August imaginations

I have been dreaming of bluebirds and rainbows and dreams coming true; caught up, I suppose, in the Olympics and the heat of this summer, with the wishes and wants and the realities of life that are often not quite what our storybook editions tell.

August is my least favorite month of the year. While I try to find the beauty and blessings of each month, August, ah, August is dreaded to me. It always feels to me like August is waiting for something else. The flowers are faded, the days beginning to shorten, even the squirrels lethargic as the crickets and tree frogs begin their chorus.  It is usually the hottest month here, although in a summer that IS the hottest one on record, this August is just more of the same. The dog days of summer of have been barking for two months.

As a child, August meant September and September meant the starting of school. A shy and bookish child, I loved school and couldn’t wait for the first day to happen. My only solace was spending the dog days of summer  reading all the books I could get my hands on. They took me away to other times and places; into the Sherwood Forest or atop Heidi’s mountain. I could be Clara Barton, Molly Pitcher or Joan of Arc. As I grew older, books grew with me.  I discovered Jane Eyre in my mother’s cedar chest, then Random Harvest. Baby sitting the younger children who lived in our neighborhood gave me money (at 50 cents and hour) and off I would go, walking eight blocks up and eight blocks back to deposit a whopping $3 into my banking account, saving fifty cents to buy a book, then staying up all night reading classics like Gone With the Wind. Have you ever stayed up all night reading a book?

I went out walking about suddenly greener pastures here along the Cutoff following yesterday’s rain. I found this little bluebird of happiness sitting on the deck. She pleasantly posed for a photo shoot and then told me to seize August with all I have; my books and my imagination . . . and so, I will finding the books that once upon a time took me over the rainbow.

It occurred to me, whist looking for my rainbow, that I haven’t posed any questions in quite a long while, so, I will ask some now, realizing that some of you spend August in warmth and sunshine and some of you are in the last stages of winter.

What is August to you?

What books capture your “August” imaginations?

This is the late Eva Cassidy’s rendition of Over the Rainbow. I hope you will enjoy it.

 

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The Brontes at Haworth

I went looking for an audio book to pass the time on our long drive up north, but, found Ann Dinsdale’s The Brontes at Haworth instead. A weekend away with our up north family and a side trip to the Yorkshire Moors and home of one of English literature’s most enduring writers all at the same time. What more could a girl ask for on such short notice? (Well, some Kezzie time, of course, but, that’s for another post).

This well-appointed book is chock full of Simon Warner’s photographs of the Haworth Parsonage, where Charlotte, Emily, and Anne lived and wrote Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and The Tenant of Wildfield Hall, and the general environs of Haworth. There are also within the book photos of the rooms the Brontes lived and worked in, personal items, diaries, and artwork done by the sisters and their only brother, Branwell. A feast for the eyes.

The text; ah, the text is rich in history of the Bronte family, the sadness that plagued them in the illnesses and deaths of their mother, Maria, and of the siblings at early ages. This is not a tome on the Brontes, but, an overview of their lives and legacies. Not quite a coffee table book, more a biography, it is only 160 pages, which include a wonderful chronology of the family and works, and chapters on Bronte biographers and history of the Haworth Parsonage.

I am still devouring The Brontes at Haworth. I get caught in the pictures and go back for another look, sometimes with magnifying glass in hand, the better to see what is on the old desk or bookshelves, and suddenly an hour has passed in my bookish wandering. There is a chapter on Mrs. Gaskell, the noted friend and biographer of Charlotte Bronte that I need to read. I’ve become fascinated by Elizabeth Gaskell ever since the airing of Cranford on PBS. Gaskell is the author of Cranford, as well as North and South and a good many other literary pieces. She was a contemporary of Charles Dickens and her works often appeared in serialized form in his publishings.

It is so exciting to be able to continue to learn something new. I think I will keep The Brontes of Haworth until its due date, but, I promise to return it to the library then, so someone else can enjoy its beauty. Someone like you.

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Jane Eyre

From The English Home Magazine, November/December 2006 issue, Discovering Bronte Country, page 81. The Bronte Parsonage

Who else goes to a 10:20 am feature on a Saturday morning to see a movie? Why, Bev and Penny, of course. What, you say, would spur them on to see a movie at such an odd hour on a Saturday?

Jane Eyre

This film adaptation of Charlotte Bronte’s book did not disappoint.

The beautifully stark English Moors, Thornfield, the lonely, abused childhood of Jane, the brooding Mr. Rochester, and the secret lurking in the night; all came alive for me on the screen. It is hard to adapt a book and hold true to it, especially one such beautifully written and so long a classic. Especially one that has, indeed, been adapted some twenty times. This version was remarkably rendered, the actors masterfully cast, the direction expertly done.

I loved the movie, as I have loved Jane Eyre, since I first plucked it from my parent’s cedar chest a long time ago.

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The Cedar Chest

For a far back as my memory will take me, I remember the cedar chest. It was long and deep with a “waterfall” cover and keyhole – and treasures galore. It sat in our large bedroom when we lived in Chicago, then it was relegated to the basement when we moved to the suburbs. The chest matched my parent’s bedroom suite of furniture.  I’m not sure when they bought set; was it when they first got married or after the war? Sometime in the 1940′s. I remember the suite and the cedar chest always being part of our home.

They first time I remember it being opened was when I was about twelve years old. I’m sure it was opened other times, but, those aren’t part of my memory. My memory takes me down the basement stairs and sitting on our toy couch. We had a toy couch, an easy chair and a bed. They were to scale and upholstered and were salesmen samples that someone gave to my father for Dottie and me. The sofa was a grey and red camel back and, while I thought it was leather, it must have been plastic. The chair was blue with rounded, cushioned arms. How I wish I had that furniture now!

Back to the chest. I sat and watched with anticipation as my mother put the key in the keyhole, turned it, then slowly raised the top. I can still smell the cedar, escaping with the memories held inside, the Lane furniture seal blazed into its wooden soul. There was a homemade baby outfit that my mother had worn and the Christmas banjo, my walking doll that legend had me learning to walk with (that explains a great deal, ha), and then, there was the real treasure in the cedar chest. Deep into the trunk were rows and rows of books. A massive collection of classic works, a tome that was the best dictionary I’ve ever used and sadly fell apart one day, and book after book of selected novels from The Literary Guild. My dad said I could read and I felt so very grown up.

There was Random Harvest by James Hilton and Pearl Buck’s Dragon Seed. I devoured them and I have them, still. Mrs. Appleyard’s Year by Louise Andrews Kent still looks intriguing. I should open it up and have a look.  It was one of the classics that captured my heart, however. Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. I remember  settling in on an old couch in the basement, opening the pages, hearing Jane’s voice and wandering Thornfield – and then there was Mr. Rochester.

The newest Jane Eyre movie opens this week. I can’t wait to see it.

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