After years of dreaming about it, I finally visited Provence, seeing towns and villages that stretched from Avignon on the Rhone,
to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie in the east, with the snow-capped French Alps in the distance.
Although it was too early in the year for its famous lavender and sunflower fields, the Luberon Valley was bursting with flowers. In addition to the cheerful, beloved red poppies,
there was purple everywhere: deep royal irises,
and paler wisteria and lilac, perfuming the air. My greatest surprise was the sheer abundance of flowers — they were everywhere, planted in corners of fields and alongside roads, framing doorways and windows, in planters and atop stone walls.
Provence was everything and more than I had hoped to experience: hilltop villages with distant views,
narrow streets and steep stairs,
inviting bridges and passageways,
picturesque, colorful shutters.
There were rooms of old-world elegance,
others of more rustic decor,
and quaint details everywhere.
Beautiful old churches, rich in detail.
Quiet courtyards, and fountains everywhere.
A travelers delight in the unexpected,
and in unplanned visits: to the lavender museum on a rare rainy day, and the historical perfume museum in Grasse, housed in an beautiful old building
with a scent-rich garden of roses, wisteria, and citrus.
(And a gift shop of fragrant indulgences to take back home.)
Market days in nearly every town infuse the area with vibrancy and interest,
and a relaxing cafe culture pervades all of Provence, offering a slower pace to life.
Which perhaps accounts for the warm and welcoming people we came across everywhere.
There was a real joie de vivre found in the lively conversations that filled the cafes, the delight in the company of friends.
There was riverside dining in villages like L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, a historic mill town with waterwheels still turning along its river.
And a visit to the source of the Sorgue,
a gushing fontaine that springs from the nearby mountains (and more riverside dining).
There was the unique village of Roussillon that still bears the reddish color of its famous ochre that was once mined and traded afar.
A nearby hike immerses visitors in the sculpted ochre hills, full of tall pines and purple phlox.
And charming Moustiers offers beautiful views from every angle, every tiny winding street, at every time of day.
Throughout Provence, the soft evenings retain a hint of the old and inviting and mysterious,
Stars and stargazing often make their way into my stories. Beautifully symbolic of hopes and dreams, purity and wonder, they help to tell the inner stories of many of my characters.
Stars play a key role in the fourth book of the Christmastime series, Christmastime 1942: A Love Story (https://a.co/d/j2wI35u). Beginning with the storyline of Gino, the merchant seaman, the topic of stars develops into a unifying connection between him, Tommy and Gabriel, and Charles and Lillian.
The ethereal quality of stars also reveals the quietly eccentric character of Edith. She is comfortable with both the dreamy and pragmatic sides of her nature — and she is in love for the first time.
She opened the drawer to her nightstand and reached for her tin of oil pastels. She lifted the lid, and ran her fingers over the colors, choosing deep Prussian blue and cobalt, gold, silver, and umber. … A sketch emerged of two large pillows, a rumpled comforter, a soft bed under a large window. The night world outside dotted with stars. “Colors of midnight,” she wrote beneath it. She studied the bed, and added a few more lines, and then sprinkled a dusting of stars onto the pillows and blanket.
The main character, Lillian, is under pressure from her demanding boss to submit an idea for a poster contest. With the deadline looming, and despairing over the war and Charles’s imminent return to battle, she awakens in the middle of the night, seeking solace and inspiration.
She quietly went into the living room and turned on the lamp behind the couch. There was the telescope, pointing up, as if in readiness to search the heavens. She was glad for the stars, for their high, untouched beauty that could not be sullied by war, by humanity. She took out her sketch pad and pencils and began to draw.
A sketch began to take shape of a wounded soldier and his sweetheart looking at the same night sky, though thousands of miles apart. [Lillian] added more stars to the skies, trying to convey the belief that high above a war-torn world, the glittering firmament shone benevolently over earth, and that in the end, all would be well and whole again. Simple, humble, human love would help to piece the world back together again.
In The Notebooks of Honora Gorman: Fairytales, Whimsy, and Wonder (https://a.co/d/8Z1Igqu), the stars also offer inspiration for an artistic deadline, this time, a writing assignment.
Though Honora missed the stars, the lights of the city at night made up for it. She loved the contrast between the workaday gray of Manhattan and the magical, sparkling nights. The city, especially when viewed from afar, shone like a glittering firmament. A reversal of sorts, as if the starry night sky had been flipped to earth. She would never forget her first arrival, approaching the massive metropolis at night – entranced by the wide expanse of twinkly lights, a galaxy of stars that stretched as far as she could see.
Struggling to find an idea for her children’s writing class, Honora hits upon an idea.
What was that seedling trying to root in her story – something about the sky? The night sky. And how she missed it. Stars! She flooded with inspiration. And the fairytale, “Fallen Star” flows from her pen.
And So We Dream (https://a.co/d/0iM4uab) In another connection to the stars and the artist figure, the young dream-filled actress, Vita Vitale, also connects with the stars. In the beginning of the story, she and her older sister tell their younger sister about swimming in the lake at night.
“Did you guys go swimming—and not tell me?”
“We didn’t plan it,” said Anne. “After Diane’s we went out to the lake and . . .”
“In the dark?”
“Under the stars and a crescent moon,” said Vita. “A Pierrot moon, full of dreams. It was wondrous! Absolutely magical.”
Beth looked around the back seat to see if she was sitting on anything wet, then checked the floor. “Where are your swimsuits?” After a moment’s silence, she gasped. “You went skinny dipping?”
Anne shot Beth a warning glance in the rearview mirror. “Don’t you dare say anything about it at home.”
“I won’t. But I can’t believe it. Were there any boys there?” After no answer, she said, “You guys! Weren’t you embarrassed?”
“It was dark,” said Anne.
“Except for the glimmer on the water. It was like swimming through a thousand tiny stars.” Vita turned around to face them. “It was so beautiful…Like swimming in a fairy world.”
Later, far from her dreams, and weighed down by disappointment and a sense of failure, she taps into the beauty and magic of the night sky.
The warm summer night held the faint scents of grass and flowers. Vita inhaled deeply and filled her eyes with the inky sky aglitter with stars….Vita was alone. But didn’t feel at all lonely. This is what has been missing, she told herself. An infusion of beauty. And here it was. Right overhead. A fragrant summer night filled with shooting stars. Vita lay back and filled her eyes with the starscape….This is the counter to sadness, she thought. Beauty. Wonderment….She felt a profound sense of connection, and a reconnection to her dreams. It all came from the same deep place of beauty and love and yearning.
And a closing thought:
“The star-filled wonder of the night sky makes me magnificently small.” – Honora Gorman (from one of her many scraps of writing)
It’s easy to create the feeling of contentment that comes from coziness and simple pleasures. Fresh flowers, the scent of baking pervading your home, music softly playing in the background.
The colder weather — especially with the approach of Christmastime — lends itself to creating such an atmosphere. It can start with using a favorite cup for your morning tea, or a piece of toast with jam, or the scent of coffee and a warm muffin.
I like to think that my Christmastime series captures, to some degree, the sense of pleasure and comfort: the scent of pine, a fire crackling in the fireplace, a radiator hissing and filling a cold apartment with warmth, the laughter of children.
Though the backdrop to the series is WWII and life on the home front is full of struggles and hardship, the overall tone of the series is uplifting and comforting.
Sad things happen, shocking events take place, but the characters roll up their sleeves and do their part to make the best of things. Love, family, friendship, and neighborliness are in the forefront and shape the stories.
Celebrating life — its holidays, the seasons, small day-to-day beauties, the quest for meaning — fill the pages of Christmastime.
So as the temperatures drop and the holidays approach, experience a sense of well-being for yourself. Fix a cozy hot drink, turn on a lamp or light a candle, and grab a warm blanket. Then nestle into your favorite reading chair and snuggle up with CHRISTMASTIME.
I recently came across a line (incorrectly attributed to Emerson?) that nevertheless caught my attention: She is rich who owns the day…
I love the sentiment and recognize the same spirit in my character of The Dreams of Youth, a very short collection of stories that tell the larger story of one woman.
These six interrelated pieces tell the story of Maggie, a vibrant individual who is also Everywoman: daughter, dreamer, nurse, friend, wife, mother. Spanning over eighty-five years, they follow her from her youth in Depression-era Illinois to the time when she ventures forth to 1940’s Hollywood and coastal California, and her return to the rural Midwest. Bittersweet and poignant, celebratory and inspiring, these stories portray the exuberance of youth, the delight of friendship, the adventure of going forth into the world, and the disappointment and heartache that are a part of life.
Maggie.
Always running, dreaming, adventurous, and daring.
Where others saw weeds, Maggie saw wishes.
Leafy treetops were enough to fuel her dreams.
And the dream of the ocean sustained her for a lifetime.
“Helen Beatrix Potter (1866 – 1943) was an English writer, illustrator, natural scientist, and conservationist.
She is best known for her children’s books featuring animals, such as The Tale of Peter Rabbit, which was her first published work in 1902.
Her books…have sold more than 250 million copies…Potter [left] almost all her property to the National Trust. She is credited with preserving much of the land that now constitutes the Lake District National Park.” (wikipedia)
“Peter lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.“
Beatrix Potter’s first book “was rejected by several publishers, so she privately printed 250 copies of it herself. The Tale of Peter Rabbit was a great success with family and friends. In 1902, Frederick Warne & Co agreed to publish an initial quantity of 8,000. They sold out instantly and Beatrix’s career as a storyteller was launched.” – Beatrix Potter National Trust
Beatrix Potter spent much of her childhood in Scotland and the north of England where she could indulge in her love of animals and the natural world.
“I used to half believe and wholly play with fairies when I was a child. What heaven can be more real than to retain the spirit-world of childhood, tempered and balanced by knowledge and common-sense.” – Beatrix Potter
“Thank goodness I was never sent to school; it would have rubbed off some of the originality.” – Beatrix Potter
Later in life she settled in the Lake District and purchased thirty-four-acre Hill Top Farm, the perfect place for her to paint, write, and garden.
Among other portrayals based on her life, is the 2006 film, Miss Potter.
“If I have done anything, even a little, to help small children enjoy honest, simple pleasures, I have done a bit of good.”
(Excerpts from my novel, The Notebooks of Honora Gorman: Fairytales, Whimsy, and Wonder)
“Is April a time or a place? Honora wondered. Right now, as she looked out her window, the rain gurgling in the gutters, the trees full of white blossoms and tiny bright leaves against a pearl gray sky, it seemed a place – a land of beginnings, of youth, of beauty, a place to breathe deeply and stroll through, to enjoy its flowers and first greens, the cool soft air. She grabbed an umbrella and decided to wander through Central Park, down the Poet’s Walk to the lake, and absorb the April beauty.”
“Blossom time. The spring was cold, with occasional snow. Then a few warm days came and the pear trees along the street burst into bloom. Honora waited all year for this month with the fluttering white blossoms, lovely against the old brick, the gray slate roofs, the softer gray of the sky. The temperature had dropped again and she hoped the cold would keep the blossoms on the trees a little longer. But already she saw a bit of green – the leaves were beginning to show. Soon, the rains would loosen the blossoms, whisking them into the air. And she would have to wait another year for April blossoms.”
“Honora walked the streets of her pretty neighborhood almost every day. In the spring it was bursting with color – shooting rays of yellow forsythias, azalea bushes so thick with purple or red or coral blooms that they scarcely showed any leaves. There weren’t many lilac bushes but Honora knew where they were and would linger next to them, or stand under the ones arching over a tall fence, to breath in their fragrance.”
“There had been a magnificent old wisteria plant with massive, thick ropes of vines climbing an old sycamore, draping sweetness and pale-purple beauty overhead every spring. It had been pure magic and every April Honora looked forward to seeing it, raising her face to bathe in its perfume, filling herself with its beauty.”
The Notebooks of Honora Gorman: Fairytales, Whimsy, and Wonder
“Not a love story – and yet a story of love. Love for a city, for the artist’s way, and dreams.”
When I come across vintage books, I am often surprised by the beauty of the covers – and the amount of time and effort and creativity that went into them.
It reminds me of how important artwork and photography were for the record album covers of my generation and how people lamented the loss of “creative space” when cassettes and then CDs replaced them. Which isn’t to say that covers are not still extremely important, even in this digital age. I have spent countless hours working with designers on my own book covers to try to capture the mood and tone of the stories inside.
But there is something immensely appealing in the original artwork of those old hardback covers that evoke the aesthetics and charm of an earlier era.
Like other people, I sometimes use old books as decorations around the house, just to enjoy the vintage feel and beautiful colors of these little works of art.
The next time you’re at a used book store, or a garage sale, or at an odds and ends shop, keep you eyes open for these beautiful treasures from another time.
I was so sure that Christmastime 1945 would be last book in the Christmastime series — just as I was sure that Christmastime 1940 would be the first book. Yet all it took was the suggestion that perhaps I could write a brief prequel, and then a maybe think about a short sequel, perhaps a Valentine’s Day book, and those little planted seeds grew into two more books.
Once again, I’m sure that the series is now complete. However, at this point, I’ve learned never to say never.
Here’s a link to a post related to the series: Valentine’s Day in Mrs. Kuntzman’s Kitchen: https://bit.ly/3J1tP0g
And for those of you who haven’t read one of my earliest books (short short stories), it will be FREE on Amazon Kindle from February 1st-5th, and available on Kindle Unlimited through March.
Linda Mahkovec - Author 