THE UMBRELLAS OF PARIS

One should always take an umbrella to Paris.

We didn’t.  Instead we shopped Madeline Gely,  Paris’s oldest umbrella shop.   If you are going to carry an umbrella let it be a gorgeous handmade umbrella from this shop in the 6th Arrondissement.  A French man invented the umbrella back in the early 1700′s.  They were outrageously expensive.   Every extravagantly attired  man and woman simply had to carry one, even if it wasn’t raining.

It was the fabulous Theadora and her blog   PEOPLE, PLACES AND BLING  that brought back sweet  memories of Paris, and shopping for an umbrella with my daughter.   You’ll find Theadora’s  history of the French umbrella fascinating reading.   It will give you your daily Paris fix.  Who says you have to let a smile be your umbrella.  Not Theadora.

OSWALD, THE GENTLEMAN RABBIT … he indeed exists

Several months ago I began writing a fairy tale for adults.  It is indeed allegorical.   But who is to say it is not real.   Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

Those who believe in magic will see Oswald, the gentleman rabbit. Oswald is visible in that split second before he puts his watch in his magic pocket, and takes the human form of  “those-who-live-above”.

My good friend Ellen believes in magic.  Because she believes she sees what non-believers do not.    She discovered Oswald in a crowded gift shop.  He was on this “magic button”.

My long time friend, Biscuit,  who believes in fairies and magic  found Oswald tucked amongst some greeting cards.

Oswald is in my heart and in my soul.   He lights a path for me on dark, dark days.  He takes me away to secret places.  He is my alter ego. I share Oswald’s adventures.

I wrote about Oswald for my own enjoyment.  To my delight I discovered he was also enchanting  many others.  This is the final chapter on BEL’OCCHIO but it is not the end of Oswald.  The Good Husband has encouraged me to turn the adventures of this amazing rabbit into a book or perhaps several books.   In my book  Oswald’s  latest adventure involves rescuing domestic rabbits who have been abandoned by their owners.   The book is a work in progress and it most certainly is a labour of love.

Magic.

It’s everywhere.

You just have to believe.

P.S.  As are many things in fairy tale the beginning of the story of Oswald at the end.  Please scroll way down to read about how Oswald came about.  Then you can read his stories consecutively – or not.

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OSWALD, GENTLEMAN RABBIT AND THE WALLED GARDEN

Oswald paused  outside the Walled Garden.  The gate was open.  That in it self was unusual.  The Walled Garden was a safe haven for rabbits.  Those who would do them harm could not enter.    For the first time  in  rabbits memory changes had taken place in the Walled Garden.

Lawns had been replaced with flowers.  Great drifts of flowers hummed with the music of bees.  The most fragrant, pollen-laden flowers had been planted.

Rabbits everywhere in the world above had joined in this cause to bring back  the bees.  They knew without bees the world  could not exist.

Vacant city lots,  boulevards,  country ditches,  abandoned farms ,  the rabbits planted flowers.    Those who lived in The World Above  planted along highways and byways .  Proudly posting signs  like  “this stretch of highway planted by Mabel and Tom Smithers”.

Oswald, gentleman rabbit ,  quietly  watched as the world took  up the rabbits cause.     The meeting with the gardeners of Girveny was a success.   Perhaps, he thought, we rabbits  have indeed  pulled bees out of a hat.

OSWALD DINES WITH OLD FRIENDS FROM GIVERNEY

The dark was closing in.    Oswald moved his chair closer to the fire.  Outside his burrow Oswald heard the wind lashing at the trees.  It was not a fit night for rabbit or man to be about.

He lifted the book he was reading.  Inhaled the aroma of the  leather bindings  and musty pages. He did so love books.  His nose wrinkled and caught an inky aroma.  Old books have such a marvelous perfume.

Rabbits are voracious readers.   Nocturnal by nature they spend hours deep below the earth in their comfortable burrows. Their libraries are vast.  Larger than the largest in the  world above. Older than the oldest books.

Oswald  had been reading  one of his  many books on botany. His library had the largest collection of gardening books in the world.   Everything  that grows  are the responsibility of all rabbits.

Tonight he was dining with old friends from Giverney.  Clad in their magic coats they had worked on the gardens of the old painter for more than one hundred years.  Oswald had a few sketches by him.  Carefully framed they hung above the fireplace.

Pierre worked  in the flower garden,  Clos Normand.  He was particularly fond of irises.  Every fall he carefully divided the flowers and added to the long garden.  Since the sixth  century AD rabbits had cultivated and cared for this flower, a symbol of France.

Jean, on the other side of the road,  laboured in the Japanese Water garden.  This garden and all that was in it was his responsibility.

There was much for these rabbits to discuss.  Tonight it concerned bees, or rather the lack of bees and the consequences.

Oswald looked at his pocket watch.    Even rabbits must make reservations.   For more than  one hundred years Oswald and his two gardening friends had dined at La Fontaine de Mars,  on  Rue Saint-Dominique.   Not much had changed.  Oswald had to  admit  it had taken time to become  accustomed to  the red and white checked tablecloths, but it was so familiar to him.

He reached for his scarlet coat.  Adjusted the ruffles at his throat, then put his  watch in the pocket.

He had arrived   at 129  Rue Saint-Dominique.

OSWALD VISITS PARIS

Oswald’s great,  great, great, more greats than the stars above  grand-parents lived for centuries in the  Tuileries Garden in the centre of Paris.    Each “great” chose his own magic garment.   Opera clocks lined in scarlet were a particular favorite with many Parisian rabbit.  When darkness fell they would slip their watches  into a magic pocket and become elegant Parisian gentlemen.   You would find them in coffee houses, at  the opera, perusing  antiquarian book stores and of course walking in the Tuileries Garden.

The heart of an adventurer beat in the furry body of Oswald’s great-grandfather.  One day he slipped on his magic coat, pocketed his watch, and at once became part of the new world.  He and his family lived a bucolic life in the country.  Now  a centuries later Oswald and Ma (short for Mahitabel),  Oswald’s younger sister, were the only family s left in the ancient burrow.

Oswald  strolled  in the park of his ancestors.  His shoes covered with the silvery dust that was part of Paris.    He had dined at the same cafe,  Cafe Procopi.   Poked through  the book stores on Rue Bûcherie.   Walked in his family’s footsteps.

Oswald carefully locked the door of his room  in a hotel just off  Rue Bûcherie.  Changing ones shape is exhausting.  You must change from  human form back to your own body for at least an hour every day.  In this manner a rabbit will never age, nor will his human form.   Oswald took out his pocket watch.  It hung it from a leather strap.  He slipped it into the magic pocket.

He was back in his burrow.  Once again he was Oswald, gentleman rabbit.

Chronicles of Oswald Rabbit

Oswald stirred uneasily in his chair.  The  leather  sighed as he moved.  It was his favorite chair . A chair of Worn, soft leather quietly leaking its horsehair stuffing.

He reached over and cranked the Victrola.  Carefully he sat the needle down.  From the  golden Victrola horn  a  Paganini  violin concerto filled the room.  Soared to the high Gothic arches  created by  massive oak roots.  The room was in shadows.

The fireplace the only light.  Gilt lettering on leather-bound books reflected it back.

He rose  and stood before the dusty, foxed mirror.    Eyes  black as a raven’s wing looked back at him.  Then, and only then he lifted the coat from its layers of tissue paper.  A magnificent garment of crimson velvet.  Splashed with gold epaulettes.   Reaching inside the coat he felt for the small watch pocket.   Placing his watch in that pocket he could travel the world in an instant.   He felt  for a second deeper pocket.     This pocket was bottomless.    It would hold all he desired.   There was magic sewn into every stitch, every seam of this scarlet coat.

Oswald slipped into the coat.  He  faced the  mirror.  It reflected  a tall, intense,  young man clad in a gorgeous, crimson coat.    Oswald looked back into the  comfortable,  familiar  room.    Then Oswald, gentleman rabbit,  turned off his Victrola, said good-by to his burrow, put his watch in the magic pocket, and  stepped into the world above.

A RABBIT TEACHES ME HOW TO PRIORITISE …. and put the magic back in my day

PRIORITISE:  To arrange items to be attended to in order of their relative importance.

October is a lovely time of year in the lower mainland.  The days are crisp sunny.  Flowers are still putting on a show.   I have a laundry list of things to accomplish today.  But first a stroll around the garden.  I lift my face to the sun.  Bask in its warmth.   I’m not alone.   A  gentleman rabbit, who has been helping me harvest beets all summer, was taking the rays under a hydrangea bush. Startled he took two giant hops into the driveway.  Then froze.  If he didn’t move I wouldn’t see him.  “Take the sun” I say. “You’ve a difficult,  cold winter ahead”. I walk back into the house.  Forget the laundry list.     It is magic I need today.  I need to be sewing velvet winter coats for rabbits.

The gentleman rabbit needs a rich velvet jacket.  Something with gold epaulettes.

In red velvet.

With a pocket for his watch.

And a  hat.  Surely Craig’s List would have a top hat to fit a rabbit.

Check under  Magicians  for a  top-hat, barely used by one rabbit.

Or perhaps something more military, more dashing.

 

For Mahitabel Rabbit, his sister,   a royal purple or perhaps moss green  velvet cape.

With a deep hood to keep  enormous ears warm.

Lined with ivory silk

Ruched and gathered.

And a tiny pocket for a purse embellished with for- get-me-nots.

 

 

The magic is back in my day.  I have prioritized.

THE ORTHOEPIST

I love wandering around used bookstores.  I search the shelves for that glint of gold that is the earmark of vintage books.  Lovely Ladner village has a charming used bookstores.  It has a wonderful smell of books.  New book stores simply don’t have that required perfume.   A little musty, a bit inky and completely captivating.  I came away with a treasure,  and a story.

The book THE ORTHOEPIST.

The dictionary defines ORTHOEPIST as the study of the pronunciation of words and their relationship between pronunciation and spelling.

Alfred Ayers, the author called it a” pronouncing manual, containing about three thousand five hundred words including a considerable number of the names of foreign authors, artists, etc, that are often mispronounced”.  It must have been very popular for the book I found  was the seventeenth edition, revised.  It had first been printed in l880.

My copy was printed in l886.   The story begins with a signature.

Henry J. Pugh     Morden  May 30th  ’87

I looked at the beautiful script.  Who was Henry J. Pugh?  Had he lived in Morden, Dorset in England?  In the eighteen hundreds there were many who immigrated from Britain to Canada.

I began my research in the records of St. Mary’s church in Morden, Dorset.  I scanned the baptism, marriage and death records from l800 to l880.  Not one Pugh.  Then I went to the census records for the same period.  No evidence of any family by that name.  If he had lived in Morden I would have uncovered records of his family.  I  realized then the Morden on the fly leaf of the book referred to  Morden, Manitoba.

This was Manitoba in l887.    I researched archives and discovered that  Morden had an important reputation for promotion of history and the natural sciences.  It was a village  where one might find a  large group of educated people.  I was looking for an intellectual.   Such a man would own a copy of THE ORTHOEPIST.

I will tell you about Henry J. Pugh.  He is tall and well built.  He has searching eyes and wears a mustache.  He dresses in casual  country clothes.  Not a dandy Henry prefers comfortable, practical garments.

He is a teacher  with an abiding passion for the windswept, big sky prairies and its wildlife.  Gentle by nature he has a great deal of respect for the local Indians.  He is recording their history.

He is often called upon to recite poetry  at social gatherings.  He is known for his perfect diction, and commanding presence.    In 1887 Henry has yet to meet the love of his life.

This was Henry J. Pugh’s book.  I hold it in my hand.

The story of Henry is my story from my imagination.

HOW TO MAKE A VINTAGE GRAPHIC FRENCH PILLOW

I fell in love with this vintage French  graphic design on THE GRAPHICS FAIRY.  It couldn’t be more French with the bee and the crown.  Pillows like this are not easy to find, and when you do they are rather pricy.  It’s really simple to create these designs yourself using T-Shirt transfer paper for ink jet printers.

After downloading your image be sure to flip or reverse the image.

I found the transfer paper at Staples office supplies.  Most craft stores also carry it.

The instructions are very clear and easy to do.  You just need your fabric, a hot iron, and a pillow slip.  After you transfer your design to the transfer paper you trim around the design as closely as you can.  Center you design on your pillow, ink side down, or course.  Press with a hot iron without steam.  Read your instructions carefully before you start,  different sized designs require different ironing time.  Let your fabric cool, then remove.  Voila!!

I wanted my pillow to have a very polished, elegant look so I used self-piping, then trimmed the pillow with Coco Chanel inspired black ribbon.

You can buy plain white pillows at Ikea if you are not a seamstress but it will be awkward putting on the ribbon trim.  Miter the corners for a finished look.

You can NEVER have too many pillows.  My new pillow is perfect with the stripes and toile.  I am going to cruise The Graphic Fairy to find a complimenting design.

My very old wicker chair has a companion.  I’ve rocked many hours in this chair.  Singing my children to sleep.

Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques

Dormez vous?  Dormez vous?

Sonnez les matines,

Din, din, don

Din, din, don.

I shall search for something appropriate,  and make the perfect pillow for this important rocking chair.

SIX IMPOSSIBLE THINGS TO BELIEVE BEFORE SUNDAY BREAKFAST

 

“Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”  -Lewis Carroll

1. I believe there’s a “diet drink” that will make me shrink.

2. I can walk across Niagara falls on a tight rope.

3. I can make good cotton candy at home.

4. There’s a “power drink” that will make me smarter.

5.  I will find the perfect parking spot.

6. There is a place called Wonderland.

 

How many impossible things did you believe before breakfast today?