men who were smitten with her. She chose to marry for money and stability, which was a practical choice for ladies of the time. But she has not a practical bone in her body. And five weeks spent with the Lintons was enough for her to develop a new opinion about Heathcliff, whom she'd known since childhood? I found that implausible.

"Wuthering Heights" can be seen as the 'dark side' of Jane Austen - it's set in the same time period, about love, with fine English country houses. But it is twisted in on itself like the ouroboros, the snake eating its tail, due to Cathy's anti-hero status. She has not enough virtues, moral fiber, healthy ambition, and pursuits to guide her along an upward path. She is not kind, bright, charming, or educated. Her selfishness, naivete concerning love, abuse of Edgar Linton's kindness, and cruel silliness would brand her a villain in many stories.

The mood of the film is astonishing - you'd think that the moors would represent freedom, but by the end I felt claustrophobic. The soundtrack was wonderful and truly represented the wild English moors. While I wasn't exactly blown away by Charlotte Riley, she did put in a credible performance given the material. Tom Hardy upstages her many times, though. You cannot take your eyes off him, and even if you really know the story, his mesmerizing stare and rough demeanor make him Heathcliff. I thoroughly enjoyed his performance.

I came away from the film wishing I'd seen more than just three people fighting over each other in a fishbowl. I'd watched the same personalities duke it out over the same things in two generations, with no character growth or development. There is no action, only reaction.

So, to recap, this film is best suited for deep fans of "Wuthering Heights" and of Tom Hardy or Andrew Lincoln, for they put in wonderful performances. It's always interesting to see what people do with these timeless stories, and how they add depth and freshness to old material. Changing the story structure is a bit jarring, but it soon fades and you settle into the story.

As a novelist myself, stories contain an element of meaningless with characters who self-destruct with no redeeming qualities. It is one thing to watch an anti-hero commit the same faults over and over, but it becomes tiresome and frustrating for the reader. I find this is the deepest reason I am not as large a fan of "Wuthering Heights" as I am of Charlotte Bronte or Charles Dickens or Jane Austen. When I read a story, I want a deep and lasting struggle, for it makes the reward of character growth that much sweeter. I, for one, do not want my readers to feel nothing changes when they end my novels!

If you do enjoy "Wuthering Heights," then may I suggest Nathaniel Hawthorne's works, especially "The Scarlet Letter." He and Emily Bronte share a philosophy in common - the sins of the family permeating generations. Many of Hawthorne's works probe human psychology and motivations, similar to Emily Bronte.

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Eagerly Anticipating 'Bright Star'!

Ah, John Keats. I didn't really know his poetry until relatively recently - my senior year in highschool, when we read "Ode on a Grecian Urn". But I have become as ardent a fan as a lifelong student!

In anticipation of the film "Bright Star," which I long to see, here is a poem I wrote about a year or two ago. The film has gotten good reviews, and it was directed by Jane Campion, whose work in "The Piano" astonished me. Gorgeous cinematography!

Keats was a genuine wunderkind, blessed with extraordinary talent at a young age. He didn't even live to see his 26th birthday, but his verse has been compared to the best poets of all. He is, undoubtedly, my favorite of the Romantics. His life reads like an imagined story, of the tormented writer obsessed with artistic perfection and the deepest of loves.

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ODE TO KEATS

In his 25th year Keats Passed
From Lands of Living to Rest.
He feared he hadn’t Amassed
Works worthy of his Best.

I am here to soothe thy Brow.
Angel-Poet, take this Balm
Of words I offer to Thee now
Amidst the Hours of Calm.

Ode to thee, O John Keats,
A Poet of Beauty and Truth.
As writ on Water or with Feet
Thy Verse retains thy Youth.

Like winged Icarus thy tak’st flight
Aloft amidst the breeze.
Dids’t thee fly too close to light
And drown within the seas?

Or Hamlet, mad with plot to kill
To venge most righteous King.
Sword tipp’t like Quill, strike at will.
Is Death a glorious Thing?

Fate strikes the Prince of Verse
As Icarus and Hamlet fell.
To Time I offer a Curse
One that thou knew’st Well.

Farewell Keats, short of Time,
Yet Bigness was thy Life.
Cupid of stars and blossom’d Rhyme
Imbalanc’d Pleasure and Strife.

Thine Arrow struck, thy Love a Scene
Upon a Grecian Urn.
Rest now, for thee gained Immortality,
And to thy Words we Return.

Snatched you away from Us
Before thy Time complete.
Grant Genius if me thee trust
My beloved John Keats.

~ Meg North

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Wassail!

In my house, wassail is a traditional holiday drink that celebrates Christmas and the toasting of the harvest. An old drink, it has been a traditional part of Christmas celebrations for hundreds of years. Here is the recipe my family makes every year - serve it with an orange slice in each glass and welcome the compliments!

Get more recipes in my Victorian Christmas book. On sale now for $2!

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Wassail

Put in slow cooker:

6 inches broken stick cinnamon
12 whole cloves
6 cups water
1 12 oz. frozen cranberry juice
1 12 oz. frozen raspberry juice
1 12 oz. frozen apple juice
1 cup brandy or rum
1/3 cup lemon juice
1/4 cup sugar
and a spice bag (6 inch square of double cheesecloth with orange slices).

Slow cook low 4-6 hours or high 2-3 hours. Then transfer to stove to simmer.

Oh, it's the most wonderful drink!

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Daniel's Garden - Free Excerpt!

Daniel's Garden is my novel that I finished this past October. It's the story of a wealthy and handsome teenager, Daniel Stuart, who rejects an illustrious future in law and runs off to the Civil War with school friends from Harvard. He lives on Beacon Hill, in Boston, in a gorgeous house, and has an Irish maid named Mary who eventually becomes his love.

In this fun excerpt, Daniel and his three friends - boisterous Andrew, intellectual Matthew, and pious David - are enjoying a lively evening at the Bull and Boar, a Boston tavern. The friends are thinking of going to war, but nobody has signed up yet. They meet up with an unlikely tavern visitor, too!

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“There he is! Hurrah!”

A pair of pewter tankards vaulted upwards from the corner table when Andrew and I pushed our way through the staggering crowd and fell into the benches. Matthew and David grinned, mouths foamy with beer, hair matted from the hot tavern.

“What is your business tonight, lad?” David tucked his little wooden cross inside his shirt and laughed. “Yes, the good Lord blesses our table!”

“Did Andrew tell you?” Matthew asked, then answered himself. “Of course, he must have.”

I slid down the length of the slick wood bench. “About the war? You know Andrew!”

Andrew squeezed in beside me, bearing two additional drinks for us. We hoisted and cheered our arrival. Glasses clinked and the ale tasted like honeyed mead from the gods. A twinge of regret at my ungentlemanly behavior threatened to destroy my good humor, but I shrugged it off. I was here to enjoy the evening.

The Bull and Boar filled early tonight, fishermen and factory workers in their tattered jackets and scuffed shoes. Scattered about were rowdy “Hullos” to their mates from the docks and the printing presses and the ropewalks and the coal fires of the city. Here was where Boston showed her true working grit, like the tough gravel that crunched beneath my carriage wheels. I ran a hand through my hair to muss its ends, to rid myself of the day’s formalities. My pewter ale mug scraped the old table, the gas lights flickered above, the old daguerreotypes peered down from the walls. The Bull and Boar was the heart of the North End.

Andrew stood and leaned the massive bulk of his torso across the table. “I gotta toast tonight, you fellows. I gotta toast. To Matty.” He ruffled his brother’s hair. “This kid – don’t he look like my little brother? He ain’t. I’m the little one!”

I laughed at the old joke. I drank the ale and enjoyed the warmth in my veins, the way the lights began to smudge into a single glow. I hadn’t felt this good all day.

“Hey you.” Matthew nudged my tankard. “Andrew said he saw you on Washington Street today. They put you to work already?”

“It was a hell of a day, Matthew. A day that made me want all the less to be a lawyer.”

David giggled. “I’ll bet you were stuck doing the worst thing they could think of. Treating you like a – like a servant!”

I shrugged. “What I want to know is about this war business of yours! You both are going?”

Matthew looked to Andrew, but he was carousing with others at a nearby table. Then Matthew leaned in, his spectacles dripping on the edge of his nose.

“You know my brother, Daniel. Remember what we called it? Dead fish talk.”

“Boy, I remember,” David said. “Sitting on the wharves, listening to those captains and their tall tales of ocean beasts and mermaids.”

I liked Andrew’s dead fish talk. It was comical and somewhat endearing. But tonight, I did not see honor in it. It was not a mark of character to tell stories like that.

“Aw, there he goes.” Matthew drained the rest of his tankard. “You got that look, Daniel. That look that says you ain’t supposed to associate with us North End fellows.”

I passed him my half-full tankard. “Finish that off, Matthew. And no more about it. Andrew can talk all the talk that he likes.”

“I damn well can!” An enormous hand swooped up Matthew’s empty tankard. “Anybody got a ha’penny?”

David passed him the money, and Andrew stumbled over to the bar. I wasn’t interested in a second drink, but it was impossible to decline my drunken friend’s insisting. So, I knocked back an extra swallow for him, and for his belief in his dead fish talk. They weren’t going to war. It was all something of a fun game.

“Get over there!” Andrew pushed Matthew’s shoulder, urging him towards a group of musicians reveling in the corner. “Tell ‘em to play!”
I stood to help and the warm feeling in my chest dropped to my knees. I laughed. The ale felt good, and I chugged another swallow. Then I grabbed up a second tray of drinks, assisting Matthew as we went over to the corner. It took little coercing before the candlelight gleamed on the shiny mahogany backs of the fiddles and the lustrous silver of the flutes. When the first piper rang out his thunderous reedy tone, I joined in the applause.

“Whooeee!” Andrew tipped an imaginary hat to the singer, a fellow with a little lap organ. “Play the Dublin Lass!”

A sprightly little jig twiddled from the fingers of the fiddle players. The front singer tapped his feet in a lively beat, belting out his tune in his strange Irish language.

“What is that?” Andrew shouted. “I can’t dance to your gibberish!”

The singer stopped the song and laughed so hard his face turned purple beneath the lamps. He toasted a pint to Andrew, then began the song again.

When I had me lass in Dublin,
Such a fine lass there be.
I said to me lass in Dublin,
I’ll buy a drink for thee!

Boots and shoes stomped upon the floor, the place vibrating with the lights and sounds of the players. Andrew passed off his tankard to Matthew and stepped right up in front, slapping his knee and parading around like a soldier. He gestured with both arms, and Matthew jumped right up with him, ale in hand. The two brothers linked arms and stomped and kicked their dancing around the back of the tavern. I stood sipping my ale, laughing, and sharing a smile with David, who applauded and whooped like an Indian.

She said to me, my lass,
“I cannot be with ye.
But I’ll take yer offer kindly
So share a pint with me.”

The tavern crowd roused and joined in the revelry. A couple of Irish girls in their tattered skirts stepped on up to the dancing brothers. They danced near them, all kicking up their heels. But then Andrew up and grabbed one of them! She shrieked, and we all laughed at her surprise.
“Hallo there, lass!” Andrew called out. “Share a pint with me!”
Her hands were on her hips, but she accepted his hand and they took center stage, dancing a complicated jig in front of us. A clear voice called out behind me.

“Excuse me, pardon me, I’m comin’ through!”

I shifted to one side and a tiny Irish girl passed by me. She clutched her skirts in one hand and a full tankard in the other. She wove her way through the crowd, then went up to Matthew, who was still dancing around his carousing brother.

She tapped Matthew on the shoulder. He spun around, then she handed him the tankard and began to dance. He held the ale and drank some more as he watched her. I downed the rest of my tankard and accepted the rest of David’s, too.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She spun and danced with expert steps, a complicated jig old and true.

I said to me lass in Dublin,
“I’m off to war in the morn.
But I’ll have a song to sing to ye
To sing when I do yearn.”

Andrew spied the new girl and reached for her. She quickly danced out of his reach. He lunged for her again, but she danced away again. The crowd laughed at his brutish antics. Other young men stepped from the crowd, hands outstretched for the girl. I pulled on David’s sleeve and pointed to her.

“She’s a great one, that is,” David shouted above the din. “I heard she came over from Ireland not even a year ago. Can you imagine? To last that long after the famine?”

Andrew lunged for her again, tripped, and stumbled towards her. She wove her way through the tables and people like a fish. Andrew tried to push through after her, a clumsy enemy.

I stepped out and caught her arm. She didn’t turn, but stood with her back towards me and laughed at Andrew. He balanced his heavy weight on the table and looked up at me, ale foam dripping from his lips.

“You got her, my friend. Now take her out to dance!”

“Dance! Dance! Dance!” The crowd roared in approval.

“Do ye think we should?” asked the girl in her strong and clear voice. She looked up at me. Dark eyes, a candle in the window, a small oval face watching me.

“Mary?” I sputtered. “Mary, is that you?”

“Come on then, Daniel. Let’s dance!”

She tugged on my arm. I followed her through the tables and out in front of the musicians.

I’m lyin’ now on a battlefield,
O lass, dear to me heart.
But I’ll sing to ye in heaven,
An’ we shall never part.

I followed her movements when we danced, matching her pretty steps and clasping her hands to swing our bodies like bells. I felt the ale, the warmth, the wetness of my shirt clinging to the back of my neck. The lights blended and the music coursed through our feet and our fingers. The reedy pipes chorused above, and the little singer with his organ sang for us when we danced.

When the song ended, the tavern crowd leapt to their feet, whooping and shouting for an encore. I felt as light as a sail. Mary stepped out before me and curtsied like a saloon girl. Another song started up, slower and haunting. I collapsed at the table.

Mary smoothed her hair. “I only came out for the evenin’, sir. Ye aren’t goin’ to tell, are ye?”

I scratched my head. “No. But it is a long walk back to the Hill. I can call a carriage.”

“In yer condition, sir?”

I held onto the edge of the bar when we gathered our things. Andrew wiped droplets of sweat off of Matthew’s spectacles. I smiled. It was late and I
had to return to the office in the morning. Perhaps a brisk walk in the summer evening would be a better alternative. I caught David’s sleeve before he left.

“Will they be all right getting home?”

He nodded. “We don’t live far. I only had a little ale.”

“You are a good friend, David.”

“Thank you for coming tonight. I’m sure both the Pierce brothers did appreciate it, too.”

I gathered my coat, wiping my brow. “I enjoyed myself. But you must tell Andrew to ease off the dead fish talk. For a moment, I thought they were both leaving for war.”

“Perhaps someday, if it continues the way it has this summer.” David shrugged. “And there isn’t a whiskey shortage.”

I laughed. “Good night, David.”

Following Mary out of the tavern, I heard Andrew singing that Dublin Lass song. I’ll sing to you in heaven, and we shall never part. He and Matthew held each other up, propped against one another like falling trees, stumbling down the street and disappearing into the night.

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Winter Afternoons

Emily Dickinson observed a "certain Slant of light" on winter afternoons, and today, with an ominously gray sky like a cold fish and the ever-so-slightest dusting of snow, like a sift of powdered sugar, winter is, indeed, coming to visit.

Ah, well and good. I am working on a new book for Book Kingdom about love (aye me!) and lining up winter projects.

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Moodling

Love these Gibson girl embroidery designs! She looks so smart and organized cleaning house, baking bread, doing laundry, and completing her tasks in a timely fashion.

Though I may set up a daily chore sheet in the future, for now my life flows with whims and fancies, in a delightful stream of 'moodling.'

What is moodling? Moodling is puttering, musing, a paragraph here, a poem there, straightening the bed, sending off a quick thinking-of-you ecard, changing the tablecloth, dusting a shelf. It's the hundred little things that keep the bliss-engine chugging forward. Moodling is my life occupation, far better than work!

When I Moodle and Stroll
About the Languid Hours,
Bliss comes to Visit Me
In Poems, Puttering, Flowers.

Forget the Dreaded Time-Clock
And your Watches, too.
I live on a Garden's Schedule,
Growing and blooming for you.
~ Meg North

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In an Autochrome World

These beautiful ladies strolled about in a meadow 100 years ago, and their picture was colored to create an Autochrome. These gorgeous photographs are the earliest color photography, and to me they look so stunning.

If Heaven is above Us,
And Who's to Say it's Not?
I'd love to live in an Autochrome,
A Picture that Time Forgot.
~ Meg North

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Sea-Eyed Man

Whence came you, fisher of fishes and walker of sands?
Whence came you, from green seaweed lands?
Whence came you, from worlds watery and wild?
Whence came you, to love this tides-out child?
Lover of loves - bringer of gifts -
Easer of souls - soother of rifts -
Whence came you, to do all you can?
Whence came you, beloved sea-eyed man?
~ Meg North

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About Meg North

Welcome, and thank you for stopping by. I am a published historical fiction author - you can get the paperback or Kindle copy of my novel, Daniel's Garden, on Amazon.

I've been a writer basically my whole life. My sister's favorite childhood memory is me telling her stories when we shared a room together. I grew up in a theatre family and fell in love with the 19th century on stage, watching famous musicals like "Les Miserables" and "The Phantom of the Opera."

I LOVE classic works and historical fiction, and you'll often find me sipping coffee and curled up in bed, pug by my side and book on my knees.

I'm also really inspired by movies - favorites are Titanic, Shakespeare in Love, Braveheart, Dances with Wolves, Open Range, Deadwood (TV Show), The Nightmare Before Christmas, Interview with the Vampire, Finding Nemo, and many others! I watch film versions of classic books, especially BBC period dramas. I also love Westerns and musicals.

I live in a pretty little house in Maine with my husband and a funny pug named Jane. I walk by the sea, write every day, own about a thousand books, and love to research the Belle Epoque.

Thanks for stopping by this blog!

~ Meg aka "The Princess of the Books"


MY LITTLE KINGDOM

A little kingdom I possess
where thoughts and feelings dwell,
And very hard I find the task
of governing it well;
For passion tempts and troubles me,
A wayward will misleads,
And selfishness its shadow casts
On all my words and deeds.

How can I learn to rule myself,
to be the child I should,
Honest and brave, nor ever tire
Of trying to be good?
How can I keep a sunny soul
To shine along life's way?
How can I tune my little heart
To sweetly sing all day?

Dear Father, help me with the love
that casteth out my fear;
Teach me to lean on thee, and feel
That thou art very near,
That no temptation is unseen
No childish grief too small,
Since thou, with patience infinite,
Doth soothe and comfort all.

I do not ask for any crown
But that which all may win
Nor seek to conquer any world
Except the one within.
Be thou my guide until I find,
Led by a tender hand,
Thy happy kingdom in myself
And dare to take command.

~ Louisa May Alcott

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