In 1995 my Grandmother turned 96. This turning implied more than a turning of the page. It was a turning of the corner. After effectively caring for herself nearly an entire century, she simply could do it no longer. Clearly. After soul searching and chest pounding and tears and prayer I took a step I had never imagined I would take. I brought her down to the Bay Area. Fortunately angels were at my side and a clear path opened and the next thing I knew I was packing her up into my Explorer Sport and driving her to her new life–mine. Managing her day to day care was prohibitive. I was able, miraculously, divinely, to place her in a loving, well-managed nursing home in the heart of downtown Sonoma. Little did I know that I was entering a six year adventure, for who is thinking that someone will aspire to and attain a century on planet Earth?? Looking back, I should have known. In that moment, however, I was just focusing on what she needed at that moment. Over the next six years Grandma was mobile enough to be able to participate in family activities and Sunday drives, which she thoroughly enjoyed. It was always so poignant, though, that during that time my Grandmother said to me so many times, “I would love to have lived here.”

One of the many blessings of that particular period was that for four of those trying years I placed myself on a hillside, up a dirt road, on four fabulously beautiful and healing four acres that required me to drive over Hwy. 12 to arrive at her nursing home. Thus the road I am going to here document for you, largely in photos, carries with it an enormous psychic imprint of a thousand conversations and thoughts about the caring and well being of my beloved Grandmother. Do you hear me? I think some of you will.

So out of that six year commitment I managed to build in this wondrously magnificent trail–the way in, the way out. Indeed, it was on this very road, as I was just exiting Sonoma, turning on to Hwy. 12 when I was struck solidly with the intuitive knowing that she had left planet Earth. “Oh, Grandma,” I found myself crying out, tears streaming down my face. Indeed, when I arrived home at the other end of Hwy. 12 there was a message from the hospital that she had left us.

So Hwy. 12 will always mean a lot to me. I carry it with me wherever I go, a sacred touchstone, that I find I long for if I am too long away from it. Happily, now when I go I am ususally seeking out my longtime hairdresser, my favorite Italian cafe, Cafe Citti, or the sheer joy of a beauteous afternoon.

President’s Day I stole out of the office (no one was working in New York, afterall) as I know how beautiful the area is at this time of year and I was enormously inspired to share some of those images with all of you! Enjoy!

And nearby…

One of my very favorite beauties on Hwy. 12 is the elaborate stonework, all handdone, in a fashion lost to most skilled laborers. (That is Hwy.12 you see stretching just beyond the trees.)

Continuing on our journey, do not these old vines wretch at your heart?

A lovely old rosemary grows nearby to keep them company.

An iron rooster keeps watch from a neighboring rooftop.

And our journey ends in a springtime mustard filled vineyard.

Thank you for taking this trip with me.

Love and blessings,
Kathryn xoxo

Posted on February 22nd, 2008 by Kathryn
Filed under: Sacred places | 34 Comments »

Book Notes this month continues with Celia Thaxter’s second best known work, Among the Isles of Shoals. Through a series of synchronistic events I am somewhat oddly pairing the book with a second review, of Stern Men, first novel by Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat Pray Love fame.

I would be remiss if I did not elaborate that the personal backdrop for these two books is my own genealogical connection with this coastal New England area, as this was part of the synchronicity that brought me to these two works, and which leads me to share this unfolding story with you.

I am a tenth generation American through my paternal Hall lines. My first Halls came to Plymouth Colony from England in 1636. George and Mary Hall. Hard to imagine, right? Among these early Halls was a small group, siblings of a direct line Hall, who went to live among these very islands, the culture of which is described in both Celia Thaxter’s Among the Isles of Shoals and, strangely, also by Elizabeth in Stern Men. So various worlds began to merge for me when I was first turned toward Thaxter by my friend David, as previously reported. Thaxter’s work roused my curiosity to begin exploring my early New England roots again along this early geographic trail. [Horribly an ancient uncle of mine is associated with a wretched story on Mantinicus Island, in which he apparently chooses to ignore fishing patterns of Indians who held those habits for probably time immemorial, and he is eventually ambushed in his home and I will let you fill in the blanks.] Anyway, I became very intrigued as these pieces of what I call The Ultimate Human Jigsaw Puzzle began to be placed in my path. One thing led to another and it was next that I discovered that Elizabeth Gilbert had written about these same folks along that island chain in Stern Men, and I knew instinctively that all these things were connected so I read her book next.

Sure enough, toward the very end of her book one of Elizabeth’s characters declares to the protagonist, “Did you ever hear of the Isles of Shoals?” and
in her acknowledgements Elizabeth states, “I was most helped by…the unpublished but thorough “Tales of Mantinicus Island.” Ah-ha! Full circle. You can imagine I will be trying to get my hands on that.

But meanwhile, what pertinence for us all? As a gardener I am most intrigued by the sheer contemplation of these stalwart rugged islanders, described in both texts, who would relish not only growing their own food on a slim island in the Atlantic Ocean, but I also find myself asking what must they have been made of to long for such isolation and solitude and separation and survival challenges?

Gilbert’s book Stern Men traces a young woman’s life on an imaginary island off the coast of Maine, hardly concerned with gardening, but with uncovering the story of her life, her parents’ lives and where she fits as a woman into that rugged fishing community. Through Gilbert’s well-developed though quirky characters we learn much about these islander inhabitants, most likely unchanged for centuries.

Thaxter in Among the Isles of Shoals provides a much more in-depth look at the environ in which she found herself from an early age, where we have already learned, that at age five she started her first garden. My earlier review of An Island Garden details these activities. This final book of her life paints with broad brush strokes the fascinating life of yet another young woman–herself!– among strong men whose lives are tied irrevocably to the ocean. I was so struck by her telling of a storm so fierce one winter that she’d heard of a flock of sheep that had been buried in snow for several days and all but one survived. Yet Thaxter’s love for these islands, her garden and the people who lived among her is evident on every page, and we are privileged to share her view.

As unlikely a pair of books as these seem, they are actually fine companions and one would be well advised to read them back to back. I loved both these books for the insights they offer into another time and place, part of the American heritage and a reminder of what was sown before we arrived, making all we count as our blessings possible.

Spring blessings!
Kathryn

Postscript: Thank you to both Houghton Mifflin and University Press of New England for their kind assistance with covers!

Posted on February 9th, 2008 by Kathryn
Filed under: Book Notes | 8 Comments »