tollipop

izzy took field binoculars to the joshua bell concert last night

 

I had such a lovely date with my little Izzy last night.  We attended the Joshua Bell concert with some friends and this morning, as I go about the demands of the day, my mind is still lingering over how fun it was to get dressed up, meet for a delicious dinner, and make our way over to the concert hall.  The music was sublime, there is no other way to describe it.  I don't want to belabor the point because once you throw out the word sublime, where else is there to go?  The inevitable progression is to gush like a maniac.  There are only so many heavenly adjectives (transcendent, supernal, uplifting, etc.) one can use to describe a musical peformance before the description itself starts to take away from what actually happened.  Perhaps I should just say he was good and leave it duly understated. 

At any rate, we were quite close to the stage and it was incredible to watch how Mr. Bell used his vioin.  I would say he didn't waste a single inch of it.  Not a square millimeter.  Furthermore, I loved noting from the program that he grew up an Indiana farm boy. 

Also to be commended was the mesmerizing touch of the pianist, Jeremy Denk.  That guy nearly brought his Steinway to its knees, he was so...good.  Best of all was to watch the connection and synergy between the two performers--hard to describe, but usually one sees musicians more absorbed in their own performances, with the pianist and violinist (for example) kind of checking in with each other periodically.  These guys kept up a running dialogue, I would say.

Though every moment of the night distilled itself on my senses like an extraordinary treat, what made me happiest by far was watching how delighted Izzy was by the experience, the music, the binoculars, her friend and, as she said, by having her mom "all to herself." 

  

On that note, I've been meaning to show you the little music library the girls organized in their room a few weeks ago.  It's pretty much state of the art.

   

Security it tight.  Everything has its place--loose cds to the left, cds that have managed to retain their cases may stack up on the right.  Don't mess with the system, they run a tight ship.

 

Just in case there's any confusion as to what's playing...

 

And now I leave you with a little story/love letter that was waiting for me on my desk when we got home last night.  Caroline has been writing up a storm lately.  I just adore how boldly she ventures into the world of language:

One raspberry was growing on a tree.  One day a girl visit the tree and she pick some raspberries and she put some in her basket.  The end.

hundred dresses #11: sylvie

It was during the dark days of the revolution.  Poor Sylvie Lafitte was detained in the highest tower of the Bastille.  I say "poor" but in truth there was no need to waste sympathy on the able seamstress, who was no more in danger than, say, a pain au chocolat during Lent. 

For starters, there was that miscreant of a guard, Citizen Menard, who stared at her all day long, with his hair like baled hay and his one bulging eye.  Odious man!  He harbored wild and imprudent fantasies toward the girl, each one beginning with an escape in which he smuggled Sylvie out of the tower by disguising her as a common scullery maid. 

It was not likely he would find in Sylvie a willing accomplice, however.  The pretty seamstress was no more willing to give up her brightly colored clothes than a peacock would part with its feathers!  And besides, Sylvie had her own reasons for staying in the clink: Georges Delamouche, the royal tutor and irresistibly doomed pale, slim youth.  It was for him she remained, and him alone! 

Delamouche was locked in the cell adjacent to her own, and with her trusty sewing needle Sylvie had scraped away at the stone wall until a tiny passageway revealed itself between the two rooms.  Just enough for the two lovers to gaze mournfully at one another and from time to time reach until their fingers almost clasped.  It was all terribly romantic!

If it were up to Georges Delamouche, the story would have certainly ended in tragedy.  His family was the useless, bookish sort, the type who exclaimed with pleasure over a nicely turned phrase, and clapped their hands when someone spoke in iambic pentameter.  But what are books against the cold, cruel blade of the guillotine?  He couldn't exactly rhyme his way out of this pickle, now could he?!  Franchement! 

Sylvie Lafitte, on the other hand, descended from a long line of pickpockets and thieves, so that a stint on death row was little more than a rite of passage, a minor setback, a temporary retreat. 

How was it to be accomplished, then, this daring escape?  With a little sleight of hand, some fancy needlework, and of course, a come hither stare that, when properly employed through the eyes of a capable Frenchwoman, may for all intents and purposes be considered the equivalent of a laser guided missile. 

And this was how the foul Citizen Menard came to find himself inexplicably bound, gagged and locked away in the former cell of one Mlle. Lafitte, with his keys and revolutionary uniform altogether missing, while two so-called enemies of the people, looking very much like a pale, literate prison guard and a scullery maid with pink stockings, went for a lovely stroll that very day through the thick and imposing gates of the prison known as Bastille. 

*****

I must mention, dear reader, how delighted Sophie was by your reactions to her story.  She was so sweetly surprised and bemused, and she cannot wait to write the sequel.  Thank you for that.  Herald the hawk!  I smile every time I think of it. 

i'm not kidding, sophie wrote this:

 

Millie was in her bedroom, sitting on a stool and thinking about the day’s events.  Gertie Snippet. That wretched flit!  She had stolen Millie’s idea of wearing abalone combs, and this offense, my dear reader, nearly sent Millie to tears!  Gertie had merely given a haughty sniff and walked off. Imagine that!  Millie stamped her foot for compensation.  This did not help.  She tugged hard on her bonnet strings and decided to go for a walk down the lane.

As Millie strolled, her mind began to wander.  She danced along the pond, composing a poem in her mind about how perfect a spider’s web was when covered with dew, when suddenly she heard whispers behind the Dear Old Fir Tree. She stopped and listened expectantly.  Gertie and her bunch of giggling moles!  (They were actually mice, same as Millie, but the way they looked down their noses at her had earned their name.)

“So, girls, what is our next fashion stunt for this week?” said Gertie, sneezing daintily into the bulrush hankie that Millie had always so detested. “Was it strawberry cacao or raspberry cacao bonbons that we agreed upon?”

“Wasn’t it raspberry?” said Priscilla Peck, a small girl who had once torn up one of Millie’s poems freshly after being composed.

“Oh, yes, yes, I remember now! Raspberry bonbons fresh from the sweet shoppe!” said Gertie. They began to move off in the direction of Gertie’s house, but Millie had heard all that she needed to.  Bonbons!  She hurried home with an idea in her head and a smile on her face.

When she got home, she went out into the garden and began to pick turnips for Baby’s daily mash. The Baby was actually named Agatha, but Baby seemed more appropriate at present.  A shadow swooped overhead, and Millie froze.  The warning sound of sticks being beaten against bark boomed into her ears: Herald the hawk!  She streaked into her house and nearly crashed into her mother, who was looking for her little sister.

“Where is Corinne?” her mother said.

Millie’s heart nearly stopped beating.  She knew where Corinne was.  She had volunteered to work at the arts and crafts fair for younger mouselets.

“At the fair by the pond!,” she shrieked.

“Take care of Baby. I’ll go get her!,” and her mother was off.  She flew down the hill and to the fair by the pond, which was now deserted.  All Millie could do was sit and wait for the safe call. Finally, a horn blew and five minutes later, her mother returned with a shaken, pale Corinne.

“What happened?  Where were you?  Are you okay?” The words tumbled from Millie all at once.

“Hush!  She hid with Madison in the paint cupboard," replied her mother.  Madison was a weedy little thing who lived with her parents inside a clump of toadstools.

Millie sighed with relief, and handing her mother the turnips, went to her room for a nap while the bullfrogs sang their chorus of, “Cull, cull, mind the ship.  Cull, cull, see the storm.”  She did not awaken until very late that evening.

To be continued…

picnic in the rain

 

Conventional wisdom would label this a recipe for disaster.  Here in the desert we celebrate the novelty!

   

Many years ago this valley was actually the bottom of an ocean floor.  Such thoughts delight the living daylights out of the mermaid in me. 

   

Let the dig begin!

   

A rare desert discovery: something green.

 

The stay-warm huddle.

 

The triumph of childhood: it goes by quickly, but such moments last forever.

*****

I hope you had a wonderful weekend, dear reader.  And a warm welcome to those of you visiting from Designmom--it's perfectly lovely having you here!  We spent a lot of time outside, enjoying the ideal temperatures and scampering over rocks as if we were half mountain goat.  Singing ABBA at full lung capacity to test the echo capacity of the canyons (works good).  Baking cookies, playing with Legos, half-hearted attempts at chores, using chopsticks, renting movies...this is just a sampling of the crazy times one may expect to encounter any given Saturday chez Tollipop!

If you have a moment to visit, there is a fabulous online auction being held for the next few days to benefit a worthy cause.  Many lovely goodies to peruse, including a few Tollipop originals in the lineup!

hundred dresses #10: penny

Penny Ross had a heart of gold.  Yes sir, a heart of gold.  Except for those moments when she got it in her head to throw a temper tantrum.  Dear me!  Now that was quite another story altogether! 

It was hard to know what, exactly, might set Penny off.  A stiff treacle?  Not enough clotted cream for tea?  Or was it that wretch of a boy, Quimpert Pittsnoggle IV, and the very rage it caused her to consider how four generations of sons came to inherit such an unfortunate name?

"When I think of the blight that has been perpetuated, lo these many years, it fairly makes my blood boil!,"said Penny through clenched teeth, as she read over her dance card and noticed Pittsnoggle's name scribbled on all the allemandes. 

Was if for this she had worn a blouse of palest lilac and braided her hair so tightly it stuck out like semaphores?  Was the bold pairing of a high-waisted skirt and crème de menthe stockings really to debut in the presence of that horrid, groping boy?  It was unthinkable! 

Just then, Penny happened to look up and see Pittsnoggle and his group of trust fund cronies, recounting the afternoon's fox hunt in stifling detail and guffawing into the dregs of their bottomless martinis.  For a moment it seemed as if all the air was sucked out of the room and Penny could see, with painful clarity, her entire life parcelled off into a series of dance cards with Quimpert Pittsnoggle's name scrawled all over them.  Dear me, but she could feel a tantrum coming on!

Before she could march across the room and emancipate herself, however, a voice sounded in her ear, low and beguiling, oddly familiar: "Who is this vision in lilac?  Can it really be little Penny Ross?"  Penny spun around and stared at the messenger, then clapped her hands in delight.

"Jasper Finn?!  Dear, old Jasper Finn!," she gasped, the color rising in her cheeks. 

"'Tis one and the same, at your service," replied the handsome lieutenant, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. 

"I thought...I thought...," she stammered, all too aware that the soldier had not yet released her hand when propriety stipulated he should have done so a good ten seconds earlier!

"You thought wrong," said Finn, his dark eyes looking so deeply into her own that she almost swooned.

"See here now!  I say, man!  The girl is spoken for!" 

Their reverie was broken by the high, strident tones of Quimpert Pittsnoggle IV, who was striding toward them and fumbling for his smelling salts, as if those could solve anything.  It was possibly the saddest thing you ever saw--poor Master Quimpert clinging to the notion that one whiff of ammonium carbonate would remedy the situation when anyone could see things had advanced far beyond such a parlor trick. 

Jasper Finn, the erstwhile son of a lowly cobbler and now a decorated lieutenant in the Queen's High Command, watched the simpering product of too many generations of arranged marriages with a mixture of amusement and contempt.  But there was no need to step in and rescue the lady.  To be sure, Penny Ross had a heart of gold, but her temper was more than able to account for the situation!

Pulling the dance card out of her little silk purse, she stepped forward.  Without knowing it, Pittsnoggle took one step back. 

"Spoken for?  Spoken for?!," sputtered Penny, and anyone could see that her braids were making the signal for code red.

"See here, Penny darling, I meant spoken for in an unspoken way, of course...unless you count the dance card...," here Pittsnoggle trailed off into a pathetic if not hopeful silence. 

"Oh yes, by all means let us count the dance card!," said the girl, and she tore it into tiny pieces and threw them into the air like a one woman ticker tape parade. 

There was a shocked silence. 

No one in the history of Fiddleshire Downs had ever been known to desecrate a dance card.  Even Jasper Finn, who was not himself a product of the town's elite, was duly impressed. 

And so the story goes.  That was the night Miss Penny Ross carved out for herself a whole new ending to her story, one that was not so predictable, one that could not be parcelled off into fox hunts, bottomless martinis, nor chaps with an infuriating sense of entitlement and names that should never find themselve ending in Roman numerals. 

*******

Dear reader, I hope you will join me for a little fizzy lemonade and cheese party in celebration of reaching the tenth-way mark of my Hundred Dresses Project!  I've been having such a lovely time concocting these young ladies and their histoires--they are, for me, just the right amount of silliness, pretty colors, and language to offset some of the more serious realities of life. 

Thank you for reading along and leaving such kind and amusing comments.  I get such a chuckle from your advice to the heroine or your vision of where the story should go.  Some of you have encouraged me to make a little collection of the stories--I can hardly think of a more appealing and delightful notion!  It is something to dream of as I go about the more mundane tasks of the day...and who knows?  Perhaps there will be a slim volume of Tollipop vignettes in the future, perfect for dramatic readings and bedtime stories!

I did want to mention, to those of you who have taken up the Make 100 Somethings challenge, that I will happily mention your site here on Tollipop once you have posted about your work.  I have received several emails from interested participants--please write me with a link to your work and I will be sure to include it in an upcoming post.  It's lovely to hear how many of you have interpreted this idea!

Wishing you a wonderful and cozy weekend.

something sweet for your inauguration tuesday

 

Celeste wore a giant cottontail bunny to the swearing in of the 44th president of the United States.  It was just the right accessory and everyone knew it.  The most stylish ladies actually winced.  They looked around desperately and groped in their designer bags, as if by vanity and sheer will they could conjure their own giant cottontails out of thin air!

 

Even poor Belinda and her fabulous polka dots felt a tad eclipsed! 

Still, it was a lovely ceremony and everyone wished the handsome new president well, but the most stylish ladies could hardly wait until the oath was sworn before they got on the phone to Saks and ordered a season's worth of cottontail bunnies, bigger and better than the one they had seen on that presumptuous upstart!

*******

Dear me, sometimes silly feels so good. 

These two sweet Tollipop originals are on their way to join an online/silent auction on behalf of the Nielsons.  I always get a little nervous about sending my originals out into the world.  False modesty aside, they make me feel a bit vulnerable.  Scrutiny of a print does not feel as...revealing as scrutiny of an original, I suppose.   

Oh, and the frames.  Aren't they sweet?  I painted those myself (the first time I've taken such liberties!) and they really go so nicely with the paintings.  I hope they find a lovely home out there in the wide, wide world!

things i'm adoring at the moment

 

My Mentos diet.  It's strict, y'all!

 

Smoothies...

 

and the girls who drink them.

 

A tangerine flower pin from Vintage Refashioned...and the terribly clever feeling I got from taking this photo. 

 

This girl, her outfit...

 

and her complicated relathionship with the cello.

such amazing, wonderful news

Perhaps you've been following the odyssey of Stephanie and Christian Nielson, who survived a plane crash last summer and have been struggling to recover from their injuries ever since.  I know many prayers and well wishes have been offered on their behalf, yet still I marvel at the wonderful miracle that she has rallied and is well enough to continue blogging again.  I am so happy for them, for their children, their siblings, for their mothers (of course, fathers, too). 

Of all life's valleys, I cannot imagine how this one has been to pass through, and my thoughts have often dwelt with the mothers of Stephanie and Christian, who suddenly had to watch their children go through such suffering.  I don't doubt they have drawn deeply on unseen powers, and their courage, grace, and endurance have given me more than a few quiet moments of reflection.

At any rate, I don't mean to be so somber, especially after reading the delightful and bemused observations of Stephanie herself.  How a girl comes through what she has with her sense of humor intact...or perhaps humor is partly what got her to this point. 

I thought you might want to see for yourself...and here's wishing you a lovely weekend while you're at it!

    NieNie Dialogues

trail run

 

Sometimes in the morning, once I've taken the girls to school, I come out here and go for a run.

 

The desert makes me feel solitary, remote, yet aware of my small place in the universe...

 

and filled with a sense of God's grandeur and presence.

   

Wait--aren't those the crones who squabbled over their all-seeing eye?  It would appear Perseus has yet to give it back.

 

This little fellow is having a zen moment.  Breathe in, guy.  Hold it.  Exhale.

   

I know.  Feels good out here. 

ode to little sisters

 

Remember how fun it was, when your big sister left for school in the morning, and you could go into her room and touch everything??

 

Hey, what's this?  A lipgloss?  Cool.

 

And remember how you wore your mother down with incessant pleas to put your big sister's new hot rollers in your hair...until she finally succumbed?

 

Victory, you never tasted so sweet!

 

The results were quite dazzling, if you do say so yourself.

*****

Dedicated with much love to my three little sisters, in whose chubby fingers many a good lipsmacker went the way of the world.