Terry Dresbach

AN 18th CENTURY LIFE

Category Archives: Terry and/or Ron

Much To Do About Nothing…

31

To Do List

Ron says this is an important time for the blog. How do you all stay engaged and interested, during the hiatus?
So, I put up my BIG to do list, I will spare you the pages of to do lists under all those headings.
Lots to do, lots to talk about.

So, two questions.
What are you going to do during the Outlander Hiatus?
Anything you want to know about, to do with the costumes, or really anything to do with the show?
I have set up a topic on the forum to post your ideas.

Don’t forget the forum! I am hoping for lots of energy and spirited discussion! The Tea Room is open for just general chatting, doesn’t have to be show related.

See you there.

xo
T.

Leaving Scotland

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I guess I am leaving Scotland. I will be gone until the end of December, and I am in mourning. I am going to miss most of October, November, and almost all of December.

Let me begin with the very clear statement that I am going to be insanely happy to be with my kids, my pets and my friends. This post in no way reflects on that joy .

But I am  not sure how to leave this place. The leaves are turning! The air is crisp, the sky is bluer than any blue, unless it is greyer than grey. The smell of fireplaces is in the air. The variety of apples in the grocer is staggering. How come I am not making apple crumbles that we all ravish in front of the fire, instead of making packing lists?

At night we have to close the windows in bed, while reading, or writing, or our fingers get numb. Then open them again, and burrow down under down comforters,  sleeping/hibernating like woodland animals.

Cuilean is almost 10 months old!!

I am in love with a place. There is not a single day that I don’t come around a bend, or over a rise, when I am not overwhelmed by some moment of beauty.

Scotland does not come gently. There is nothing subtle about this place. When I first moved into this house with a tiny puppy, it was the dead of winter. The fires burned unless I was asleep, the shutters were closed in all the rooms, to keep out the cold that sort of wrapped itself around the stone walls of this house. The first record of this house is in 1632, but the house we live in, was built for the most part, in the 18th century. It is all made of stone. There is a fireplace in each room, for very good reason.

I come home from work in the winter, and grab some wood from the woodpile and build the evening kitchen fire. There I, or we, if Ron is here, spend the evening. With all the shutters closed, the fire going, and the AGA churning, it is like a warm womb. When it is time for bed, we bolt upstairs to crawl under the blankets waiting for the chill to leave the sheets. The wind HOWLS, and the bare trees sway. It feels like there is no life to be found anywhere. It is winter, no if, ands or buts about it.

When spring finally shows up, it does not delicately float in, it erupts. It is almost brazen, the harlot of the seasons. Not a few scattered daffodils, but millions of them, almost garish, in their brazen loud presence. Same with the tulips that follow close behind, unwilling to wait patiently for the daffodils to get off the stage. They crowd in, elbowing their way in, creating an absolute riot of colors. There is color everywhere, and nothing subtle about it. The trees and hedgerows go from bare, dead skeletons, to outrageous green. Birds are everywhere, rabbits hopping about and everywhere you look, and I mean everywhere, lambs are gamboling about. It is like that scene from Bambi, when  Bambi first goes to the meadow and meets Thumper and Flower. It is technicolor. But it is real life, not a cartoon. It finally erupts into a horticultural orgasm of peonies and roses.

Summer slides in, undulating and sensuous, the afterglow of spring. Everything moves slowly, and it is not even hot. In fact you can sit in the sun, and not feel you have to slather yourself in sunscreen and protective gear. You can actually enjoy it. The kids go down and climb around in the river with the puppy, wild strawberries are picked for summer pudding. Summer here does not want to kill you, it wants to embrace you. The world does not dry up and blow away here, it does not burn to the ground. Summer does not want to annihilate you, it just wants you to slow down and relax a bit.

I am just now starting to see Autumn, and relish the knowledge that I will be here for ALL of it next year, and I am going to make lots of apple crumble, and take long walks with my very mature dog.

I am just now realizing that this is a love letter. I am a passionate lover, who is forced to take my leave from a beautiful embrace. I know I have to go, but dammit, I don’t want to!

I will reluctantly climb into that horrible metal can, to be flung across the world. I am not afraid of flying, but I sort of resent it. I don’t think it is natural. If we were meant to fly, we would have wings. It is not part of being human, and it is made even less so by the humans who ship you about.

I have carefully crafted my re-entry. I will not be diving head first into America. I will be very slowly wading in. we are headed to San Francisco, often called the most European of American cities. I grew up there, and I think that is why Europe is so comfortable for me. I love it there. It is home, and a place that gives me great comfort. It will be icy cold, and the leaves will all be in color. The food is amazing, friends and family are there.

Then we will drive slowly down the 101 to Southern California. I will not lie and say we like it there. We don’t, which makes it all the much harder to leave Scotland. But we have created a home there, something of a retreat from the surrounding environs. I will pray it doesn’t blow away, or burn up, cuddle close with children and pets,  be very grateful for how lucky we are, and dream of my lover across the sea.

I REALLY WANT TO GET THE FORUM UP AND RUNNING, SO PLEASE TRY AND POST YOUR COMMENTS THERE, IF POSSIBLE. I WILL CONTINUE TO READ HERE IN COMMENTS FOR A WHILE MORE.

THX – T.

 

 

A Movement Worth Supporting.

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http://www.heforshe.org

There Once was…

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I was attempting to bring a bit of humor with this piece, into the discussion about the knit pieces we have used on the show. Sadly it has just incited more discord. I should have just ignored it all. My apologies to everyone who got sucked into the wormhole.
So, I am going to move things along.

http://www.salon.com/2014/08/23/furious_trolls_are_everywhere_even_internet_moms_are_angry_and_they_hate_you/

Hero Soundtrack

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Last night after I finished this post, and finally fell asleep, I dreamt this entire song. It must be connected. Of course I was also a nurse in a hospital. So who the hell knows?

Maeve MacKinnon

10

Hilndwed

Maeve Mackinnon

Cait’s Anniversary

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I was privileged to help the Caitriot fans deliver a very special gift to Caitriona. A tartan woven especially for Cait by Susan Targove, and Janet Cadsawan’s amazing Sassenach pin to celebrate Cait’s one year anniversary of signing up for Outlander.
You guys are amazing! Here are the pics.

I added the last one in there.

Click on the pics to get a slideshow

I love this kid!!!!!

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My new favorite reviewer. Our new demographic. Awesome!

What a lovely kid.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMHz2ADU-dwil_570xN.448180880_3nep

Music

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Hilndwed

This week’s selection is a piece by Runrig.
Here are the lyrics in both Gaelic and English.

Taobh cuil an doruis cha bhi grian
Suidh aig bord
Cha bhi biadh ‘s cha bhi fion
Taobh cuil an doruis cha bhi grian
Cha bhi biadh ‘s cha bhi fion

Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain
Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain
An Gaidheal ‘sa leabaidh
An Gaidheal ‘na shuain
Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain

Thainig e a Sasainn ann
Thainig e
Le eachaibh luath is iuchair throm
Thainig e a Sasainn ann
Le eachaibh luath is iuchair throm

Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain
Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain
An Gaidheal ‘sa leabaidh
An Gaidheal ‘na shuain
Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain

Air lar ‘san toll-dhubh cha bhi grian
Cha bhi gealach
‘S dubh an oidhche chaidleas sinn
Air lar ‘san toll-dhubh cha bhi grian
‘S dubh an oidhche chaidleas sinn

Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain
Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain
An Gaidheal ‘sa leabaidh
An Gaidheal ‘na shuain
Le eiginn ar n-eirigh as ar suain

On the other side of the door there will be no sun
Sitting at the table
There will be no food and no wine
On the other side of the door there will be no sun
There will be no food and no wine

It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber
It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber
The Gael has gone to bed
The Gael is asleep
It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber

He came from the south
He came
On a fast horse and with a heavy key
He came from the south
On a fast horse and with a heavy key

It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber
It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber
The Gael has gone to bed
The Gael is asleep
It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber

On the dungeon floor there will be no sun
There will be no moon
Dark will be the night as we sleep
On the dungeon floor there will be no sun
Dark will be the night as we sleep

It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber
It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber
The Gael has gone to bed
The Gael is asleep
It is with difficulty that we will rise from our slumber

Padded White Cell

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I want to live in a padded white cell. I am thinking of making white quilted wall hangings for the bedroom. There is no more room left in my brain for color or texture. Maybe a white quilted jacket with intricate lacings to wear while in the cell. Sounds heavenly.

So, I am on a search for that cell. I have  a two week window before the holidays shriek in and shred the lovely walls and throw tinsel and paper all over the place.  I am looking everywhere between here and California.

The hard part is that Ron leaves here the week before I do, and I cannot ask him to fly backwards.

Europe is littered with places that ft the bill.

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