Looking through past photos, I found this one, taken by my daughter Maurya. She would have been…hmm, twelve or so when she took this picture of early spring at our Last House in Washington. Maurya was a newly emerging photographer/talk show host at the time. Aka Minnie Guinea, championing the transient beauty of flowers and sunsets. Also interviewing the chickens (“and what do YOU think about the Animal Protection Laws?”). Yesterday she reminded me that once, she got locked in the chicken coop. The door latched on the outside, and the wind blew it shut during one of her chicken interviews. “I was locked in there for an hour at least, and nobody missed me!” she remembers. It happened to Frank too that year during a family Christmas party (oddly enough). We didn’t miss him either…luckily, he had his cell phone with him. Imagine our wonder when someone answered the phone and learned that Frank was calling from inside the chicken coop. [continue reading…]
I bought fabric tonight, craving color and warmth. Textiles…threads.
For the holidays, Frank and I took the kids to see grandparents in the Northwest. We left them for awhile with their Brand grandparents, and drove over to Seattle to celebrate (belatedly) our 20th anniversary. I loved Seattle with its mild ocean breeze (paperwhites bloomed OUTSIDE our hotel! And rosemary, spangled with blossoms, trailed from planters along Alaska Avenue). I loved downtown, its old buildings and the purple glass in the sidewalks—skylights of a half-forgotten underground. We spent a couple of mornings at Pike Place Market. In one shop, we saw beautiful quilted wall hangings, which the sales ladies said were pieced together from remnants of ceremonial dresses, handmade by women in India. I was transported by one quilt in particular. The fabrics were silk and velvet, in rich reds and fuchsias and and roses and oranges. Nearly every quarter inch of each piece of cloth was saturated with beads and embroidery. Just to touch that quilt! Textural ecstasy. And then to slowly unfold it and catch my breath at its full blushing glory! I think the ladies were sure I was sold. In my heart, I was. Frank took their card. But (and perhaps this is sometimes a character flaw) my budget is too far from my heart’s epicenter, and remained untouched. The quilt stayed in the shop, the threads dropped. [continue reading…]
Today, the first Monday after the New Year (surely I’m not the only woman in the world with Monday issues), was at first typical of a January Monday. The phone rang around five, waking me from a sound and sorely needed sleep. I have a cold, and it was still dark, and the kids don’t have school today. I could have slept in! There was a wadded pile of used tissues on my nightstand and another remnant rolled into wispy abstract art, twining on the carpet next to the bed. My youngest was nestled on my husband’s pillow (our usual arrangement when my husband is out of town). Frank sounded bummed when I checked in with him on the phone. It’s Monday where he is, too. After some grapefruit and herbal tea and incessant sneezing (and after I said goodbye to my parents, who’d found refuge and a small party here last night at the tail end of their holiday), I faced off with the laundry room, which hasn’t yet recovered from its post-holiday-travel deluge of clothes. And thought, these boots were made for walking.
Dirt has long been meaningful to me as a gardener.
This picture is an early morning bulldoser moving dirt shot taken on the day we excavated for our foundation seven (or so) years ago in Washington. My former home. The dirt was very fine; my dad, an agronomist, pronounced it “silty loam”, with more emphasis on the silt than on the loam. Which meant lots of flying dust when it was moved, but it compacted very well with water, making an excellent bed for our foundation. Water was the magic ingredient for sure; later, I would discover that with ample irrigation and a little amendment, that silty loam would be quite arable.
Our current home’s foundation rests on what appears to be mostly clay. What drama, what misery in the mud have we waded through this winter! What tales I have to tell… but now, my thoughts are turning (naturally) to gardening, and frankly, I feel… somewhat subdued. I will have to reinvent my gardening culture. Meanwhile, cartons of new little plant starts sit out on the front porch of my rental, waiting for homes.
The Once Upon a Time Far Far Away Little Straw House.
Was this actually seven years ago (and isn’t there some sort of magic associated with seven years)? Give or take, I guess. This is the little straw hut we built to shelter and entertain our four children (Nora, our fifth, wasn’t even a twinkle in anyone’s eye yet) while we worked to build our house in Washington (the one we sold and said goodbye to, last July). The frame house project was in its earliest stages when this photo was taken, probably Septemberish. We would be building on 3.68 acres (yes, that is a detail I may never forget) out in the country, far from the home we were renting, and winter was on its way. We wanted the kids with us as much as possible while we worked. Ultimately, the straw got wet and sprouted wheat. Also, it sprouted mice, which lent an eerie, fairy-tale drama to the whole hut experience, and provided fodder for outlandish tales that Maurya (our second daughter) still likes to shock us with. We were not quite finished with the big white house when we dismantled the little straw house; eventually, all that straw enriched my gardens. A lovely cycle, really.
When Frank and I were first married, I insisted (sort of arbitrarily) that daffodils were my favorite flower. In the Columbia Basin in Washington (which was our home for 25 years, more or less, until last July), daffodils appear in time for my birthday at the end of March. My flower declaration was a subtle setup for a test, poor Frank, and he was (unfairly) measured and weighed and found wanting. He couldn’t remember what my “favorite” flower was called, or even what color it was. (He also had a hard time remembering the color of my eyes… it just wasn’t one of those important details).
Spring comes later in Northern Utah, I’m learning after our first long winter here. Much later, it seemed to me, as February dragged by, and then my birthday, and as snow came and went and came and went (we had some again, last week). I admit I became homesick for the milder winters and earlier springs in Washington. So today when Nora and I saw daffodils blooming at a cute little old house in our town, I had to take a picture in celebration.
I wonder what Frank would say now, after nineteen years, if I asked him what my favorite flower was. “Oh, I don’t know… Magnolia?” he says.
Daffodils, At Last
I wrote this essay sometime in the early spring of 09 (I think). It is my initial literary response to our Great Mud Encounter during construction of the Swamp House.
Last night, I dreamt about water. I’ve dreamt many times about water now. Dreamt that I live in a lake (up to my neck), dreamt that the water in my crawlspace is over my head, opaque with mud. These dreams are partially grounded in truth (which is often the case with dreams). We have discovered, halfway through the construction of our house, that we have water issues. Whether they are caused by a high water table, or by the vagaries of winter construction and haphazard backfill, or both, we don’t know yet. I am beyond complaining about it; I was informed about the high water table in Plain City before we bought the lot; now, I am in the mood for creative solutions. (And what does water table mean? Who came up with that term?) I’ve already had a few offered by our framers (who are no doubt beyond relieved that any and all mud issues fall outside the realm of their jurisdiction). Ron recommended snow shoes to prevent sinking in the mud. Sean simply grinned and suggested investing in a duck boat. And then allowed himself a full blown chuckle.
I lied. I am not beyond complaining yet.
