![]() From 1937, her “Diary of Domesticity” column in the Ladies’ Home Journal was a perennial favorite, and during the 1960s she penned “Butternut Wisdom” for the Family Circle. ![]() If you’re unfamiliar with Gladys Taber, she was the author of nearly sixty books, spanning over five decades of tempestuous American history. And every time I’ve seen a quotation of hers rendered by the incomparable Susan Branch, my heart’s given a little flutter of kindred-spiritship. Years later, I inherited a few cherished volumes that had belonged to my grandmother. I was first introduced to her by my dear saint-among-booksellers, Katherine Downs, who could scarcely keep Gladys’ books on her shelves. I want to be reminded of goodness in the face of chaos beauty that outshines the jagged glare of commercialism and haste truth that endures in the most unsettling of times.įew authors have achieved this, in my mind, as consistently as Gladys Taber. I want to know that I’m not alone in believing that the earth is full of commonplace miracles, and that something as simple as a well-cooked meal or a fresh loaf of bread can bear a meaning so great it reaches the most hidden corners of the human soul. In the midst of uncertain times, I want to read about the sanity of a well-tended kitchen garden, the holy companionship of faithful dogs, the sacred insights of a solitary beach stroll. I want books that will at once undergird and inspire my ideals, written by women who feel more like friends than distant literary goddesses. This time of year my heart tends to gravitate towards the “hearth and home” authors, whose stories and cookbooks and memoirs suit my domestic fancies and feed my vision to create a haven in the midst of a topsy-turvy world. I notice that the muslin drapes could stand to be freshly washed, starched and ironed, and I start walking around the house with a trusty can of Scott’s Liquid Gold in hand.Īnd then I realize one afternoon that the sunset has been creeping steadily to the south along the rim of the western pasture, and I remember that God is so terribly kind to give us such a yearly succession of familiarity and change. Suddenly I find myself thinking rather wistfully of open fires and Bordeaux-laced stews, starting to daydream about who can come and when for Christmas, and if we ought to shake up the Thanksgiving menu. There’s a new languor to the crickets’ concertos, and the air is sweet with white-blossomed virgin’s bower (which seems to tumble over anything that stands still around here), and my heart is pierced like the longing of a half-remembered song. A wealth and whirl of suitcases and road trips and birthday parties and champagne toasts and fat mystery novels and porch suppers and sailing adventures-and it’s all been so healing I’m a little loathe to turn my Susan Branch kitchen calendar to September, and to see the days getting shorter and the black walnuts starting to litter the backyard with a dusting of golden leaf-fall.Īnd yet, for all that, something elemental plucks at my sleeve this time of year. I’m not quite ready to say goodbye to summer-although there are those who are enduring this Georgia heat along with me who’d think I’m absolutely crazy to say that! But it’s been a light-hearted (if somewhat madcap!) season of visits to and from dear ones across the country, of kindred spirits returning home from across the world, and jaunts to “my” island with yet other beloved friends. ![]()
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