I wrote about this imaginary place previously for my post “Spectacular Settings.” This really captures my imagination. I am reposting a part of it. It is the setting from The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett.
Mrs. Medlock, the housekeeper, describes the setting ( Misselthwaite Manor) to the main character Mary: “Not but that it’s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven’s proud of it in his way—and that’s gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and it’s on the edge of the moor, and there’s near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them’s shut up and locked. And there’s pictures and fine old furniture and things that’s been there for ages, and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground—some of them.” She paused suddenly and took another breath. “But there’s nothing else,” she ended suddenly.
Why I like this setting:
I love mysteries and this setting is very mysterious. A six hundred year old mansion on the edge of the moor with a hundred rooms, and most of the rooms closed off. A secret garden, a sad reclusive uncle, and a child heard crying at night. I love when Mary starts to explore the gardens and then one day, when it rains and she can’t go outside, she decides to explore the house. What will she find down all those dark corridors and behind those closed doors?
I would love to go to a place like Misselthwaite Manor and roam around the inside and outside. To find secret rooms and secret gardens. ❤
This post is for Love Is In Da Blog hosted by Bee Halton, prompt 25 February “fantastical destinations.” Book cover image from Houghton Library at Harvard University.
The first house I can remember was up in Clear Lake. I don’t remember very much just a few snippets of my life then. I do remember the tire swing that was tied to tall tree at the front of the house by long ropes. It wasn’t just an old hard rubber circle but the rubber had been cut from a large balloon tire. The swing was more like a bucket style. I have a memory of my older brother pushing me in that swing higher and higher and up over the roof of the house. My parents were upset to see through the back picture window my feet popping out over the roof.
I get tired of all the hyperbole and contention when we have a presidential election year in this country. The debates, debates and more debates. I know it is important for our democracy to have an exchange of ideas but my make up is such that I do not like arguments and confrontation. It’s not that I can’t get on my own soapbox but these debates are uncomfortable to watch with all the gotcha stuff from the candidates and the press. I am not convinced debates helps us really know what the candidates are about. They just show us who can score more points in a debate by embarrassing his/her opponent.
During the Dust Bowl days and the great migration of the people from the dust bowl states to California there were many people from Oklahoma coming to our state of California. They were called Okies by many people here. The Grapes of Wrath describes what it was like for people then. I have an early memory of these country people living up the road from us in Clear Lake. I went up to their house with my mother and all these men were sitting on the front porch, dressed in black suits with somber looks. Holding shotguns with blood hounds laying at their feet. I remember feeling a bit frightened of them as we stepped up on the porch to visit the woman of the house. I don’t know why we went there that day. Maybe to say hello or bring her something. Sometimes the woman would visit my mother. My mother said the woman would say she had to get home to make dinner. My mother said she knew she was just going home to make potatoes.
Stream of Consciousness Saturday is hosted by Linda G Hill. Our word for today is “tire.” Featured Image is “End of the Road” by Don Graham on Flickr. I want to include his caption here:
“One of the remaining stretches of Old Route 66 runs from Kingman, AZ to Wiliams, AZ. About midway between is the almost gone town of Hackberry. Just outside of town, a man in restoring what used to be a popular stop along the route. There is a gas station and general store. Nearby lies a broken down ruin of an old travel court. Often, when the Okies were following the Mother Road to their promised land in California, their old car would break down. Not having the money to fix it, they would park it and trade the gas station owner for a few nights in a cabin. That is what this scene reminds me of.” (Don Graham)
I want to participate in Love Is In Da Blog Stream of Consciousness as well and contribute my post to Bee Halton’s site Just Fooling Around With Bee. I want you all to know that I do LOVE stream of consciousness writing. I find it does free up my creativity and I can take it where it wants to go. And you never know where you will end up. I am often pleasantly surprised and I hope you are too.
The unique patterns that the birds form as they flock together is called a murmuration. Isn’t that a wonderful sounding word? I was inspired to write this post after seeing a photo story in the LA Times. I had never heard of a murmuration. Is it because it is like a soft whisper that can be lost in all the daily noise?
Sharing this with all my readers and Love Is In Da Blog hosted by Just Fooling Around with Bee