January and February of each year are what I call the Doldrums. Winter has set in and is inescapable. Some years, the worse of winter comes during these months. We’ve lost the distraction of the holidays when winter sneaks in while we are busy with the reverie and fun.

Rural living seems to bring a more intense winter. Since there is much more nature surrounding us here, we are far more keenly aware and effected by it. In town, streets are plowed and often walks are shorter between a house and garage. Out here, there might be 100 feet between the car and the front door; if one even uses the front door. Usually it is the side or kitchen door. At our house, the street-facing door is ignored. Guests don’t even use it. Any snow plowing that is done is done by us, by hand or machine.

In the times that I spend out of doors in the wintertime, the one thing that stands out to me is the stillness. I can watch a view for half an hour and see no change in the scene. No car, animal, sound, wind or distraction occurs. There feels to be a quiet, a waiting. The ground and all that is beneath it is on hold, dead to the life it once held in the burst of spring and growth of summer. Fall brings flying geese and leaves, windy days of rain and streams of water around. There seems to be change as a constant. Not so in the winter.

The calm and quiet of winter out here is almost deafening. The lack of action makes me look harder for something to see. The horses stand at attention in their snow-covered pasture. They don’t move. There is nothing to scavenge in the dirt below. They just stand there waiting for feeding time. Even if they notice me standing nearby, they seldom walk over to the fence to greet me. In the other months, they’ll meander over waiting for a treat, or a scratch on the nose. Now they are waiting too.

Of course, we know that to everything there is a season under heaven. The Bible and the poets tell us this. They say that it is the time to die. We see winter as that time of death. The time before the rebirth that spring brings to us. However, standing out in it, I don’t feel the death. I feel the waiting, the anticipation. Marvelous things are happening on a biological level that will lead to the rebirth that is coming. We just can’t see it with the naked eye. It’s there. I can feel it. I can hear it in the stillness. It increases in the weeks that go by through February. March always seems to bring the advent of the changes. Rain starts. Snow melts. Little sprouts appear. The calendar tells us that it is no longer winter as does what crops up under our feet and in the trees.

When these winter doldrums could make me sad and depressed, I listen instead for the silence, knowing that beneath the blanket of white there is much that is actually happening that will bring forth the joy and goodness of spring. The blanket of white will be replaced with the bright green that will re-cover the hills and pastures that surround me. The white sky will be much more blue and intense. I choose to enjoy the stillness and quiet instead of letting the sadness of winter cause me to feel sad. I feel joy in the quiet and savor the knowing of what is about to come.

I had to use an extra suitcase to get them home. It was stuffed. Stuffed like a salami stuffed. I really did have to sit on it to get it zipped up. If the good people at TSA had to open it, I’m sure the contents would have sprung forth like there had been a bomb in there! Ha, I’d pay to see that. Well, maybe not.

I am so excited to find the Bob Newhart Show back on television on the Hallmark Channel. You might be wondering why I would be writing about a 40-year-old television program here in the blogosphere, but it had a profound effect on my life. Thanks to the litany of reruns over those years, I had a no shortage of opportunities to watch. Of course, who didn’t love the sweet stories of Bob Hartley, his friends and family but it was his wife, Emily, who I really loved to watch. She stood for so much and really helped me to shape the path of my life. Not only did she embody the changes taking place at the time with women’s rights and careers, she was a stunning style maven! I loved her as a character and probably even more so, watched what she wore, her hair, makeup, and how she lived.

Emily’s wardrobe was modern, progressive, cutting edge, and from Judy’s! I don’t know if they had Judy’s all over, but it was the place to shop for up and coming fashionistas of the day where I grew up in Southern California. Pantsuits pantsuits pantsuits!! They were new and hot. I watched every episode looking for clothes inspiration. She wore gorgeous scarves tied around her neck, fabulous checkered blouses, wonderful plaid blazers paired with palazzo pants. If she did wear a skirt, it was tight at the waist and flared down to sweep the floor, as was the style at the time. It was contemporary, tailored, classic and feminine all at the same time. I was enamored and did my best to pair my outfits the same way. I still have all of the scarves that I wore then. How could I ever get rid of them? They were by Peter Max, Vera and Echo. Once in awhile, I’ll bust one out and wear it. I always get compliments. Who cares if they’re in vogue or not, I love them and they make me happy. I have a drawer full.

The Hartley’s home was of great inspiration to me also. Emily (by way of the set designer, James Hassinger) paired modern, iconic pieces like chairs by Saarinen with an 1880’s antique tiger oak wall mirror/coat rack. Orange shag carpet graced her apartment along with her streamlined, contemporary sofa. It was fun to watch what pieces changed over the years. Part of the story line was how Emily liked to redecorate their apartment. I loved watching the changes to see what was coming up next and with what it was paired. Her style was classic and formal, just like her wardrobe.

Emily really did seem to be a transitional character for the times. Women’s roles were changing by the minute during the run of the show. She showed that it was ok to not have children, to work full time, support her husband and he her, and be happy and fulfilled all at the same time. She did, however, show traditional traits as well. She served formally. She always used a tray to serve drinks and used cloth napkins at every meal. Emily balanced the traditional and modern modes of living well all with style and panache.

The classicism Emily displayed all while being modern was what I took from her the most. My personal style in dress and design is a direct result of what I saw and learned from Emily Hartley. I admired her so much and really wanted to live a life just like hers. Although life doesn’t always go the way we would like it to, we can still keep our core loves, styles and inspirations along the way. I know I am really enjoying watching my mentor once again after all of these years. I was so sad to hear that darling Suzanne Pleshette passed away a few years ago, but think of her often. Especially when I grab one of my favorite scarves and pair it with a classic outfit. Love ya, Emily.

This from the “I’m not Martha Stewart” files: My limitations in the kitchen are not lost on me. There is not much that I will attempt that is outside of my comfort zone. My beloved husband will smile sweetly and ask “what are you trying; something new?” But the cautious look is still apparent on his face no matter how hard he tries to smile and hide it when he sees a recipe or some unusual ingredients sitting on the counter.

Thanksgiving this year was no exception. I was prevailed upon to furnish a fruit salad as my contribution at our dear family’s table. That sounded safe and easy enough. I’m not quite certain if they asked me to bring it because it is easy or just what they needed to round out the menu. I haven’t been in their family long enough to know if they’ve discovered my challenges in kitchen-land just yet.

Since I had a couple of weeks to prepare, I thought long and hard about what type of fruit salad to bring. Since I was raised by WSW (White Southern Women), either type of Ambrosia (white or green) could have fit the bill. When verbalizing my thoughts to BH (Beloved Husband), the look of “ew” was discernable as he expressed his dislike for any color of ambrosia. Well, isn’t he the hot house orchid, I recall thinking. I would just let my fingers do the walking on the interweb and I would find something suitable. Something with toasted nuts on top or coconut, or some other exotic fare to dress it up.

Presentation is always a priority for me, so I was also cognizant of what vessel I might carry and present my efforts within. I had happened across a sweet Trifle Bowl in my junking travels. That could dress up the occasion. It was a faceted crystal number on a gracefully tapered base. I could just picture the layers of fruit visible through the tall, stately sides of the crystal. I could layer. Layers are always elegant and pleasing. How hard could that be? I could chop the fruit pieces. Make them all the same size and configuration. Well, maybe except for the bananas. They always get slices. Maybe we didn’t need bananas. But we did. There is not a lot of light colored fruit so what I lacked in shape, I would need in color and texture. Aesthetics play a big part in my ordered little OCD brain. Blueberries were going to be needed also. And some red stuff, and some green stuff, and orange and yellow. Pretty soon my fruit salad recipe was making itself based upon my color requirements instead of the mélange of the fruit for its taste. Did that matter? Not to me. It was all about presentation and with my $5.00 Trifle Bowl from the Colville Thrift Shop; I would really WOW them when I waltzed in with my layered visceral delight.

Grapes and kiwis served up the green parts, peaches the yellow. Strawberries, although frozen ones, gave us the red, and blueberries were found. At $7.99 per pound. Ugh. We didn’t need too many of those, thank goodness. A half pound package was fine. Whew. This didn’t need to be a $30.00 contribution dish.

My bananas and a can of pineapple squares brought in the textural and lighter colored fruit and voila, we had layers! The cream cheese and Cool Whip frosting would be slathered on once we arrived, shortly before serving. I was set. A bit of chopping, defrosting, and color strategy and off I went with my creative contribution. I didn’t even need a recipe, but I did read a few to make sure there was not something I needed to add of which I was not aware. Whew. There wasn’t.

Upon arrival at sister-in-law Judi’s and her husband Burt’s delightful home brimming with friends and family, I brought my basket full of fruity wonderfulness into the kitchen and carefully unfurled the packing that helped to keep the bowl upright and the layers intact. There was a hush that descended upon the kitchen (where we know people always hang out before dinner). My layers and their vessel stood proud and made their appearance before the adoring crowd. It was a hit and I was too. They had no idea I was just a big ol’ poser making much ado about fruit. I wonder if they’ll be on to me by next year. Who cares? My fruited layers might be a repeat request then too.

This neat entry way was left behind in a home that I previewed recently. Love the combination of wall color, light fixture and heartfelt saying painted on the wall. This home seemed to convey this sentiment by how it was left behind. Aesthetic value was also important to the occupants. A feeling of caring, warmth and love was conveyed by how this home was left. The new occupants will no doubt enjoy becoming the new caretakers of this lovely home. I know I would.

Lest you think I am a jerk, or a snob, or an ingrate, please allow me to elaborate. I used to be a house snob, well kind of. I had dreamed of and had a really nice house that I had helped design and had built. I worked long and hard for that house but alas, as life goes I lost custody of it (that story is for another day). Since handing over the keys to that house, I have lived in three other houses but all on my terms. This one, the third, was part of a package deal. It came with baggage. Well, more like reasons.

We lived “in town.” It was dense and compressed feeling. We wanted space. We wanted to get away from the neighbors who called the cops because my new husband washed his car on the front lawn and they came and gave him a ticket. We wanted to live on our terms. Also, we wanted a house that was “ours” and not mine since I had it before I had him. We started looking around. We made the leap. We found a place in the country and, boom, three weeks later it was ours.

We chose the place for the property and proximity for getting to and from town. It had trees – lots of them. And grass, lots of grass, and a barn, and a chicken coop and a circular drive. Always wanted one of those too. The only hold back was the house. But we knew we could fix that. Or so we thought. It really is a mess. It’s a bunch of old officer’s quarters from a nearby fort that was over 100 years old. We have house parts that old. They sit on piers that are housed in coffee cans full of cement in the creepy crawly space beneath our pile of wood. Remnants remain of an old foundation of some older house and part of it is used for this one. Thankfully, it’s holding its own and the place is still upright.

We settled in and got used to living “out here.” We started redesigning the house. We had a time line and building fund and were lining up the house ducks. Then life happened. I broke my arm, my husband tore up his knee. Two years and four surgeries later, we were still trying to rebuild the house. Then 2008 happened and building funds went away. Three years later, we’re still waiting. We are comfortable enough for the two of us. We have gotten used to living around each other in a small, badly laid out house. My husband goes to bed early. I don’t. At night, I cocoon in, tiptoe around and try to be quiet since all of the rooms are kind of smashed together. Not much television or fiddle practice. I cram that in when he’s not home.

As a result of the waiting, we haven’t really done much to fix it up or make it presentable. Don’t want to spend effort or money on things that will eventually go away and be made better. That’s been our mantra but all these years later it’s becoming more difficult to try to live like normal people who have friends and company over. We’re getting yancy to get going. In the meantime, we just plain don’t have people over. There is nowhere for them to sit. Or eat. There are a bunch of rooms, but they are small and there is nowhere for a table to sit more than two. We just sit at the counter at the island in the kitchen. If an errant person or two does come over, we head outside. Hence, if we do have someone over, it is always when the weather is nice. I’m aching to have a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner here. That will have to wait. I’m grateful for family who always includes us in their plans so we have somewhere to go and dear ones to be with.

When you have been designing homes for 20+ years (yikes) people want to see where you live. They want to see what you’ve done and what you have and what you’ve done with what you have. I haven’t even seen a lot of my stuff since three houses ago. There just isn’t room anywhere for it except in storage. When people or clients ask about my home, I dodge the question. I try to mention the words “old farmhouse” and that usually sends them to another topic like “do you have horses?” or “how many acres?” and I breathe more easily.

So there, now you know why I don’t have parties or dinners or company over. We spend a lot of holidays alone or out and about. It’s my little secret. I love going to peoples homes and seeing what they have done with them. It tells me more about them. I love that. They inspire me. Just don’t ask to see mine.