a new autumn leaf

I'm sorry things have been so quiet here lately. Life has been absurdly hectic and the time has come for me to admit that these days I've had less and less time to make dolls (though I have been doing lots and lots of fledgling writing) so....

I'm going to wish you all a wonderful autumn (and if you would like a gorgeous handmade pumpkin candle like this one to celebrate it with, you can nip down to a little light on High St, Westgarth and pick one for yourself), say a big warm 'thank you' to everyone who has read my blog and supported me in my doll making ventures, and invite you to visit my new website, imaginatively entitled:

annabranford.com

saturday morning

We got up very early on Valentine's day and set out for ceres with our baskets of stock...


Chickens one and two dry felted these exquisite dolls...



Jo, did some needle-felting too...

and this is what she made!

Chris made some utterly gorgeous jewellery...

Peta made heavenly pockets of lavender and rice (which small hands were quick to grab as you can see) ...

I made some bits and pieces too, including these dolls in little pouches...

Claire contributed exquisite oriental accessories...

A little over $350 was made towards the bushfire appeal and a wonderful time was had by all.

Thank you so much to everyone!

fighting fire with craft...

I think our local news is being broadcast globally so you probably already know that over the weekend, here in Victoria, bushfires claimed at least 173 lives and 922 homes, leaving 4200 people homeless.

In the midst of all this devastation (and I'm very grateful to note that I'n unscathed and that, so far as I know, all my friends are too) it is incredible to read about the ways in which the community has drawn together to help. From big corporations donating millions, to taxis giving free rides, to my local coffee shop donating a dollar from each coffee they sell this week, there's a very reassuring amount of good will in the air.

In a bid to join it, I'm planning a little craft stall at ceres this coming saturday to raise funds, taking along a few dolls and other bits and pieces I'll be making along with some gorgeous contributions made by some ever-so-crafty friends. If you're a crafty local and have something to contribute, please drop me a line (arabellacucumber.gmail.com). I'll be paying for the stall and running it myself, so any proceeds will go directly to the appeal.

The children from my sunday school have made some beautiful jewelry for the appeal, so children's contributions are very welcome and will be treated and presented as the treasures they are.

Please let me know if you'd like to contribute or be involved!

The Children of Green Knowe

During one of the Christmases that I spent with my grandparents in England as a child, my whole family watched the BBC series The Children of Green Knowe. It was based on the books by Lucy M. Boston which I only discovered much later, but which weren't at all spoiled by having seen the series. They are about a boy called Toby going to stay in an old house with his great-grandmother and finding the friendly spirits of other children lingering there.

The stories are set in the author's real house in England in Hemingford Grey, and it's just called The Manor. I hope to visit some day...

Anyway the best part of the series for me is Christmas Eve, when Linnet has been left at home when her family go to midnight mass and she has a vision of the great statue of St Christopher moving in the garden. I remember it so well that I can easily imagine getting confused as an elderly person and thinking it once happened to me on Christmas.

To my absolute delight, someone has uploaded the very scene onto youtube which, if you like, you can see here.

Or you can enjoy the excerpt from the book below (I wish I had a tree of birds like this in my room at Christmas...)

"Linnet took Orlando, her little black and white curly dog, to bed with her. She had a little spruce tree in her bedroom--it was her own idea--for the birds. On such a cold night her tame birds had come in to sleep in its branches. They were curled up with their heads under their wings.

The tits were balls of blue, or primrose-green; the robins red; the chaffinches pink. Linnet had put a crystal star on top. It glittered among the shadows in the candlelight. As she lay in bed she heard the wind singing through the icicles outside. It was an eerie sound that made her think of the enormous silence of the country across which it blew. Every now and then an icicle broke off with a sharp crack.

Linnet lay and listened, thinking of her mother and her two brothers walking along the field paths in the brilliant moonlight with their black shadows following under their feet. If she listened for the outside noises she could hear the water going through the water gates and over the weir. There was no flood, but a deep, strong current. She could hear occasionally the owls and the desolate herons. Once she heard a fox bark. Inside her room perhaps one of the birds shifted and chirped softly in its sleep. She could hear Orlando breathing into his own fur. She could hear the candle fluttering like a little flag. It was all so very quiet.

Presently she heard something else, something very strange. Outside on the ice-hard ground there were footsteps that could be nothing and nobody that she knew, not Boggis's hobnailed boots, not her grandmother nor the quick young maid, not a horse! She was not frightened, she was simply certain that it did not belong to the everyday world. Orlando woke up and listened. Linnet could feel his tail softly beating against her ribs.

She got out of bed, wrapping herself in the cover so that she looked like the Russian doll, then she opened the window and leant out. Orlando stood beside her with his paws on the window-sill. She could distinctly hear the steps, heavy but soft, coming along the side of the house. The wind was like a knife against her cheek and all the stars twinkled with cold. Orlando's reassuring tail was still wagging against her.

Out into the moonlight came St. Christopher himself, huge and gentle with his head among the stars, taking the stone Child on his shoulders to Midnight Mass. As they went past, Orlando lifted his chin and gave a little cry, and from the stables came a quiet whinny. All the birds in the spruce tree woke up and flew out of the window, circling round St. Christopher with excited calls. The stone giant strode across the lawns with his bare feet and soon came to the river. At the edge there was thin, loose ice that shivered like a window-pane as he stepped in. The water rushed round his legs and the reflection of the moon was torn to wet ribbons. The stream crept up to his waist and, as he still went on, to his armpits. When it looked as if he could go no farther Linnet heard a child's voice singing gaily. The sound was torn and scattered by the wind as the moon's reflection had been by the water, but she recognised the song as it came in snatches.

To-morrow shall be my dancing day I would my true love did so chance To see the legend of my play To call my true love to the dance.
Sing, O my love, O my love, my love, my love, my love, This have I done for my own true love.

As the Child sang, it clutched St. Christopher by the hair to hold him firmly. St. Christopher felt his way carefully foot by foot, through the deepest part and came out safely on the other side. Linnet saw him striding away across the meadows. The birds returned, coming in one by one past her head at the open window and chattering as they settled down again on the tree.

When St. Christopher was out of sight Linnet realized that it was cold. She also remembered that she had got into bed without saying her prayers. She said them now, and Orlando lay on her feet and kept them warm till she had finished. Then she got into bed again and before long the bells rang out for midnight, and it was Christmas morning. When the boys came back she told them what she had seen. Alexander said he too had seen St. Christopher kneeling among the tombstones outside the church in the shadow of a big cypress tree. He thought nobody else had noticed.

Of course they rushed out first thing in the morning to look, and found St. Christopher in his place as usual with icicles all over him, but the sun was falling on the stone Child and the hand that it held up looked almost pink."

The Snowman

This little Christmas film, based on Raymond Brigg's beautifully illustrated story, came out in 1982 when I was seven and it was an important part of the Christmases my family spent in England at my grandparents' home in the New Forest. You wouldn't think that childhood joy and adult sadness could possibly be brought together so seamlessly as they are in these twenty-six minutes of animation.

I feel now, as I did then, that a particular variety of magicalness only really happens in England. I'm sure this perception is bolstered by the fact that I experienced England mostly at Christmas time, which definitely gave it an unfair advantage over the rest of the world. I loved the view from the plane as it landed, seeing all the fields laid out like patchwork and the tiny lit-up matchbox houses and knowing that my grandparents were down there in one of them. I think this scene was made all the more poignant because of the absolute joy of those landings and the necessary sadness later of rising up away from it again.

That song triggers something in my neuropathways and makes me smell things and see things and think things from twenty-five years ago.

A Christmas Carol

Another secret whisper...

I don't really like Charles Dickens very much. I think he goes on a bit when he's describing things and he doesn't leave you any room to imagine anything for yourself.

But I do really, really love A Christmas Carol. I've seen and read all different versions of it and even at the school play standard of performance, the story still carries me away to the point that I always worry that Scrooge might not be redeemed in time - which of course heightens my relief and joy when he always is redeemed.

One thing though, I wish 'scrooge' hadn't come to mean someone who is tight with money. It seems so unfair that Dickens' character is always remembered at his worst, when he ends up being so lovely. A scrooge shouldn't be a miser - it should be someone who sees the error of his or her ways and is able to do a complete turnaround and transform into someone wonderful.

If you feel like hearing the lovely song from the Muppet's Christmas Carol, 'One More Sleep Till Christmas' (sung by Kermit the Frog as Bob Cratchit - hooray!) I found it here.

(Thankfully though there are actually quite a few more sleeps till Christmas.)

O Little Town of Bethlehem

It is a true testament to the loveliness of Christmas that we hardly notice the feebleness of the words to the carols we sing every year. In no other context would we tolerate a rhyme like 'when they are both full grown' and 'the holly bears the crown'. We would definitely look sideways at a phrase like 'But little Lord Jesus no crying He makes' or 'We three kings of Orient are'. But they must slip into our unconsciouses at a time when we are so full of cake and dazzled by candlelight and wild with excitement that our critical capacities never really catch up. And a good thing too, probably.

But one verse I love from beginning to end is this one:

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by
Yet in the dark streets shineth the everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight

In Melbourne, where it's warm and sticky by Christmas time and you go for long walks in the evenings because you've been inside all day trying to stay cool, this image comes wholly and beautifully alive. It's so easy to imagine that young family looking around in the dark stillness for somewhere they could stay.

I think the nicest version of this carol I've ever heard is the one by Aled Jones with Libera, which you can listen to here if you like.