The Deer Lay Down Their Bones

"Every portion of the Universe appears to be a mirror, in which the whole creation is represented" 

- Madame de Staël

Walking with Mary, June 2014

I was named after the daughter-in-law of the American poet, Robinson Jeffers. The Jeffers family were all friends of my parents, and the daughter-in-law of course, was named Lee* (see definition at the end of this entry). My mother loved this name, and I love it too. I can look back on my childhood and say I spent countless days and sleepovers at Tor House. Lee's daughter, Una, was the same age as as myself and our mothers, who were pregnant with us both simultaneously, were close friends as were Una and me to become during our youth. Robinson's son, Donnan, his wife Lee and their two children all lived together in the stone house after the death of Robinson's wife, from whom the younger Una took her name.

I have memories of running up the stone tower, where Robinson Jeffers wrote; he would be cross with us for disturbing his peace and we would dash down the stairs making a raucous more from a sense of terror than anything. It was a house that felt like an enchanted castle, set amongst a glen of tall pines and cypress. Robinson built the house himself, from stones that he carried up from the beach. I no longer remember how he did it and everyone is now long gone to tell me, though I have seen some early photographs.

My landscape 

What I do know is, that along with my other close friend in childhood, Jana Weston, who is the granddaughter of the photographer Edward Weston, I lived an astonishing childhood in an extraordinary time, in an environment of artistic genius that was the firm foundation from which my own understanding of life and nature were nurtured. There was a certain wildness about our bohemian childhoods and in some ways I was feral enough to feel remarkably connected to the natural elements in which I spent so much of my time, not only reveling in but believing that the wildlife, the trees and stones were talking to me in whispering languages I could fully understand. I seem to have remembered those languages.

Here then is Robinson Jeffer's beautiful, heart breaking poem,that mentions Una and my name in a meaning separate from me yet connected none-the-less.   

The Deer Lay Down Their Bones

I followed the narrow cliffside trail halfway up the mountain

Above the deep river-canyon. There was a little cataract crossed the path,

   flinging itself

Over tree roots and rocks, shaking the jewelled fern-fronds, bright bubbling 

   water

Pure from the mountain, but a bad smell came up. Wondering at it I

   clambered down the steep stream

Some forty feet, and found in the midst of the bush-oak and laurel,

Hung like a birds nest on the precipice brink a small hidden clearing,

Grass and a shallow pool. But all about there were bones hidden in the grass,

   clean bones and stinking bones,

Antlers and bones: I understood that the place was a refuge for wounded

   deer; there are so many

Hurt ones escape the hunters and limp away to lie hidden; here they have 

   water for the awful thirst

And peace to die in; dense green laurel and grim cliff

Make sanctuary, and a sweet wind blows upward from the gorge. -I

   wish my bones were hidden with theirs.

But that's a foolish thing to confess, and a little cowardly. We know that life

Is on the whole quite equally good and bad, mostly gray neutral, and can be

   endured

To the dim end, no matter what magic of grass, water and precipice, and 

   pain of wounds,

Makes death look dear. We have been given life and have used it - not a 

   great gift perhaps - but in honesty

should use it at all. Mine's empty since my love died - Empty? The

   flame-haired grandchild with great blue eyes

That look like hers? - What can I do for the child? I gaze at her and

   wonder what sort of man

In the fall of the world...I am growing old, that is the trouble. My

   children and little grandchildren

Will find their way, and why should I wait ten years yet, having lived

   sixty-seven, ten years more or less,

Before I crawl out on the ledge of rock and die snapping, like a wolf

Who has lost his mate? - I am bound by my own thirty-year-old decision:

   who drinks the wine

Should take the dregs; even in the bitter lees and sediment

New discovery may lie. The deer in that beautiful place lay down their 

   bones: I must wear mine.

Fin

*lee

noun

the lee of the wall shelter, protection, cover, refuge, safety, security

&

lee |lē|

noun

shelter from wind or weather given by a neighboring object, esp. nearby land : we pitch our tents in the lee of a rock.

• (also lee side) the sheltered side; the side away from the wind : ducks were taking shelter on the lee of the island. Contrasted with weather .

-On-line computer Dictionary

June's Full Moon or: An Intimate Summer Solstice Tea Party

Minutes after the wee small hour of midnight last night, the moon was at its fullest, as well as being the lowest full moon in the sky all year. I read that the Algonquin Indian tribe knew it was the time of year to gather strawberries and thus the name Strawberry Moon, as the June moon is commonly known. It was a bright night and I went a walking.....

The idea of celebrating summer solstice* this year in an intimate setting came to me when my gaze fell upon a magenta glass vase full of peonies against the verdant forest background at the house of my friend, Mary. I asked her if she was up for a gathering with me providing, so here is a dress rehearsal with some ideas to share and plenty of time to spare, should you like to do something too and enjoy the afternoon as the moon climbs in the sky.

Thank you Mary!

A simple tea was decided upon for a very small group of women appreciative of the pagan rites of this glorious marking of summer's longest day. I immediately think of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, with Puck sauntering among the fairies, or a crazy all-nighter in 1970 at Stonehenge when you could wander, climb boulders, dance in the circle with Hippie druids fulfilling their fantasies from myths and legends, the Bacchanalian* nights of lusty hearty delight, or the star gazers of Babylon, calculating the constellations of the heavens. One of the loveliest things that comes to mind is a scene from Dodie Smith's novel, turned into an enchanting film, I Capture the Castle, when Cassandra Mortmain, played by Ramola Garai, dances around a summer's solstice fire she has built shouting to the treetops and flames. 

I made quintessential scones (of course), a highly seductive Orange Genoese cake (recipe follows at the end) and an unusual banana bread with coconut and chocolate chips that my daughter ameliorated from a standard recipe. Tea to start but when twilight wanes, as occasions like this are want to do, I suggest pulling out a bottle of chilled Chateau de Mirambeau's dry white Bordeaux with essence of bewitchery. Light the fire, take off your shoes and Dance to the Music of Time***.

Fin.


&

* sum•mer sol•stice

noun

the solstice that marks the onset of summer, at the time of the longest day, about June 21 in the northern hemisphere and December 22 in the southern hemisphere.

• Astronomy the solstice in June. - on line Mac dictionary

** bac•cha•na•li•an |ˌbäkəˈnālyən; -ˈnālēən; ˌbakə-|

adjective

characterized by or given to drunken revelry; riotously drunken : a bacchanalian orgy.

- on line Mac dictionary

*** A Dance to the Music Of Time was originally a painting by Nicolas Pousiin (1634-1636), now at the Wallace Collection, later the title was adapted as a series of novels well worth reading, set In mid-century Britain by Anthony Powell.

Recipe:

Orange Genoese Sponge 
from Konditor and Cook, in London, England 

with notes or modifications by myself

6 Medium eggs, separated

pinch of salt

¾ Cup superfine sugar (you can cuisinart it if need be)

grated zest of 2 oranges (or lemons)

1 Cup flour, then sifted, plus extra for dusting

1 Teaspoon baking powder

6 Tablespoons salted butter melted and cooled

Base-line a 10” greased cake pan with parchment paper. Grease with butter and dust with flour

Put the egg whites and salt in a large clean bowl. (wipe with a little lemon juice or vinegar) I find just making sure it is clean is fine.

Using an electric mixer, beat at slow speed to break up egg whites, change gradually to a higher setting, adding 2 Tablespoons of the sugar. Continue beating and adding sugar until 2/3 of the sugar is used. At this stage the egg white should have good volume and hold stiff peaks (very stiff).

Add remaining sugar, egg yolks and orange zest. Using large metal spoon, gently fold in the flour and baking powder in 3 batches, moving the spoon through he middle to combine any pockets of flour that remain unmixed.

Slowly pour the butter over the surface of the mixture and gently fold in, cutting though the mixture with a large metal spoon to retain as much air as possible. Spoon the sponge mixture into the baking pan, bake on the middle rack of a preheated oven at 350 for about 25 minutes. The center is cooked if the surface springs back when lightly pressed. To double check, insert a skewer and make sure it comes up clean or with a few crumbs attached. Let cool, then turn out onto a cooling rack.

I whip cream and sugar fruit, such as raspberries, strawberries, blackberries and blueberries. To sugar fruit, whip egg white with a little salt, set aside. Put some super fine sugar on a plate. Have a baking sheet ready with a piece of parchment paper on it. Gently roll clean and dried fruit firstly in egg whites and then in sugar and place on parchment paper to dry well, several hours. The fruit becomes crusty on the outside, retaining the juice within. This makes for a lovely decoration on whipped cream. I add mint leaves from the garden and in summer in lieu of berries, edible flowers makes a lovely décor. 

Yum!

The Gift of Nature

This is my first entry, so bear with me while I figure this whole new world of blogging (to Bluebell that is). 

Bluebell and the Fox is a whimsical, nature loving shop on Etsy that opened in 2012: www.etsy.com/shop/BluebellandtheFox . You can find tea cozies, children's dresses, men's pocket scarves, photo cards, photographs, and other bibelots * (for a definition of bibelot see the end of this entry).  I grew up in the wild landscape of the California Coast around Big Sur, so I have always felt very close to nature in all its many mysteries. This latest venture of Bluebell and the Fox will reflect my aesthetic approach to living and offer my ideas to inspire its readers. 

I have a tricky friend to give a gift to tomorrow, and decided on parting with one of my prized possessions: a beautiful bird's nest that literally fell from the treetop into my lap. I wanted to make an offering of surprise and beauty that was as far away from the world of commerce as possible and as close to the primeval beginning of life "when women were birds" -Terry Tempest Williams' title of a book I love. Giving is a thoughtful action for me that takes some reflection about who that receiving person is and consideration as to why I am giving whatever it is. There must be meaning.

After deciding on the nest, I proceeded to think about how to wrap it - a critical aspect to gift giving. This was somewhat problematical. After searching here and there I ended up at the Paper Source in Porter Square, Cambridge, MA (www.paper-source.com) where I bought a beautiful buff colored box (sku 436700), soft sea green tissue (sage) and an interesting natural ribbon with red running through it (red double stripe). Here I am standing on a chair to show you what I bought, thanks to the shop lady named Margaret, who loved my idea and enthusiastically directed me exactly where I needed to be. So thank you Margaret!

Next, I carefully inserted two sheets of tissue into the box and with the greatest of care fit the birds nest inside. All my friend has to do is lift the tissue out and with it the nest, all safe and snug, nested in a nest.

Finally, I put the lid on, tied the ribbon, snipped the ends and thought, hmm, needs something else, so I looked in my nature collection and selected the perfect feather found in the woods. That gives a hint, but I do not think he will ever guess the contents of this box! Voilà, the perfect Gift of Nature!

Fin

* bibelot |ˈbib(ə)ˌlō|

noun

a small, decorative ornament or trinket.

ORIGIN late 19th cent.: from French, fanciful formation based on bel ‘beautiful.’     
-from the online Mac dictionary