Gladys taber

Cat lovers know that every cat is remarkable.

Faith is a curious thing. It must be renewed; it has its own spring.

Happiness of heart can never be measured out and bundled up, it's intangible. We keep running after it, grasping for it, and the heat of our running so seldom brings it closer. But now and then there may be a moment. We look at something and know it is good and beautiful. Those moments are happiness.

the real evidence of growing older is that things level off in importance ... Days are no longer jagged peaks to climb; time is a meadow, and we move over it with level steps.

I cannot imagine a cat in an Obedience ring, running around in the hot sun and doing things on command. For it would not make sense. Whereas a dog is tolerant of your not making sense and only wants to fix things so you are happy.

What would happen if all the populations on the planet simply refused to fight human beings they did not even know?

As long as you have a window, life is exciting.

Christmas is a bridge. We need bridges as the river of time flows past. Today's Christmas should mean creating happy hours for tomorrow and reliving those of yesterday.

Dog lovers are a good breed themselves.

History records the large events or the general condition of society, but only an individual can put down the way of life in a small town.

There is a kind of immortality in every garden.

I know of nothing to compare with the welcome a dog gives you when you come home.

nothing decorates a home like books. There they are, waiting to decorate the mind, too!

A cat is, by and large, sophisticated and complex, and capable of creating three-act plays around any single piece of action.

There must be hundreds of unsung heroes and heroines who first tasted strange things growing - and think of the man who first ate a lobster. This staggers the imagination. I salute him every time I take my nutcracker in hand and move the melted-butter pipkin closer.

The creative instincts, the love force must be nourished with every beat of our hearts until they overbalance the destructive instincts.

Being a good neighbor is an art which makes life richer.

Nothing makes a house cozier than cats.

Perhaps, after all, our best thoughts come when we are alone. It is good to listen, not to voices but to the wind blowing, to the brook running cool over polished stones, to bees drowsy with the weight of pollen. If we attend to the music of the earth, we reach serenity. And then, in some unexplained way, we share it with others.

Old houses, I thought, do not belong to people ever, not really, people belong to them.

If I had Aladdin's lamp and the usual three wishes, the first would always be, 'Give me the first day of June.

I love both the way a dog looks up to me and a cat condescends to me.

I resolve to be more patient, less selfish, cherish my friends, and in my small way help whoever needs help. I cannot conceivably influence the world's destiny, but I can make my own life more worthwhile. I can give some help to some people; that is not vital to all the world's problems and yet, I think if everyone did just that, we might see quite a world in our time!

I suppose I am a sparrow, a stay-at-home bird.

the tentacles of today reach out like an octopus to swallow yesterday.

Well, any love makes us vulnerable. Whatever we love will give the gift of pain somewhere along the road. But who would live sealed in spiritual cellophane just to keep from ever being hurt? There are a few people like that. I'm sorry for them. I think they are as good as dead.

We need time to dream, time to remember, and time to reach the infinite. Time to be.

The real evidence of growing older is that things level off in importance.

Happiness is a thing of now.

November wind has a sound different from any other. It is easy to imagine the cave of the winds in some mythical Northland where the winds are born and the gods send them out to conquer the quiet air.

My own recipe for world peace is a bit of land for everyone.

My general attitude toward life when I first get up is of deep suspicion, verging on hatred. ... I am simply basted together until after breakfast.

A house with no fireplace is a house without a heart.

Father was the most unreconciled taxpayer I ever knew.

Some of the days in November carry the whole memory of summer as a fire opal carries the color of moonrise.

Christmas is a bridge. We need bridges as the river of time flows past.

Traveling is all very well if you can get home at night. I would be willing to go around the world if I came back in time to light the candles and set the table for supper.

Perhaps what makes friendship and love exciting is the continuing discovery of another personality.

After all, catching something is purely a by-product of our fishing. It is the act of fishing that wipes away all grief, lightens all worry, dissolves fear and anxiety.

Long cold nights mark November's return, grey rains fall, wind walks in the bronze oak leaves.

Christmas is a kindling of new fires.

June in New England is like a lover's dream made tangible.

April is a promise of what's to come.

When Father smiled, it was like the sun coming out, and spring and summer in your heart.

Most cats feel that bird-catching is their duty; the instinct goes back to prehistoric times. Amber keeps in practice by chasing moths.

Americans tend to believe they can do anything with or without any training or experience.

Life is a process of discovery, of new perceptions.

Whoever decided that comic valentines were a good idea should have been sent away to think it over.

Pride may go before a fall, but jealousy goes before destruction.

The curious thing about fishing is you never want to go home. If you catch something, you can't stop. If you don't catch anything, you hate to leave in case something might bite.

But housekeeping is fun. It is one job where you enjoy the results right along as you work. You may work all day washing and ironing, but at night you have the delicious feeling of sunny clean sheets and airy pillows to lie on. If you clean, you sit down at nightfall with the house shining and faintly smelling of wax, all yours to enjoy right then and there. And if you cook—that creation you lift from the oven goes right to the table.

A good recipe for a human reducing breakfast is a lot of good things to eat, and three spaniels and two cats to eat with.

Almost all words do have colour and nothing is more pleasant than to utter a pink word and see someone's eyes light up and know it is a pink word for him or her too.

Author details

Gladys Taber: Biography and Life Work

Gladys Taber was a notable Author. The story of Gladys Taber began on April 12, 1899 in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The legacy of Gladys Taber continues today, following their passing on March 11, 1980 in Hyannis, Massachusetts.

Gladys Bagg Taber was born in Colorado Springs on April 12, 1899, and spent most of her early years moving because of her father's work as a mining engineer. She lived in New Mexico , California , Illinois and Wisconsin , and spent time on her grandfather's farm in Massachusetts . In 1920, she received a bachelor's degree from Wellesley , and an M.A. from Lawrence College in 1921. She married Frank Taber, and they had a daughter, Constance, which interrupted her academic career; then for more than 20 years, she lived in Stillmeadow, her vintage 1690 Southbury, Connecticut , farmhouse, having commuted to New York City part of the time to teach creative writing at Columbia University from 1921 to 1926. The house was jointly owned by the Tabers and their friends Eleanor and Max Mayer. Her column "Diary of Domesticity" began in the Ladies' Home Journal in November 1937; "Butternut Wisdom" ran in the Family Circle from 1959 to 1967.

Legacy and Personal Influence

Personally, Gladys Taber was married to Frank Taber, divorced 1946.

Philosophical Views and Reflections

Gladys Taber lived in Stillmeadow, a 1690 farmhouse off Jeremy Swamp Road in Southbury, starting in 1933 (summers only) and 1935 (full-time). She died on March 11, 1980.

Gladys Taber lived in Stillmeadow, a 1690 farmhouse off Jeremy Swamp Road in Southbury, starting in 1933 (summers only) and 1935 (full-time). She died on March 11, 1980.

EQ
Empery Quotes
Inspire · Reflect · Repeat