“Our machinery was never quite what it should have been, but we had planned and built the factory ourselves and thought highly of it.”
Out Of Africa;
“Our machinery was never quite what it should have been, but we had planned and built the factory ourselves and thought highly of it.”
Out Of Africa;
“The general who advances without coveting fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his country and do good service for his sovereign, is the jewel of the kingdom.”
The Art Of War
Introducing a new look to MissSissinghurst.com!
As of March 25th, 2018 we have changed our site to Vintage House Publications due to the publishing of my first novel Proper Mourning: A Legend’s Tale. It is my debut novel and until June 21st it will only be sold on Amazon.com. I’m looking to get some more reviews of my work on either Goodreads.com or Amazon. So please consider downloading it. It’s free for kindle unlimited users!! Or $1.99 for everyone else and $11.95 for paperback. Here’s a chapter teaser for you…
“Lily, you must remember Robert Pickett?” Dr. Dunoway asked, ironically.
Lily blushed. Robert brought her hand to his lips. Those lips which once kissed her cheek, that had traveled many miles away for many years, seemed farther away now than they had ever been. She immediately felt how estranged they were.
All eyes were on them and although she looked quite composed on the outside; inside, her heart was pounding uncontrollably, and she had a sudden fear it could be heard by every ear in the room.
“Robert,” she greeted him, looking him over.
He towered above her, much taller now. His auburn hair, wavy and a little disheveled from his hat, was worn in a short neat cut. He wore his blue suit well, and it made the shade of his hair and his big brown eyes wonderfully prominent. Indeed, he had grown into a beautiful man.
“My goodness, you’ve gotten tall!” It was all she could think to say, a repetition of Aggie’s earlier comment. She must have unknowingly filed it away for her own ready-made greeting, knowing full well she was too nervous to invent something of her own.
He seemed so sophisticated in his suit, and his manner was evidence of his high society breeding. She was certain city life had transformed him into a stranger. She had the urge to leave the room to check her reflection again and compose herself, but her feet remained plastered on the pinewood floor.
Danny stood there simply observing this reunion. Lily could usually read him, but his expression was blank. He was busy with thoughts of his own affair. An observing look was stretched on his face, though his eyes were dazed as if he were looking through her.
Aggie had fried the fish and served cold potatoes with fresh baked bread and wine. They drank and talked. Mr. Pickett discussed the city and why they had come back, explaining it had to do with a business deal he was working on. To his luck, no one asked him to elaborate on this discussion because Mrs. Pickett had derailed the party’s attention by asking for another glass of wine. She had sat silently by her husband’s side, sipping her glass empty. She looked content enough, but when Mr. Pickett spoke, Lily observed a certain look of disgust and exhaustion on the woman’s face.
Although his father seemed quite irritable and his mother quite unhappy, Lily had always remembered Robert having a natural light about him, like an internal happiness and joy his parents did not possess. He carried with him an enjoyment of life and a jolly look in his eye. She remembered him that way: happy, self-aware, and observant.
However, Lily didn’t understand the way he looked at her now, like he was about to tease her any moment. With a smug, pinched face, he looked to be mocking her. Perhaps she was misreading him? Too much time had passed. She had lost sight of him, and their past closeness had become misconstrued by distance and change. He seemed unfamiliar to her now.
Robert stared at Lily during dinner much of the time. She tried her best not to look in his direction, but there was a moment he caught her eye. She felt the flip-flopping feeling in her gut once more as his look hinted of a longing, of a deeper knowledge of the human condition – of her condition. He looked as though he had many secrets he needed to tell her and keep from her all at once. A thousand words could have been used to translate the thoughts roaming in both their minds, but for Lily, all thought was overshadowed as she counted the miles between them.
-END OF TEASER
Proper Mourning is a literary examination of grief, love, slavery, and freedom. Set during the American Civil War, horseback riding, trouser-wearing country girl, Lily Dunoway, is strong-willed and eccentric with her best friend, Robert Pickett, by her side. The two have a happy childhood together, riding horses and playing at their spot by the Stony River. When Robert suddenly moves away, Lily fears she will never recover from the loss, but then she meets Danny, an orphan from Scotland. He and Lily soon develop a deep friendship and as they grow up together, eventually love. It seems Lily has forgotten Robert, but when he returns, hoping to win her heart again, Lily finds herself making compromises which are both painful and triumphant amidst the raging egos of men.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR REVIEWS IN ADVANCE!!!!
There is a form of hypocrisy common to nearly all gardeners. It does not affect only the gentle amateurs, but has been known to affect even the most hardened professional, who is not, generally speaking, a sentimental or squeamish man. It is the human weakness which, accompanying our determination to rid ourselves of our slugs and snails, makes us reluctant next morning to contemplate the result of our over-night efforts.
A Joy of Gardening; 1958
I was sitting out with my husband the other night, which we tend to do a lot in the summer months. I was telling him about some mysterious creature attacking my roses. I never saw anything during the day but the next morning the leaves would be almost gone and my buds would disappear. He gave me a flashlight and told me to go look for slugs. I had just sprayed everything that day so smugly I took the flashlight not thinking I’d find anything. I didn’t find slugs, but instead, multiple June bugs were having a slow menacing feast. They kept on in their euphoric culinary heaven even while I flashed my light on them. I flicked them off and they all landed on the ground with tiny crackling thuds like they were dead. I grabbed a jar and gathered them up. Then I went around knocking all the June bugs I could find into my jar.
Succumbed to the poison they had consumed from my leaves, all but two were dead. Or so I thought. For twelve hours they sat still inside the jar. Two still squirmed, clambering all over their dead in an effort to free themselves. I thought it only fair to put an end to their suffering. I soaked a tissue with alcohol and placed it inside. It is the same thing I used to do in elementary school when we were assigned bug projects. But somehow the alcohol brought them all to life again and they ALL began to squirm from the alcohol’s suffocating effects. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know June bugs played dead. That’s what they were doing, hoping I’d leave them alone so they could continue their feast. I promptly placed the jar in the freezer. Now they are definitely dead. Do you think I’m cruel? Perhaps I am. But I will only say, it is cruel for a creature to take away the health of my rose bushes. There are plenty of other roses in this neighborhood. The house next door, for instance, has two neglected climbers. Since I gathered them, others have yet to find my garden.
If you do have this problem you can use a spray or dust with Seven. You can also try to catch them in oil with a light, but I think drowning them in oil is just as cruel or perhaps more so. It is cruel no matter what. But we are human. Unlike insects, we registrar thoughts and contemplate life and have to endure every bump and bruise conscientiously and to its full extent and if a beautiful roses bush brings us a little pleasure from all we must take on then God help the creature who treads through our gardens.
I would like to…render thanks now to this graceful iris which arises from reedy stems in delicate flower-heads of dark purple, lavender, and white. It varies in its colour[sic], and that is one of its most attractive characteristics.
More For Your Garden
June 27th, 1954
If you’ve read my post, Snatching Velvet in the Night, you’ll know I always wanted irises for my garden but thought they were too expensive; not enough bang for my buck. Now, I have some, courtesy of a neighbor, but still stand perplexed by the absolute obsession some people have for this flower. I asked my friends at the American Iris Society to explain their passion in hopes it might ignite in me a greater respect. I spoke with Andi Rivarola, photographer and social media manager for the AIS in regards to the iris and what he has to say was very interesting. He says it was the blue hues of the iris which drew him especially:
“In nature blue is rare and unique, and this definitely made an impact on me. Of course there’s no color limitation on irises, they are available in yellow, red, black, brown, white, purple, etc.”
As far as blue goes, Vita has written about the difficulties of finding the perfect shade of blue. I think Andi is right, the irises tower above all others in the color department. Here is what else he had to say in our interview:
Me – “As I’ve written before in my posts, I admire the American Iris Society because they’ve chosen, over all others, the iris as their focus and their first love. So I wonder what makes the Iris so special?”
Andi – “For me, irises are special because of their very form and variety of color. Most flowers have a centered focus and a round type form – petals come out of this center, just as the daylily or rose. The iris has a vertical form, some petals go up while others go down (standards and falls). Besides this, irises truly have the colors of the rainbow. I was truly impacted by the blue iris. Many irises are blue, for example dark blue like, tall bearded iris ‘Navy Blues,’ or light blue like, ‘Above the Clouds.’
When I look up the irises Vita had in her garden, the chrysographes, douglasiana, graminea, innominate, japonica, sibirica, and the stylosa – just to name a few, they all seem to be miniature versions of what I have seen growing. However, as I snuck around the neighborhood yesterday, creeping into my neighbors weedy pathways and mulched landscapes, I found something interesting. Tucked in the corner of my neighbor’s neglected garden was a species which resembled the iris sibirica of Sissinghurst. According to Andi Rivarola, my suspicions were correct, it was an iris sibirica or Siberian iris. One of Vita’s iris’. Growing in such an awkward spot, I can only imagine it was a remnant of a by-gone era. That property used to be the old schoolhouse for my neighborhood 100 years ago. Perhaps a teacher planted iris sibirica for her beloved students long ago. Maybe there were other flowers there too, but this is all that remains.
On another note, you might remember from my post, History’s Peony: A Search & Rescue, a different neighbor was tearing down his historic home; what used to be the neighborhood general store. From that property, I dug up a 100 year old peony, but also asked permission to take some old iris rhizomes. I didn’t know their color or variety, which made it more fun. They bloomed this weekend an interesting yellow, purple and mauve-brown and they smell like black licorice and grape candy. They pair nicely with the allium and the green foliage of my hydrangea. I really enjoy seeing them out my window each morning.
I think I might grow to love the iris after all.
“…do plant Abelia Triflora. It flowers in June, grows to the size of what we used to call syringe [lilac], and is smothered in white, funnel-shaped flowers with the strongest scent of Jasmine.”
In Your Garden;
June 18th, 1950
I waited all summer to buy the Abelia. As you might know, shrubs are best planted in the fall. I knew I had to have it, the scent of Jasmine is too irresistible.
Don’t be deterred by their condition in the fall, especially if it’s been sitting all summer in the nursery. When I found it, the leaves had turned leathery and had been nibbled by pests. The stems seemed unhealthy and were bent in peculiar ways. Everyone passed it up as they clambered for the beautiful perfection of the blooming Rose of Sharron, but I knew what the Abelia would do come summer. The leaves, as you can see, are supple and green and its stems have now found their way to the sun. The little flowers, which do resemble those of the Jasmine vine are pink and white; a beautiful contrast to its bright green leaves. They start blooming right after the lilacs so it’s perfect for those of you “timing” your garden blooms.
I love passing by and getting whiffs of its Jasmine-like scent. Right now it is short and I have to bend over to catch it, but soon it will be right in my face. I believe I choose the right spot. All my scented flowers are planted along my back yard walking path so I can enjoy them. So far, it has not been bothered by pests. All my other bushes have been sprayed, but I haven’t had to touch the Abelia. So, perhaps it has the added quality of being pest resistant?
Truly, it’s a beautiful plant. Along with Vita, I too would recommend it, especially for those of you who would like something your neighbor doesn’t have, if we are comparing such things.
The more one gardens, the more one learns; and the more one learns, the more one realizes how little one knows. I suppose the whole of life is like that: the endless complications, the endless difficulties, the endless fight against one thing or another, whether it be green-fly on the roses or the complexity of human relationships.
A Joy of Gardening; 1958
It’s about time to prepare my rose bushes for the summer. They already budding. Michigan’s weather has been strangely mildly this winter which has caused the flowers, bulbs and trees to burst forth their early buds. I’m praying we don’t get an ice storm. I should be researching and learning about what to do with them, but I haven’t because I’m still in hunker down mode. Although the winter has been mild we still get our cold days that make me want to curl up and read a book. So, I have read many so far this winter but what to read next? Usually I let the spirit guide me, or a book idea I have will flush out one in particular.
“The more one gardens, the more one learns; and the more one learns, the more one realizes how little one knows.” I like to think this also applies to reading and continuing one’s education which works to brighten one’s curiosity. I have a library of many books. The problem however, with owning so many books is the perplexity of what to read next. It comes over me and I stand agape at my shelves pulling different ones – reading a couple lines, hastily replacing them with an idea of when to commit myself… I know what I would read again if only I’d allow myself, but what of these other stories? My next favorite could be among them! Their contents are a mystery and it is always a risk for me to delve into the unknown. Only dangerous because once I start I must continued until the tedious end, even if it’s not to my taste.
In a couple weeks I’ll go to Chattanooga, Tennessee to visit the battlefield. I began studying the Civil War in seventh grade when I read a book entitled Red Cap. Something drew me to the book. What was it that made me pick it up off the library shelf when I was twelve and furiously read every word? What was it that struck me as a young child when I read the tragic story of Ransom Powell and his comrades? I was so touched by their story that it ignited in me a flame of respect and understanding, as well as a thirst for all knowledge of this violent war.
So with this trip on my mind I suppose I should delve into my arsenal of research books. I have many and usually by the time we get to the site my husband and I have a general knowledge of how the battle went down. Unless one visits the site however, it is hard to capture the scope of footwork involved as well as the lay of the land.
When we go to a battlefield the first thing I do is visit the Civil War Trust website and watch the marvelous animated map of the battle. You can find their whole list of animated maps here. Then I delve into my volumes of Battles and Leaders of the Civil war which is a first-hand collection of memoirs and letters from all battles and skirmishes. After scouring the index of all my memoirs I then tap into the index of my 53 volumes of the Southern Historical Society Papers which documented every detail of the Confederacy. I mean EVERY detail. It even includes locations of where legs and arms are buried. This collection was a gift from my parents and I cherish it very much. Not only are the books beautifully gothic but they smell of old paper with a smack of cigarette smoke – I’m guessing from the previous owner.
This is the wonderful power books have. One book transformed my whole life. I became more interesting and I became interested and curious. With every fact there were counter facts and myths which I endlessly researched to debunk. There were biases and shame on men who didn’t deserve their worth to be judged poorly by history’s malice. Studying the war is an occupation that has kept me occupied for decades and will continue to do so until my death. What a wonderful gift from such an unexpected source; a child’s book.
What books have you read that peaked your interest and transformed your life?