Two dear blogging friends (Henny Penny and Granny Marigold) recently mentioned their love of Jill Barklem's Brambly Hedge books. I've noted them before, but it seems a good time to share some of her illustrations and show why I love The Four Seasons of Brambly Hedge.
That's Barklem's real painting desk!
Henny Penny organized her cute sewing room in the fashion of Brambly Hedge, and I realized I like that same look: a loose, flowy organization on open shelves, like this:
Look, Granny Marigold! Teacups!
If forced to choose favorite pictures from this book, these would be the ones. I love the wealth of detail, the step-back cupboards, weighty beams overhead, and stone floors. It's why I chose to redo my kitchen as I did. This book by Barklem begins with a sort of written interview with her. Sketches show how she creates her little mice.
And the world they live in:
She talks about her writing process.
I adore cross-sections of structures (especially trees) like the one below! It combines my love of order and architecture with my creativity and domesticity.
I love the idea of living inside a cozy tree.
Barklem's tree-living reminds me very much of Shirley Barber's Martha B. Rabbit stories. Martha lives in an apple tree.
One winter Martha and her friend Tabitha take in all the cold, hungry woodland inhabitants who need help - fairies, birds, deer, mice, and even an elf!
Barklem's picture of this mouse before his winter fire reminds me very much of Mole and Ratty and Badger.
The afternoon temperatures and mosquito clouds outside may not agree, but I think it's the time of year to visit Brambly Hedge and the Apple Tree House and The Riverbank, don't you?
Yes, fellow Americans, we know that the English have big, beautiful houses, and we must admit we are jealous. On this side of the pond we have Biltmore, and a few notable domiciles in New England, and that's about it. Nobody tours stately 250-year-old homes in the Midwest, although we wish we could! What's with this British love of the rambling 40-room Georgian manor in Wiltshire?
Now I ask you -- how easy would it be to write a cool children's story in that setting?
Which leads me to the point of this post (in case you were wondering): Isn't it interesting how the English write children's stories set in big old country houses? Just think:
1) C.S. Lewis put four siblings in an old rambling country house during WWII with Professor Digory Kirke.
2) Lucy Boston, about whom I've written before (here and here), puts her boy Tolly into an ancient home, adds some magic and time travel and a few bad characters, and creates a lovely children's classic series.
Lucy Boston's actual spooky old house in Cambridgeshire
3) This past week, our dear fellow-blogger Kezzie (from England) introduced me to yet another such series, John Masefield's Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights. I spent a few days watching all the episodes of the TV adaptation of The Box of Delights on youtube. It was delightful! It was made in the 1980s when the BBC didn't have lots of cash, and the special effects are more akin to Dr. Who with Tom Baker than Star Wars, but I just loved it. The boy Kay Harker (as you would expect) goes home for Christmas vacation from boarding school to his guardian's home -- a big, stately manor in the country -- and from there experiences the usual good guys and bad guys, time travel, magic and mayhem, a handful of friends for company, and a narrow escape from danger in the end. Perfect!
That's three. One would be an anomaly; two a coincidence; three a pattern.
Why do the English like to use their old crumbling mansions as settings for children's stories? What in the English psyche tends this way? Do they dream as children of going for a vacation to such a creepy old place? Is The Old Rural Mansion somehow entrenched in the English mind as a place of childhood delights? I wish I knew! I confess to jealousy; I wish I'd grown up in a land where such houses were there for the looking-at around each hedgerow bend. I wish my grandma lived in a dank, mammoth residence with fourteen fireplaces for warmth and we spent each Christmas there. How would my inner child be different if that were true?
Seekings House, the setting for "The Box of Delights"
For me, setting comes first when I write. I must know where something is happening before I can see who is there and what they'll do. Oh for settings like England's! We have delightful places in the states too, but I love old houses most particularly, and I find myself rather stymied in creating realistic locations for stories in my mind. One must write what one knows, and sadly I don't personally know any big old drafty (draughty?) homes with secret passages, servants' quarters, a nursery in the eaves, and a tunnel to the garden.
One exception is a home my uncle's family lived in when I was a child. It was in rural Virginia, an historic home with a boxwood garden in the rear. It was called Federal Hill, and I had to inquire of a cousin where it's located. (There are quite a few "Federal Hill"s in Virginia.) When I look into it more, perhaps I'll share about this house because I did have a lovely time there, and I was the perfect age (maybe 4th grade?) for adventures and hide-and-seek in the garden. Maybe our American settings aren't so boring after all? One can hope.
In an effort to get more storage space in my small house, I've been sorting through old things and getting rid of stuff. Well, some stuff.
Not this blanket. It was made for me when I was a little girl. Perhaps I posted about it before? It's beautifully hand-stitched.
It's in such pretty shape because (honestly) it wasn't my favorite blanket, so I didn't use it much. But because of its handmade beauty, I kept it.
Then there's my Kitty-Cat Blanket, also hand-made. My mother could tell you who made both of these. I can't remember ... some dear old ladies in Charleston, West Virginia, either family members or precious friends.
It's a wee bit tattered and stained, but not in bad shape for over 50 years old. Of course, I'd never part with this one either.
However, there's another blanket, a store-bought blanket. I'm embarrassed to show it. I remember my parents taking me to the store to pick it out. I was three years old. Oh, how I loved the fake quilted pattern! I slept with it every night until it had its own special smell. (haha!)
I slept with it till I wore a big hole right in the middle!
It's a full-sized double blanket, but I kept it (didn't use it, mind you) for FORTY-NINE years, in a little trunk, hauling it from house to house. Eighteen moves in twenty-six years.
Well, at last, it was time to say good-bye to the blanket. First, I cut off a good-sized square from one corner. I'll hem it and make a small doll blanket with it. It has almost no holes (heehee!!)
I'm such a sap. But really, folks, these items have some kind of emotional, spiritual significance to me that perhaps some people don't understand. I identify with the whole Velveteen Rabbit mentality, even though I know it's ridiculous ... that personal items that a child (especially) sleeps with and attaches herself to, and loves, have real significance, there is almost relationship there. So, yes, I kept part of the blanket -- shoot me :) The other 80% of the blanket went into the trash dumpster with my Baby Secret doll and the bag of hairless, limbless Madame Alexander dolls. Each time I walk by the dumpster, I pat it gently and tell them I do still love them. I gave them the blanket remains to help them through the ordeal of transitioning to a life in the landfill. Goodness, that sounds heartless!
I must know ... are there any other 50-something women out there who understand this silliness? Am I the only one?
