Mrs. Teabody Greets the Day

The greatest gift is a portion of thyself. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson Mr. Teabody at the fireplace he created. Not a single glimmer of daylight pierces the horizon on this third day of winter, but Chez Teabody is  lamplit and humming along inside where Mrs. Teabody sits happily pecking away -- once again bundled up in winter flannel as the short-lived summer that waltzed through with its fifty degree temperatures has just as willfully waltzed off. In no way is this a complaint, mind you, as everyone will agree that it is easier to be filled with the Christmas Spirit when one is not dragging about a nearly frozen posterior. It is Christmas Eve, 2013. Are you ready for Christmas? How many times have you heard and/ or uttered this phrase in the past few weeks?  What happens inside your brain when someone asks? Do you envision a checklist of things done and to do? Perhaps a list of names pops into your frontal lobe and you are at once pleased with the perfectly-imagined gift already

Lovely Erika allows visions of Sugar Plums to dance through her head. Good Morning, Gentle Reader! If you are unfortunate enough to live anywhere else but here, perhaps you are unaware of the positively balmy weather being enjoyed this first week of December 2013. At present the thermostat is registering an outside temperature of 47 degrees. Mrs.  Teabody ran errands yesterday afternoon not even wearing a jacket, and she was quick to note folks outdoors hanging greens and lights as they prepare their homes for  this most generous of seasons. Of course, if you ARE fortunate enough to live here, you are also aware that whatever the current weather is, it will change, and all too soon your teeth will be clattering together like castanets from the cold. But this is not a day to borrow trouble, Gentle Reader. This is a day to cut loose that stubborn little part of you that may keep you from enjoying this festive season. Mrs. Teabody suggests giving and before you dash to stand on

Howdy,  stranger? So long, friend! ~ "Any Place I Hang My Hat Is Home" Good  moonlit morning from Meadow Grounds Mountain where at first waking glance - - first daylight, all outdoors had the quality of being covered in snow. Moonlight will do that to the senses: keep one confused about day and night, confused about bare green-less ground and snowcover, confused about a body part aching when, in truth, a heart is breaking . . . Mrs. Teabody is very sad today because in less than twenty-four hours, Mrs. Teabody's esteemed and generous friend, Lady Glass, will abandon her beautiful home here on the mountain and move far, far away--eighteen MILES!-- Alas!  Lady Glass resides in a unique home as it straddles the very top of the mountain and the judicious planning and workings of the past nearly quarter of a century  have given the Glasses the rarest of home locations. One can stand in the kitchen of Lady Glass's home and see the valley and mountains to the e

Image by Beatrix Potter from The Tale of Johnny Town-mouse   Shiver, shiver, Gentle Reader. Little skiffs of snow are wedged along the cracks and crevices just outside the windows at Chez Teabody, but that is no bother to the well pajama-d and sock-footed Teabodys sipping on their hot tea and chatting this morning about the brilliant writer and illustrator, Beatrix Potter, and her take on Aesop's fable about the perils of life for the city mouse. Potter takes the original fable a step further having Johnny Town-mouse visit his country counterpart, Timmy Willie, and drawing the conclusion that "one place suits one person, another place . . . another . . ." which Mrs. Teabody - -who likes to drift around in a slighter wider sphere than some - - agrees with as she is always happy to find her way home. As is the affable Mr. T. The Teabodys ventured from their  sunny-banked nest Friday last taking on the perils of the motorways in their brandy-new car which has as

  So keep repeating it's the berries,  The strongest oak must fall,  The sweet things in life, to you were just loaned  So how can you lose what you've never owned?  Life is just a bowl of cherries,  So live and laugh at it all. ~ George Gershwin Good Morning from Meadow Grounds Mountain where each  successive 5:00 A.M. is fractionally darker than the day before, and  all too soon that December day will arrive when there is considerably more pajama time than fancy dress time in the allotted twenty-four. Sigh. Unlike Mr. Teabody who lapses into his frowniest visage of the year during these darkening days, Mrs. Teabody feels a renewal of energy, a rejuvenation of spirits, a desire to make and  execute  PLANS. A few weeks back as Mrs. Teabody made plans for FFFF -- the festival that puts more feet on the beloved  soil of Fulton County over two days than all other days of the year combined -- she decided to enlist the help of her friend Betsy to make the ant

Good Evening, Gentle Reader from the gloriously autumnal mountain where Mrs. Teabody can finally announce with some degree of hopefulness, October is here . Not everyone is in love with these whirling winds, leaden skies, cooler temperatures and the accompanying shivers, but there are many marvelous things about autumn, not the least of which is that beautiful garbage of Nature—autumn leaves. Poets rhapsodize about this colorful death. The French invented the song “Les feu Mesmortes” which became “Autumn Leaves” first made popular in the United States by Andy Williams who at the height of his popularity could have sung the Affordable Care Act and had everyone happily humming along. At the end of this little message you will find links to five very different covers and Mrs. Teabody hopes you will find one of them to your liking. Turns out this October standard has been covered by literally almost everyone who is anyone—everyone from Dolly Parton to Ferrante and Teicher

Papa's Got A Brand New Bag Come here sister... Papa's in the swing  He ain't too hip... about that new breed babe  He ain't no drag  Papa's got a brand new bag  Come here mama... and dig this crazy scene  He's not too fancy... but his line is pretty clean  He ain't no drag.  Papa's got a brand new bag ~ James Brown Good Harvest Moon -lit Morning from Chez Teabody where all the house is still asleep except for Mrs. Teabody who is feeling especially accomplished this morning having put all the pesky post to rights yesterday afternoon. Do you allow your mail to pile up, Gentle Reader? Mrs. Teabody tries not to, but it just happens. The stack begins with a handwritten letter or card too precious to be torn open when one does not have the time or mood to appreciate its thoughtful contents. Before one can say U.S. Postal Service , the initial treasure has been buried by the robot-generated offers from credit card companies, the qua

Good Morning from Meadow Grounds Mountain where vestiges of that  memorable blue moon still scatter  a little candle power over the lush August foliage. Mrs. Teabody came to full wakefulness when her little cellular phone launched a wake up call at 4:30 A.M.. This alarm was set for an event two weeks ago, and one would think Mrs. Teabody would have the brains to remove the alarm.  One would be mistaken in that thought, however. Today Mr. And Mrs. Teabody will climb into the ancient motor car and head to Clear Ridge for a family gathering. On Mrs. Teabody's lap will reside the cake pictured above. The cake pictured is a Bonnie Butter Cake, made from a recipe in the Betty Crocker Cookbook which served as a sort of culinary bible in the late 1950's when Mrs. Teabody and her three sisters were given free license to bake their little hearts out. After all Mrs. Teabody's mother  was famous for creating bread that would rise to the heavens on a weekly basis, for deep dis

Did August take you by surprise, Gentle Reader, coming up as it did on its little cat feet   -- an abundance of breezes and civil temperatures, a sun at once bright but not scalding, lush greenery instead of wilted splendor? Mrs. Teabody has many, many acquaintances in her peer group and not a single one can recall such an enchanting summer. Perhaps you are one not in favor of non-blazing days, and to you Mrs. Teabody sends her regrets but little else. A placid time. Truly. Many irons are in the fire at Mrs. Teabody's little enterprise, Tickle Your Fancy, and tomorrow marks the one hundred and fourteenth birthday of the lovely Albert Stoner Building shown above. Chez Teabody has seen a flurry of activity this afternoon with batters and beaters and sugars flying about and the resulting birthday cupcakes and fine iced tea will be not more than an arm's length away from all who come to hear Michael Henry talk about his latest novel, UNCLE TOMMY SQUATCH at noon tomorrow. Do

Joie de vivre*  (joy of living) is a French phrase often used in English to express a cheerful enjoyment of life; an exultation of spirit. Is July taking its toll on your joie de vivre , Gentle Reader? Forcing you indoors away from gardening projects? Forcing you to start your day in crisp white linen only to find yourself a sodden mess of accordian pleats at day's end? Forcing you to think about packing your bags and relocating somewhere else -- somewhere where it is not so wretchedly and relentlessly hot? Because that is how Mrs. Teabody feels about a July as hot as the current one. Mrs. Teabody long ago abandoned visits to public pools for reasons that would be patently obvious were you ever to catch her in a bathing costume - - AND YOU WON'T - - (Mon Dieu!), but she is remembering with great fondness being able to plunge into a pool to cool off on the hottest of days and perhaps that is your way of staying cool. Whatever your method of bringing your core temperature

A Shropshire Lad II: Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. ” from A.E. Housman,  A Shropshire Lad  (1896) Good Morning, Gentle Reader on this second day of July in a summer of exceptional wetness and weediness and storms that send even the bravest of souls scurrying for cover. The gardens at Chez Teabody are serving as battlegrounds between what is planted, cultivated and desired and what is uninvited, aggressive and undesirable, and Mrs. Teabody's peace-keeping missions are ofttimes short-lived, sad to say. In spite of all this and

The following poems were written during the final year of my father's life. How I wish you all could have met him. I love and miss you, Dad! A Trio of Poems for my Father 1 Look how small I am. Soon I will fit in a suitcase Look at my  alabaster skin Soon I will be transparent Look at my wispy white hair Soon my pate will gleam Look at my ruined skin My poorly-drawn blood blotches Look at my .  .  . Hands like scurrying rabbits  . . . Like chasing rodents . . .  Like vices What do hands do? What in God’s name do hands that always did . . . do? When there is nothing to do but:  - grab at the air for another part that’s come undone - grab the rail and dream of ships and hay wagon hitches and motorcycles and levers  - grab the knees and dream of plunging into a summer stream  -- the shock of cold water heart-stopping - grab invisible food and dream of hotdogs with mustard and onions - grab offered hands and dream  of greeting old friends, a revered uncle,