Ironically, as a novelist, I rarely read fiction any more. I'm not sure why. I know I find it hard to read fiction and write fiction at the same time. Perhaps I'm turning into my father, who has a voracious appetite for books on history, theology, psychology, sociology, and politics, but rarely samples fiction. When I was young, I read every story I could get my hands on. Now my bedside table has a history of the American Revolution, a book of essays on culture,
Jesus of Nazareth by Pope Benedict XVI, and other nonfiction. But this summer, it now features the novels of
Edna Ferber.I came to Ferber late towards the end of my fiction-reading period, and I don't rightly know when I first read
SoBig. Early in my marriage, I had a copy that looks exactly like this one pictured above: who knows where I found it? I have a taste for old books, regardless of their contents, and I started this one, and was hooked on Ferber's lush writing style and her portraits of humanity, nearly always compassionate ones. Alas, my copy was loaned to a friend and lost, and I quietly mourned it and stopped reading fiction.
Then, this past April, I had the fortune to visit Minnesota for a booksigning for fans of my
Fairy Tale Novels, and stayed overnight with two girls who are biliophiles. The bedroom where we stayed was stocked with the most wonderful selection of books, and the next morning, I complimented our hostess on her collection. "I actually have had to thin out my collection, since I'm getting married," she replied, and added, "Would you like to see some books I'm getting rid of?"
Atop the pile was a copy of
Sobig, together with Ferber's other noted novels,
Cimarron and
Big. I seized the first with a cry of joy, and my hostess was delighted to restore to me what had so long been lost, as well as giving me further Ferber treasures to enjoy.
So this past summer I have been partaking of Ferber again, with all the delight of eating fine chocolate.
Big took me to the vast ranches of Texas, and in
Cimarron I'm experiencing the Oklahoma Land Rush and the hardships of the first settlements. It's been a rare foray back into fiction for me, and, oddly enough, has not yet competed with the new novel I'm writing. Indeed, as I type my story of hotels and computer hackers in Northern Virginia, I can't help thinking that my hero is taking on some aspects of the debonair cowboy Yancey Cravat from
Cimarron. But perhaps that's not so terrible after all.
Three years ago today, my little son Joshua left this world for the next one. I still miss him so much.
My hobby is collecting china, specifically "restaurantware," plates and cups of a sturdier build used to the bang and clatter of daily use in a restaurant. I love these hefty cups: they rarely break, even when dropped, and barely chip. And I love the vintage patterns of red stripe or green stripe. So I was doubly delighted to discover these coffee cups with red chintz patterns on them! They match beautifully with a red and white set of plates and saucers I already owned (this is why I only collect in a few colors!). So I've been enjoying this sprightly addition to my pantry this summer.
Since our May Mary altar turned out so wonderfully, I could not resist making a Sacred Heart altar for June. Although this is not my favorite picture of Our Lord's Sacred Heart, I have a sentimental attachment to it, since it was given to our family by our late former pastor, Father Bill Ruhl, when we first moved to Front Royal and consecrated our family home to the Sacred Heart. It seemed only fitting to have our "family statues" all present on the altar this month, along with mulberry branches and trailing vines. "I am the Vine: you are the branches," He tells us. "Remain in Me and you will bear much fruit, fruit that will last." May God bless you and your family this month!
Ironically, as a novelist, I rarely read fiction any more. I'm not sure why. I know I find it hard to read fiction and write fiction at the same time. Perhaps I'm turning into my father, who has a voracious appetite for books on history, theology, psychology, sociology, and politics, but rarely samples fiction. When I was young, I read every story I could get my hands on. Now my bedside table has a history of the American Revolution, a book of essays on culture, Jesus of Nazareth by Pope Benedict XVI, and other nonfiction. But this summer, it now features the novels of Edna Ferber.
In our ongoing saga of creating Shirefeld Farm, we bought runner ducks earlier this spring in shades of black, brown, blue, and fawn. This is my first close acquaintence with ducks, and I have to admit I never realized quite how funny they are! A flock of ducks has achieved the closest thing to a "mind meld" I have yet seen: the flock acts as one: eating, swimming, marching, running -- and my, see how they run! For days my toddlers liked nothing better than to chase them around and around the play yard where the ducks were ensconced -- no matter how we tried to dissuade the children. The fact is, ducks are funny, and even funnier when they run, quacking, in an orderly mob that scurries and swerves in unison. Now they have found a quieter existence at our pond: where they rule the pool with dictatorial unity. Yet another proof (if we needed it) that God has a sense of humor.
For years I've been a fan of Mary Billingsley's paintings of little shrines, but I only discovered that I could share her art through her website recently. Mary creates shrines in honor of our Lord using materials a child would find: dolls, small toys, flowers from the field, postcards, household odds and ends, found objects. Once she has built and decorated a shrine in her studio, she sits down and paints it in lovely watercolor gouache. Years ago I visited her New England studio and witnessed this loving and reverent work in process. Above is one of my favorite shrines, which I post in honor of Our Lord's Ascension.
On Mother's Day we celebrated with a family May procession to crown our outdoor statue of Mary. We were blessed to have the Hatkes join us for our annual event. While my son was willing to pose with the crown for a photo, he gladly relegated the carrying of the crown to his younger sister, ceremonially dressed in her favorite white Joan of Arc cape, while he proudly carried the prayer book and holy water. I am so glad our domestic priest, my husband, insists on performing these little acts of love for our Lady in the home.
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