This is my symphony

What I read

There is nothing like a Kate Morton novel to get a reader lost in time and place. Her stories meander, taking twists and turns that never fail to keep me reading into the night. (It’s rather amusing that I still think this way, considering I’m retired. But a lifetime of ‘shoulds’ reels me in still.)

Here’s what Lake House offers you, dear Reader.

There’s a police detective from London, exiled to the countryside because she leaked her doubts about a high-profile case to the press. An elderly mystery writer who tries to bury her past–literally. Babes in arms separated from their mothers. And a murder … or two.

And then there is all the Morton-esque charm. A once-great estate left in haste seventy years earlier. The English countryside with its meadows, woods, and lakes. The ravages of war. Love letters. A village festival. Pear cake. And suitable prospects for the lonely hearts.

I read Kate Morton during the summer … or snuggled on the sofa under a blanket when it’s snowing. She is a holiday kind of read. (See my impressions of two other Morton novels here and here). Before the summer ends, before you’ve transitioned out of vacation and into the bustle of the school year, pick up The Lake House.

What I lived

Last week I went to the Michigan Fiber Festival with friend Denice. She knows I’ve taken up hand-stitching again and that I’m on the prowl for stash bags. Fiber Fest, she said, would be just the place for me to explore new yarns. (Like all good friends, she’s encouraging like that.)

We saw pygora goats and sheep of every kind and alpaca. We watched a sheep dog herd and spinners spin and felters felt. A shearer shear. And I stroked buffalo wool and cashmere and angora. I brought home a bag of alpaca roving that still smells a little of barnyard and a kit to make felted soap that smells nothing of barnyard!

I met a Native American vendor–an elder–who looked at the handful of buffalo roving bits ‘n pieces I held out for her to weigh–I wanted to purchase just a bit to weave into the blankets for my Tiny Mice. She handed back the barely filled bag, and told me to tuck the fiber in my purse. “What the buffalo gives us is free,” she said.

When I came home and tucked my treasures away, I sat down and wrote a poem.

Because that’s how it works.