Inspired Resolutions

The end of the year naturally evokes nostalgia, reminders of memorable moments from the past 12 months and thoughts of resolutions for the coming year. I thought I might set a few of these wishes for the new year to literature that has crossed my path in 2011…

1. 

   Scribe Winery Dinner, March

   Live in the moment. Lesson learned from Hemingway’s A Movable Feast.
   It’s a simple concept that constantly eludes me. It encompassed an entire semester of my Master’s program at St. Mary’s College, in our first class titled simply, “Time.” I think about living in the moment frequently, but that seems to defeat the whole purpose. It happens only when you completely and subconsciously surrender to the flow of the moment, and once you realize you’re doing it, it’s over. I think often of a book we read in that class titled Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. She writes about viewing a perfectly illuminated tree while standing at a gas station. The tree absorbed her every sense at that moment and allowed her to experience the essence of the moment. Likewise, Hemingway wrote about his golden days of living in Paris in A Movable Feast, days during which he surrendered to the moments and undoubtedly found the greatest fulfillment of his life. The book inspired me to grasp onto my own moments that keep me most fulfilled. Moments like dancing under the stars at a summer backyard party, a candlelight meal on a rainy evening in a wine cave, grilling hot dogs and sharing a bottle of wine with a good friend in my backyard on the 4th of July, kayaking in still ocean waters, watching in solitude a passing hailstorm cover the surrounding rooftops in a sheer blanket of white. Whether at a party surrounded by music, friends and wine or sitting quietly on my patio watching the sun hit the trees, I resolve to live more in the moment.

2. 

   San Juan Island sunset, August

   Observe and appreciate the details. Lesson learned from Jane Austen’s Persuasion.
   My book club devoted one of its summer meetings to a classic by the unwitting mother of all romantic comedies, Jane Austen. What I will always love about Austen is her attention to detail, her ability to capture the weight of a moment with a single glance or movement of a hand. She is a master of observation and an expert at interpreting the subtle nuances that can change the course of an entire relationship. Experience has provided me with my own insight into such details, but I resolve to appreciate them more and listen to what they might be trying to communicate.
3. 

   Birthday party under the stars, August

   Let go of the past. Lesson learned from Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.
   I just re-read The Great Gatsby, long-claimed as my favorite book, after giving one of my copies to a good friend as a Christmas gift and realizing that I couldn’t recall some of the details of the story. The poetry of the writing reminded me why I fell in love with it so long ago. And reading it now, with more of life’s experience behind me, the lessons of the book were much more vivid. Gatsby was the ultimate romantic. He held on to the dream of his ideal goal (in his case, Daisy Buchanan), until it finally killed him. The book is, in essence, a cautionary tale about not obsessing over a single goal in one’s life. I resolve to keep moving forward, to respect the flow of the current, and to explore the paths that emerge before me.

4. Blame Keats. Lesson learned.
   It became vividly clear to me this year that Keats is my Kryptonite when it comes to romance. I resolve simply to use much caution when approached by a man spouting the odes of my favorite romantic poet.
5. That being said, I also resolve to hold tight to my romantic nature (Austen), to attempt to live more simply (Thoreau), embrace my creativity (Bronte), continue to throw great parties (again, Austen), treat everyone fairly and without prejudice (Steinbeck), and cultivate deep and meaningful relationships (all of the above). Here’s to an inspired 2012!

Literary Libation

Autumn in Napa

Wine is in the air in the Napa Valley. Literally, at this time of year you can smell the scent of fermenting grapes in the autumn air. It’s one of my favorite things about this place, especially at this time of year, when all senses are engaged by the art of wine making.

Mutineer Magazine Cocktail Competition on stage at the Napa Valley Opera House

While wine is plentiful in this region, cocktails are harder to come by. Due to tight licensing laws, only a few bars in downtown Napa can serve a martini. And so, when young media/cocktail luminary Alan Kropf started planning the third-annual red carpet party and cocktail competition for the his publication, Mutineer Magazine, I knew it would be one hell of a party. One week ago, 250 stylish guests followed the spotlights to the Napa Valley Opera House, which had been transformed into a hip nightclub for the night. I’m the Marketing Director for the Opera House, so I’ve seen it transformed for everything from weddings to masquerade balls, but this was by far the hottest vibe that venue has experienced since it opened 131 years ago.

Sir Alan Kropf and the lovely Ashley

What could make it better? Ginger-inspired cocktails inspired by The King’s Ginger. This makes me very happy. If there’s a cocktail infused with ginger on a menu, I’ll take it. At this party, eight of the best bartenders in

Napa competed for the coveted winning concoction. The music bumped, friends swayed and circled, and Napa’s cocktail revolution officially kicked into full swing.

It was an event worthy of hijacking my blog for a few paragraphs. Fitzgerald had slightly different motives in mind for Gatsby’s lavish parties, and Hemingway may have preferred an absinthe competition, but  this was an event that surely would have pleased the Jazz Age writers and revelers.

Mutineer fans huddle around the bar for cocktail tasting

Wine, scotch, absinthe, beer, champagne… these libations are central to so many works of literature. Where would The Great Gatsby be without the champagne-doused soirees?Henimgway without his beer-fueled tirades? Even Jane Austen wrote about drinking claret (a Bordeaux wine). Of course, it doesn’t always paint a pretty picture. Steinbeck vividly captured the horrific effects of alcoholism in several books, including The Grapes of Wrath, the Brontes suffered the ill effects of their brother’s constant over indulgence and it’s hard not to shun off alcohol all together after delving into any of Eugene O’Neill’s plays.

The best book club ever salutes Mutineer Magazine

However, there’s no arguing the power of liquid spirits to spur creativity and enhance a celebration. Cheers to the Mutineers, who encourage responsible imbibing and are leading the way to a revolution in the culture of adult beverages. Let’s keep wine and cocktails co-existing peacefully in the Napa Valley.

In Europe then we thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also as a great giver of happiness and well being and delight. Drinking wine was not a snobbism nor a sign of sophistication nor a cult; it was as natural as eating and to me as necessary.

- A Moveable Feast, Hemingway

Fall in Napa + good friends = pure happiness

My Moveable Feast

photo thanks: Ann Trinca

I’m fairly certain that Ernest Hemingway would be right at home in the Napa Valley. Like his beloved Paris of the 1920s, modern-day Napa is a place of creativity, passion and celebration. You can find yourself at a party or event nearly every night of the year. People here work hard in order to enjoy a decadent lifestyle centered around fine wine, gourmet food and beautiful surroundings.

My most memorable summers have been spent in this valley and this year was no exception. In just the past week I’ve had the fortune to dance under a starry night, swim under a cloudless sky, enjoy incredible meals, and toast summer weddings, birthdays, love and life with some of the greatest people I’ve ever known.

In the mean time, inspired by movies like Woody Allen’s recent Midnight in Paris, and my book club’s choice of The Paris Wife, I’ve absorbed myself in Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. How I’ve never read this book is beyond me. It is brilliant. I’ve always been wary of Hemingway, turned off by the masculine, gruff writing  that I remember from high school English classes. However, like I experienced recently with Steinbeck, his non-fiction blew me away. The straightforward prose of both writers only contributes to the honesty laid out on the page.

Hemingway thrived on his connection with other icons of the time. The nuances of historic literary figures like Gertrude Stein and F. Scott Fitzgerald are articulated so perfectly and their influence on the young writer is clear. He surrounded himself with inspiration. They laughed, danced and drank their way through this luminous time in their life. Eventually reality catches up with all of us, but these bits of life’s brilliance remain, as Hemingway captured in a letter to a friend thirty years after the Parisian interlude of his youth: “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then where ever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

These end-of-summer days in Napa are the ones I know will stay with me. They make me incredibly grateful for all I have. The people around my table, with whom I share a bottle of wine, laugh about the foibles of dating, and celebrate milestones are the characters who form my own moveable feast. Napa, like Paris, is the perfect backdrop.

photo thanks: Robb McDonough

Jane in the Modern Day

This painting hanging in a ballroom in the Bath Assembly Rooms caught my eye. Could it be the real Mr. Darcy?

My book club’s selection this month is Jane Austen’s Persuasion. I think it’s blasphemy for me to admit this in a literary blog, but. . . I’m having trouble getting through it. I’ve read the book before but her beautifully convoluted writing is harder to follow than I remember.

It pains me to admit this. Have I officially succumbed to the instant gratification and fast-pace of modern communication? Don’t get me wrong – I still fully appreciate the poetry of her words and the grace of her story telling, but I find myself quickly distracted while reading. It takes my full concentration to follow the story. Perhaps this is a good thing – a way to slow down and remove myself from the frenzy of modern life. When I do give in to Jane’s page, it’s well worth the effort… I’m transported to a more civilized and simpler time.

But was it really that much more simple?

We all know that Jane can tell a good love story. What I’ve found interesting in re-reading Persuasion is how similar the complexities of interaction and emotion between men and women is to the modern day.

Hanging out with Mr. Bingley at the Austen Museum in Bath, England

Of course, Anne Elliott didn’t have the world of Internet dating at her fingertips. Elizabeth Bennett never Google-stalked potential suitors. Neither could e-mail their girlfriends to brag about the handsome man on horseback who had literally just swept them off their feet. Ballrooms were the match.com of the day – providing a place to scope out potential suitors. Glances passed, impressions led to conversations, dance cards were filled like modern-day e-mail Inboxes. Hands brushed, passions ensued, relationships grew and were tested by everything from familial ties to financial obligations and societal standing. Hearts broke then just as they do now.

Two hundred years later, we still do the same dance of romance, play the same games of affection, and carry similar baggage. Mr. Darcy, Captain Wentworth, William Elliot, Wickham… these are all men we continue to dance with. Maybe that’s why these women writers still attract modern-day readers. The fundamentals of romance – the elation, excitement, risk and heartbreak – haven’t changed. It just takes a little more concentration to realize the connection. With that, I’m back to bond with Ms. Anne and her romantic misadventures… if only I couldn’t relate so well.

Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches. His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than any thing.

- Persuasion

> Learn about Austen’s men on Masterpiece’s Men of Austen website

“D’rymple mild” – Literary Edinburgh

Two-volume Dalrymple genealogy created by my cousin Dan

I’ve always identified with my distant Scottish roots. It’s all in the name – Dalrymple. It’s a very Scottish surname and an actual town in Ayrshire, situated in the Scottish lowlands. My cousin Dan (whom inspired this post with a surprise phone call this evening) has spent an immense amount of time composing a thoroughly researched – and always changing – chronicle of our ancestry and family history, going back to the early 1700s. The two-volume set sits on my bookshelf as a prized possession.

Dan is by all practical definitions a Luddite and shuns most types of technology. As a result, the genealogy he’s chronicled is completely hand or type written. I took it into my own hands to bring his work to the modern age of technology, thereby creating DalrympleFamily.com. The site needs a lot of updating (and I fully intend to scan and upload Dan’s entire work), but through the years the website has served as a great way to connect with other distant relatives throughout the world who send random e-mails that make their way to my inbox.

Edinburgh, Scotland old town

I’ve always had great pride in the fact that Robert Burns, the national bard of Scotland, had a great connection to the Dalrymple people. Born in Ayrshire, Burns was baptized by a Reverend William Dalrymple in 1759. He had a life-long connection with the family and even included the name in a poem:

“D’rymple mild, D’rymple mild”

(Of course, I was sure to brag appropriately about this point when I attended my first Robbie Burns party this year.)

Another prominent British writer thought the name fit enough for her novels. Every once in awhile, the eyes of a Jane Austen fanatic widen in excitement when they hear my name. Austen’s character of Lady Dalrymple in Persuasion is not exactly the most favorable of characters, but I relish the fact that dear Jane thought my name suitable for one of her novels.

Family connexions were always worth preserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had taken a house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would be living in style . . . Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of “a charming woman,” because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody.

me and Caroline in Bath

Persuasion takes place in Bath, England, which is quite possibly one of my favorite towns on the planet. Though modern society encroaches, it has still managed to retain its Georgian fashion and charm. Nothing makes me happier than walking arm in arm through the Royal Crescent with Caroline, one of my oldest friends and my own modern-day Anne Elliot. More on that in an upcoming post…

Edinburgh by night

A few years ago, while visiting Caroline in London, I decided to make a family pilgrimage to Edinburgh, Scotland. While I knew I couldn’t make it directly to Dalrymple, I spent a delectable two days wandering through Edinburgh’s winding streets, touring the highlands, eating shortbread, touring castles, taking underground ghost tours, drinking scotch and soaking up the incredibly deep history of the place.

Best of all, I discovered the “Edinburgh Literary Pub Tour,” which could not have been more up my alley. An entire evening spent listening to gorgeous Scottish men recite poetry in ancient courtyards while drinking beer? Sign me up!

My eagerness led me to sign up for the complete package, which included dinner before the tour. I figured that, as a solo traveler, this would be a good way to meet people.

Unfortunately, I was the only one intrepid enough to sign up for the complete package, and ended up enjoying a deliciously awkward multi-course, candle-lit meal in the middle of a massive second-floor stone dining room utterly alone. Luckily, about 15 other tourists joined in for the tour itself.

Edinburgh Literary Pub Tour

We sat in the pub where Robert Louis Stevenson gained his inspiration for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, gathered in a courtyard where Burns cavorted with his chums, toasted “Willie” Wordsworth over a pint of Guinness, and chatted over fine whisky about Sir Walter Scott, with a Scottish accent, which always makes everything better.

It was a place where my name was familiar and rolled off the tongue. It was a place of ancient stones and words and depth that felt like home. My ancestors have been here for generations but the Scottish blood still runs thick through my veins.

 

Does this lead to Mple Street and is this the closest I'll ever get to actually visiting Dalrymple?

Fitzgerald’s Grave

There is a piece of art that has hung in my bedroom for the past twelve years. It’s become a fixture in my life, something I pass by daily and occasionally take a moment to consider more deeply.

In the Spring of 1999 while working at a high-tech PR firm in San Francisco, I received a mysterious tube-shaped package from my college friend Carrie.   I was awestruck when I unrolled a chalk rubbing on butcher paper taken directly from my favorite author, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s gravestone in Rockville, Maryland. It was an instant source of serenity in the tech-centric dot-com world in which I’d suddenly found myself immersed. To this day the rubbing (which I immediately had framed) remains one of the best, most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received.

The quote engraved on Fitzgerald’s grave is the final line from The Great Gatsby:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

It’s a tragic reflection of the common challenge of living in the moment. This time of year, when winter is most bitter and the ghosts of beautiful lost spirits pervade, I find it to be even more of a challenge.

For the past three years at this time I’ve lost an incredible woman in my life to cancer. Last weekend while at the celebration of the life of my former mother-in-law, I marked the second anniversary of the death of my beloved Aunt Helen. One year ago last week, a dear friend of the family passed away. I’ve come to dread this time of year.

Soon after receiving Carrie’s gift, I made a trip to the East Coast to visit Fitzgerald’s grave myself. It’s in an odd location – a small sanctuary in the midst of busy streets and city bustle. It looks like any other grave, except for a few empty wine bottles glistening in the sun on the headstone – homage to the Jazz age he depicted so vividly. I can’t help but notice that he died in the depth of winter.

The setting of the grave site he shares with Zelda – in the shadow of modern suburban office buildings with cars buzzing by – has never seemed fitting enough for such a master of American literature. I’ve begun to wonder if there’s more to this seemingly haphazard placement. Gatsby lived large, among sprawling grounds and lush gardens. Yet, he could not grasp the beauty of the moment, doomed to a life of regret and unfulfilled desire. I think Scott might get a kick out of the reality of modern life that’s grown to encroach upon his final resting place… one final symbol to teach us something about finding serenity in the midst of chaos.

I still hear my Aunt Helen’s voice. On cold, rainy days I let the memories linger a bit longer. When it clears, I do my best to move my boat out of the current.

In memory of three incredible women: Helen Dalrymple (2.13.2009), Annette Domm (2.16.2010) and Becky Hall (1.22.2011)

The Bronte Moors – Part 2

The sky felt like an extension of the earth, almost as if you had to duck down to avoid hitting your head on the clouds. Walking on the Yorkshire Moors was like nothing I’d ever experienced.

My friend Eric and I embarked early in the day upon the six-mile hike to Top Withens – an abandoned farmhouse, now in ruins, which has been associated through the years as being the inspiration for Wuthering Heights (Heathcliff’s home in the novel).

“Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr Heathcliff’s dwelling. `Wuthering’ being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed; one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun.”
- Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.

The moors we walked that day were blustery, windy, rainy and cold. It was perfect. Few others braved the elements, but we were determined to reach our destination (at least I was determined – and lucky to have a willing participant in my adventure).

The path took us through fields of heather, over stone fences, past herds of sheep, rambling creeks, and sweeping views that took our breath away. The storm clouds threatened, but thankfully avoided an onslaught until we made it home.

Maybe I was caught up in the place and time, but at one point I swear I saw a woman wearing a brown cloak standing ahead of us on a bluff. I yelled to Eric and pointed; he acknowledged seeing someone standing there as well and then suddenly “she” was gone. The rational side of me knows this was most likely a figment of our collective imagination, but I still am convinced the spirit of Emily (or perhaps Charlotte) was with us that day.

Top Withens within view

The ruins of Top Withens came into sight and I bounded ahead, anxious for a few minutes alone with the place. As I approached, a fierce wind blew through, rattling the one wooden door still in place and startling a baby sheep and her family, which went running away.

I stood there for a moment, completely overwhelmed by the scene. This was it. Despite the large sign informing wistful visitors like me that this place “bore no resemblance to the house she described” in Wuthering Heights, I knew this had to be her inspiration. The Bronte Society 1964 wasn’t going to rain on my literary pilgrimage parade.

We explored the ruins of this former farmhouse, which hadn’t been occupied since the 1920s. Wandering through the remaining stone walls, below an ominous sky with a vast landscape of wilds as far as the eye could see… there are no words to describe it. I’ll never forget that day.

The hike back was a bit more brisk, as the clouds became more threatening. We returned to the town of Haworth just as the clouds opened up. Hungry and tired, we made our way to a pub for a well-deserved warm meal. We sat down and I realized they were playing Sting’s Ten Summoners Tales – my favorite album of all time. The day really could not have gotten any better.

After dinner, we walked back to the inn. I told Eric to go ahead, and I made my way into the dark, drizzly graveyard by myself. I stood in the middle of a sea of crumbling gravestones with the Parsonage visible through the haze. The ghosts of the Bronte sisters seemed to dance in the wind. I thought of how these women thrived in this desolation, enduring relentlessly harsh conditions, fateful illnesses, alcoholism and depression, heartbreak and disappointment. Yet, they created timeless stories that continue to inspire modern romantics like myself, who stand in graveyards trying to conjure their spirit. I am honored to have been in their presence.

Eric and me venturing to Wuthering Heights

I e-mailed a copy of Part 1 of this section to my friend Eric, who was on this journey with me. I hope he doesn’t mind me sharing a portion of his response. He captured it perfectly:

That place still haunts me in the best of ways. We were characters in a movie that summer; no other way to explain it to anyone else.

The Bronte Moors

Haworth Graveyard

This time of year makes me long for a good, tortured romance – preferably one involving a windswept landscape, dark and stormy nights and, of course, a graveyard.  There’s no better novel of Gothic passion than Wuthering Heights. Ever since first being introduced to Heathcliff in a college English course, I fell under his spell. I argued that he was a misunderstood romantic – not an evil madman as others surmised. He was overwhelmed by a passion that took control over his entire life. Sure, it was a little much to go digging around in the grave of the woman he loved, but what romance!

The Yorkshire Moors

I had to see this place for myself. In the summer of 1998, just after graduating with my English degree from U.C. Davis, my friend Eric and I took off for England. I had the mother of all literary tours planned for us – the pinnacle of which was Haworth – deep in the heart of the Yorkshire Moors. Getting there was no small feat. After a short jaunt through Cambridge, we hopped on a north-bound train, got off in the industrial city of Leeds and attempted to board another, smaller train to a town called Keighley.

Haworth Parish Church

The important thing to keep in mind when traveling through North England is that the spelling of a town name has absolutely nothing to do with the pronunciation.  We stood at the ticket booth in Leeds repeatedly asking the best way to get to “Hay-werth, near “Kay-lee”.  We were met with confused looks and shrugged shoulders until someone finally said, “I think you want “How-eth, and it’s outside “Keith-ley”". Ahh… that rang a bell and we were promptly given instructions for a circuitous passage by train and city bus.

The train wasn’t so bad. The bus – that was one of the more unpleasant travel experiences of my entire life, which entailed a bevy of freakish characters including a bearded woman, a drunk man who urinated on the seat behind us and another rather hygenically challenged bloke who tried to make off with our luggage. I suppose it was as good an entry as any into the dark and disturbed world of the Brontes.

When we finally arrived in the center of Haworth, in the desolate far North of England, smack dab in the middle of nothing, I knew I’d achieved literary nirvana. It was all within view. The Bronte Parsonage – where the family lived and where some of the greatest literature ever written was imagined. The church where their father served as pastor. The Black Bull pub, where Branwell Bronte drank away his days, the graveyard, and in the distance, the moors. This was all to be explored. First, weary from travel, we needed to make our way to our hotel.

Town of Haworth with our Inn "The Apothecary Guest House" in the middle left

As luck would have it, it was just steps away. The caretakers of the Apothecary Guest House welcomed us onto a small back terrace with a glass of wine. It was lovely. “Are you here because of the book?” asked the caretaker’s wife. “You mean the Bronte books… yes,” I answered, curious why she was shaking her head at my response. “No, the ghost book… everyone’s been coming here because of the book about haunted inn.” My stomach sank a bit at the realization that we had booked a room in a haunted B&B directly across from an ancient graveyard, in a town known for its ability to stir up a rather dark side of one’s imagination. The caretakers went on to inform us that the quaint little hotel in which we were currently sitting had once suffered a destructive fire, consuming  inside a young woman who is now known to run up and down the hallways throughout the night. Great, I thought. Just what we needed.

The church from the front

At this point I was ready for some literary ghost hunting, so we set off to explore. I felt immediately a sense of claustrophobia in this tiny, ancient town.  The buildings are so close together, and tiny alleys branch off from a single winding road through town. The imposing church is perched precariously upon the shoulders of those buried below it. The graveyard holds generations of families and is literally overrun with crumbling headstones. It is a rather overwhelmingly spooky place.

The large Bronte parsonage, where the family lived from the 1820s through 1850s, stands just above the Church. It is a simple stone home that now serves as a fascinating museum (they even have a blog). Meandering through the dimly lit home and its large, cold rooms evokes a sense of the imagination it instilled in the sisters who endured its solitary walls for so many years. There are samples of the games and stories the girls created during their childhood, including an imaginary world called Angria – written about in miniscule handwriting in tiny books. It’s all so fascinating to me. That these women could establish themselves as literary legends in this forgotten land hidden in the vast northern wilds of England has always commanded my respect.

Bronte Parsonage viewed from the church graveyard

After touring the museum, we headed back to the guest house for a good night’s sleep before our big day of touring the moors. Of course, a good night’s sleep in a “haunted” inn was elusive as every sound made me imagine the pitter patter of feet running up and down the hall. We eventually made it through the night and awoke to a dreary, drizzly day, perfect for hiking the rugged six-mile trail to Wuthering Heights.

To be continued…

My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath – a source of little visible delight, but necessary.

Me on the Bronte moors in 1998 - I think this is my favorite photo of me ever taken

Literary Charleston

Josephine Pinckney - from a LIFE Magazine spread

On a rainy spring morning earlier this year, I stood outside a restaurant in Portland, Oregon, sheltering myself from the storm, congratulating my friend Jennie who had called to share the news of her engagement. I had been on vacation, visiting family with my sister who came down from Seattle for the weekend. That wintery morning, Labor Day weekend seemed so far away, but I immediately knew there would be nothing that would stop me from flying to Charleston for that wedding.

Before I knew it, summer was over and I was packing up every summer dress I owned and preparing to fly across the country. Knowing that there had to be a blog post waiting for me, I did a little research into the Charleston literary scene and discovered the delightful and charming Ms. Josephine Pinckney, a novelist popular in the 1930s and 40s.

I have been making my way through a fascinating biography by Barbara Bellows titled: “A Talent for Living: Josephine Pinckney and the Charleston Literary Tradition” And I have no doubt that “Jo” and I would make great friends. She possessed a real passion for life, literature and love, was a keen observer of social interaction and surrounded herself with others who shared these affinities. She led the efforts to form the Poetry Society of South Carolina in 1920, was deeply involved in historic preservation efforts and immersed herself in all things of cultural value.

21 King Street, 1935 (courtesy South Carolina Historical Society)

While Josephine Pinckney has faded into relative obscurity now, she was quite a character in her day, hosting lavish parties at her family’s home at 21 King Street and cavorting with famous writers, poets and actors of the time. She took great efforts to acquaint herself with artists whom she admired, including Boston poet Amy Lowell, a hugely influential figure in the literary world at the time. At the age of  27, Jo traveled to Boston for an intimate dinner party with Lowell (aged 48). The two established a immediate and tight friendship, and traveled to visit each other until Lowell’s untimely death just three years after their meeting.

I so admire Jo’s confidence to confront one of her heroes, someone who must have been hugely intimidating to a young, amateur poet. Her efforts uncovered a friend and mentor who would provide a lifetime of inspiration.

my visit to 21 King Street, Sept 3, 2010

I thought of the connection between these two poets as I stood outside 21 King Street on a warm, summer day in early September. I had just arrived in Charleston hours before and was glad to have a few hours to wander around before meeting friends for dinner. Luckily, my “roomies” for the weekend – Jaime and Antonia – were willing to trek down the long blocks of King Street as I searched for number 21. I was glad to have them by my side in an unfamiliar city and thankful that they were willing to participate in one of my literary ghost hunts. By chance, the journey provided a nice introduction to the city as we happened upon a number of historic homes and structures. Nearly every building was graced by a plaque proclaiming its historic value and I loved every bit of it.

Finally, we came to 21 King Street, a massive three-story home with a foreboding front door and, interestingly enough, no plaque denoting its value as a literary historic landmark. Jo had lived in this home with her prominent Charleston family until her mother passed away in 1928. By that time, she had already made incredibly impressive inroads in the renaissance of literary Charleston and preservation of its rich, deep history. If that doesn’t deserve a plaque, I don’t know what does.

Bellows’ biography has a nice description of the house:

The towering 21 King Street offered Josephine one great advantage over the traditional eighteenth-century Charleston houses huddled together in rows with shuttered windows and walled gardens. The view from the fourth floor offered her a perspective on the world enjoyed by few Charlestonians, whose preoccupation with keeping prying eyes out also limited their vision. Below her, the dense live oaks and broad-leafed magnolias that canopied the old city formed a green carpet, a verdant pathway to the shimmering, slow-moving currents at work. . .”

Learning about such a remarkable woman has given me a greater understanding and love for of the history of this gorgeous city. There’s so much more to write about her. . . my next blog post will focus on her interaction with other parts of Charleston, including Middleton Plantation and the Dock Street Theatre.

> By the way, I came across this wonderful blog post by a woman who shares my interest in Josephine. She’s included great photos of Jo from a LIFE Magazine spread.

Congrats Jennie & Daniel!

The Literary Tomato

Tonight I was lucky enough to be invited to a special private garden dinner at Gott’s Roadside in St. Helena. The tomato-themed event was held for Napa food bloggers in honor of SUMMER FEST, a cross-blog food event celebrating peak harvest season. While I technically focus my writing on literary haunts, I gladly accepted the invitation knowing I’d easily find inspiration for a posting.

It was a gorgeous evening. After a seemingly endless bout of chilly summer days, summer has officially arrived – better late than never.

Pa amb tomaquet

With the warm night came a bounty of tomatoes straight from the amazing gardens at Gott’s. We toured the garden with Garden Manager Christopher Landercasper (“Lande”), who introduced us to his well-tended rows of peppers, corn, squash, melon and of course, tomatoes.

Gott’s Executive Chef Rick Robinson then proceeded to prepare a meal of what he called “multi-culturalism run amok.” Our feast included Catalan Pa amb tomaquet (grilled bread rubbed with garlic and tomato topped with olive oil and sea salt), Andalusian Gazpacho (a cold and very tasty tomato soup) and Southern Scalloped Tomatoes – what Rick called “a Southern Sunday dinner staple, slightly updated.”

Panzanella

We also had a delicious tomato, zucchini and chevre tart from Provence. And, I was thrilled that the chef made one of my very favorite meals – Italian Panzanella (a tomato and bread salad). I was obsessed with the Panzanella in Florence and chatted with Rick about why the Florentine style was so different from others I’ve had. He commented that there are many different versions and the one he made us tonight was his favorite… works for me!

yum

If all this wasn’t enough, Rick and Lande prepared a round of the famous Gott’s burgers for us, garnished of course with tomatoes. It was a feast to remember. And while the food was inspiration enough, it was the company of great friends – old and new – that made the evening even more memorable. There’s really nothing that makes me happier than sitting around a table with friends, drinking great wine (tonight we went through a few bottles of a nice French rose), and eating amazing, fresh food. Add a warm, summer, moonlit evening and you’ve got perfection in my book.

I came home and found a literary passage that fits this experience perfectly. It’s included in a book titled Desiring Italy: Women Writers Celebrate the Passions of a Country and Culture, edited by Susan Cahill. I bought it years ago after visiting Italy. It’s always been a favorite on my bookshelf, especially because the end of each chapter includes a section “For the Literary Traveler,” offering tips on how to seek out the places written about. Here is a passage by chef and cookbook author Marcella Hazan (and my contribution to Summer Fest in lieu of a recipe):

Nothing significant exists under Italy’s sun that is not touched by art. Its food is twice blessed because it is the product of two arts, the art of cooking and the art of eating. While each nourishes the other, they are in no way identical accomplishments. The art of cooking produces the dishes, but it is the art of eating that transforms them into a meal.

Through the art of eating, an Italian meal becomes a precisely orchestrated event, where the products of the season, the traditions of place, the intuitions of the cook, and the knowledgeable joy of the participants are combined into one of the most satisfying experiences of which our senses are capable.

A few more tomato-based blogs:
Napavore
Napafarmhouse 1885
Inspire Your Lifestyle
Flourish
Healthy Napa (Yay to Laura on her first blog post!)
Hedonism Ink

Me with Indra (inspireyourlifestyle.wordpress.com)

Ashley, Ann and Laura

photos by me (with the help of the Hipstamatic… gotta love that thing)

http://awaytogarden.com/3d-annual-summer-fest-starts-wednesday#more-9870