It was a strange ceremony.

At about this time six years ago, 10:15 on Saturday Oct. 8, I sat.  My future husband and I met in a quiet room decked out in our new finery and prayed.  To be perfectly honest I was a wreck.  And, the weight of the heaviest dress I was ever to wear combined with my panic, sent me perilously close to to a faint…no, no maybe in full southern tradition this is the time I should say a swoon. Quietly, very quietly which is a little unusual for me, and breathlessly I turned to honey bunny and whispered: “could we stand?”  for the dress was becoming so constraining that I literally could not breathe. So we stood and prayed.  I imagine that separately we prayed for lots of things: peace, understanding, patience, nerve, but mostly we prayed for God’s hand and grace to be upon our marriage.  I myself also silently prayed that I could get through the ceremony.

Thirty minutes later I walked into a room bursting with dear friends and family, to the hardest thing I ever had to do: walk into a room in which all eyes were on me.  This was the precise reason that our ceremony began as odd.  I could not bare the thought of walking down an aisle, all eyes turned and focused on me.  Somehow though, in this small and intimate room my eyes locked on those of my groom, I managed the feat, and proceeded to do the easiest thing I ever had to do: bind my life with that of my best friend.

So this morning as we read through the lovely pages of our guest book, a book lovingly created by my sweet friend and neighbor at the time, I am quite surprised at the meaning of all those well wishes left by each of those thirty some odd guests: wishes for happiness and love, advise from long marriage roads already traveled, and kindnesses that have encouraged us at low moments. That day those few beloved friends stood encircling us as we said our vows, and their words have encircled us in the ensuing years. Since then several have died, others have divorced, and still others have grown closer in our struggles, but all have remained in our hearts and in our home, thanks to this little book.

So as we begin our seventh year on the adventure that began that day, I read and I cherish all of them.  We want each of them to know that we are well and that they are loved. We end with a benediction scattered through the pages of my precious book, sung every Sunday at my Grandparents’ church,  sung on our wedding day, and always in our heart. It has reminded us each day of the prayers we said that morning and the grace God has extended to us each day since as He covers our numerous sins, lifts us in our trials,  and glories with us in our triumphs.  It is the prayer we say for each of  our friends as well (those present that day, and those who have come to us since).

Grace to you, Grace to you, God’s great grace to you. As you walk through your life, in joy or strife, God’s Grace to you.

We hope that each of you know how valued and instrumental you have been in our lives.

To some of you this may seem like a strange rule. You probably would not admit to having any bugs period.  So why would you have a rule about who picks them up?  But here on the coast it goes without saying that even in the cleanest, and most pesticide covered homes there are still going to be creepers that slip through.  Most of the said crawling creepers are of the leviathan persuasion.  Giant, horrid, disgusting roaches that in addition to startling and instantaneously melting us into a quivering mess of girlie fit, have developed the added super power of flight to their repertoire.  They are worse than roaches, but we soften the impact by calling them palmetto bugs. And, if you haven’t guessed it yet, I despise them.

This year to the palmetto bug distaste though, I hear the buzz of my peers as they add hatred of the cicadas to the bug fright list.  They moan about the incessant peel of the mating call of these interestingly enigmatic creatures, as well as the almost prehistoric appearance of the offending beasts. I have to admit that I find the noise somewhat soothing in its ever-present droan, but I guess I would be in the minority on this.  After weeks of discussing these creatures though, I began to wonder why is it that people so revile bugs, when there is so much that is fascinating and beautiful about them.  I  resolved to find things to love about bugs!

Though some find its form horrific, the colorations and design of the cicada are actually quite lovely. (This one was graciously picked up for me by my friend Ginger)

First they are of course part of God’s creation, and once you delve into the meat of the subject most are fairly interesting.  Take that annoying cicada for example: the one that has friends so distracted is called a periodical cicada and arrives in synchronized fashion as a community only once every 13 or 17 years.  I can’t get my family of four to arrive on time for dinner, so I can’t imagine how an entire species can manage such punctuality.  But, never the less they do.  And when that fact is taken into consideration along with the brevity of their chance to reproduce (only a few weeks for most adults), their endless song seems far less offensive — more a shout of exuberance from a fascinating family.

My interest in bugs however, on a daily basis, is far less entomological.  From a decorative stand point, I find much to love as well.  Eighteenth century and nineteenth century patrons and engravers published countless books with hand engraved and colored collections of plates depicting all manner of moth, butterfly, beettle, bird, and creatures.  Their lovely displays capture a wonderful sense of learned art that when hung or grouped collectively add a sophisticated  quality to any interior.

Artists have for centuries, even millenia, been drawn to the forms of countless insect species surrounding them.  Egyptians and earlier civilizations honored the forms of the natural world in their works.  The iconographic scarab, or dung beetle, was associated with the rising of the sun and the sun god Kehpri.

Scarab image seen in the Valley of the Kings; Luxor, Egypt

The symbol was so venerated that it was depicted on everything from walls and hieroglyphs to temples, tombs, sacred amulets and even coffins.  Today, though the sacred connotation is seldom remembered, we still find the beautiful form of the scarab adorning many of our accessories.

So, if I can find so many beautiful depictions, there must be something I can find to love about bugs.  I look around my home and find countless examples of the decorative presence of bugs.  Upholstery and even some of my favorite china shows these fascinators in their glory.  Without a doubt though, my newest preferred bugs, are the countless stained glass ornaments displayed throughout my garden.

an army of beautiful bugs invades my garden

Their glowing forms, lovingly made by my artist and friend, Lea Wright, catch light and bring a smile each time I pass one.  I wonder if just maybe, they intrigue the slightly smaller bugs around them as much as they do me.  I think I may just learn to love bugs…but for now at least I will do so without altering our rules.  Honey Bunny is still in charge of pick up.

On the other hand, a set of dining room chairs has been my nemesis.  For years we sat upon uncomfortable wooden folding chairs simply because I find it impossible to narrow the field to one style.  The set that will exude confidence, comfort, and a graceful yet easy hospitality has eluded me.  Perhaps I ask too much of a chair.  And yet, the decision was so difficult that when moving to this house Honey Bunny had to insist I make some decision  (even if temporary).  So grudgingly and hesitantly I ordered upholstered parsons chairs that would suffice until I could find those dream chairs.  Five years later I find myself no closer to a decision.

Our bed has had a similar tale.  How does one narrow the styles?  How do we come to a solution with which we will both be satisfied?  So this week when I happened upon my dream bed in a local antique store I was stung by the distaste of Honey Bunny as he disdainfully sniffed: “don’t you find it a bit heavy?’

Suddenly my conscience could care less if he liked it or not, railing “how dare you disagree with me you twerp…who made you a designer?”  Of all the nerve, how dare this man have any opinion over the state of his bedroom.  I mean this was it: the bed for which I had searched for over a decade.  It had me written all over it.  A nineteenth century tester bed from Mississippi boasting huge octagonal posts, a lovely tall serpentine headboard, glowing lovely old oak tones, and a high-profile that one would snuggle up in “princess and the pea style” to get through long cold nights in this old house.  I was heart-broken. 

But marriage is about two people and their shared life, so I resolved to continue with my search for the perfect bed, and put this one behind me (a good thing since I was certainly not in possession of the cool $6000.00 said dream bed required).  I came home knowing that the search would continue for some time to come…I mean ten years to find this one did not lead me to believe that the next one would show up quickly.  So I looked at our own head-board, the one that we had gotten for a temporary fix and a song as it had quite literally fallen off a truck.  It was time for a change.  But, perhaps the change needed to cost a shade less than  thousands. And so glue gun, staple gun, sewing machine and gumption in hand (not to mention a little fabric, batting, and ribbon) I headed up the stairs to change.

Headboard before alteration

To my delight the results were lovely meeting not only with my own approval, but also the slow and considered approval of Honey Bunny: in short, success!

Any paneled wood or framed headboard would work for this project, so here is what I did.

After cleaning the existing frame, loosely cover the desired portion of the headboard with batting.  In this case the framed panel gave a simple line for attaching and an appropriate frame in which to display my fabric.  I used a single layer of batting because I wanted a tailored firm appearance.  For a more plush appearance one could use multiple layers of batting or a piece of foam beneath a layer of batting. Hint: use few staples as you will be securing more tightly when you attach the overlay of fabric.

Cut your desired fabric to size, leaving 1/4 inch of excess on all sides, and center on headboard.  If you are dealing with a queen size or larger you will likely have to seem the fabric (unless your pattern is railroaded).  Once you have found the center secure with a staple.  Keeping your staples 1/8 inch from the edge of the fabric,  begin to work your way out from the center to the corners, taking care to keep your fabric and pattern straight.  Secure at about 4 inch intervals.  Once you have fabric attached at top, stand back to view pattern from afar to verify that the pattern is in line.  After ascertaining that your work is correct, go back and add more staples along edge.  Next secure the bottom edge, and finish with the sides.

After fabric is securely attached, trim excess with a sharp utility knife.

Disguising or hiding your staples is easy.  Using hot glue and a tape of any sort. cover the raw edge of the fabric and the staples.  In this case a 1/2 inch ivory velvet ribbon was used, however gimp, sequins, decorative tapes, hemp or rope would also have worked: just use your imagination.

At this point your project may be complete, but I chose to enhance the edge of my project with the addition of oversized upholstery tacks.  A small set of needle-nose pliers and small tack hammer were indispensible tools in this process. 

Though this last step was time-consuming and detailed, the resulting layer of finish was well worth the additional time.  Again, with a little imagination and creativity, this project can refine or add fun to any similar bed; just let your imagination run, and happy crafting!

SULKOWSKI LIGONIER "RAINY DAY" STUDY. 20th c.

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain! H. W. Longfellow

The past two mornings I have awoken to the heavenly sound of water trickling down our gutters, and with delight opened my eyes to see that the morning light around me was blissfully dim as clouds obscured the rising sun.  And I have loved it.  I sit and watch as the misty perfect rain comes down, watering the parched earth of my garden and rejuvenating all the wilted specimens within.  I love rainy days.  There is just something relaxing and refreshing about them that I can’t help but adore.  Forced inside, you know that I clearly worked in my kitchen yesterday (that is if you read my previous post).  I pondered my cabinets and delightedly cooked as the soaking patter continued.  

The delicate spices of my curry chicken salad infused the air, a salad that I have been carefully creating in the back of my mind for weeks.  As the ingredients merged I needed a taster.   Bowl in hand I headed next door to my dear friend and neighbor’s house, seeking a second opinion.  Drizzling rain fell on me as I walked, seemingly rejuvenating me as well.  But further inspiration would arrive as I walked into Beth’s house — let me say here that it so good to have neighbors who are unsurprised by my pop-in visits and pleas for assistance.  Beth kindly and bravely tastes my culinary offerings – as she did on this occasion, or consults on my attire, or answers any silly historical question I have.  Remarkably she does it all never seeming put out or overly busy. These are genuine sharing characteristics that I value in a friend and hope to cultivate within myself. 

But, to my delight and glory I was also inspired by the impromptu viewing of photos from her recent journey to the English countryside.  In that viewing I found that my friend was a kindred spirit.  There on the screen were countless breathtaking images — really breathtaking images —  of buildings, gardens, architectural details, etc.  We talked and gasped with glee as the beautiful images faded in and out of focus.  And like me, I noted that amongst the photos there was not a single photo of Beth.  No grinning smiling images to be plastered upon facebook, just the countless and precious details of a connoiseur of beautiful things.  

We chatted about the things she had seen, and the places she had been, the flowers within the gardens, and the seed we would like to find so that we too might grow some of the glorious creations displayed artfully in the pictures.  Oh to garden in England!

I came home newly inspired to forge ahead in my own garden, imagining again what it might someday become. With perseverance and work, I might just be able to replicate some of the countryside feeling that Beth had brought home and shared.  So this morning, as the light rain continued to fall I could no longer wait.  I headed out into my garden to work in the rain.  And as I knelt in the dirt pulling at weeds and neetening my beds, I could almost imagine that I was in the English countryside.  But even more comforting and pleasing than the rain and the work, was the sound I heard from beyond the hedge.  There in the next garden was Beth, working away; like me, inspired and wet. 

Isn’t it wonderful to find God’s blessing of kindred spirits and friends all around us?       

No, I did not mis-spell party, you read me: pantry.  And I know what you are thinking – “she can’t be serious. Come on, who gets worked up over a pantry?  What a super freak.”  And if that is what you are thinking, you are probably correct.  However, I have to tell you that it is exciting.  You see I have never had one. 

As a girl we had a long hallway with shelves that were supposed to store food and staples: the kind that you raided when you got home from school longing for some special snack.  However, ours were rarely stocked because my mother seemed to think that this was a bad practice.  “Why would you keep food in the house?  You just eat it!”  And to that I say: precisely.  So childhood was without stocked pantry.  My first townhome in Athens was also sorely lacking in such modern convenience.  On to Natchez, MS and a 200 year old plantation house which barely boasted a kitchen and electricity – needless to say; no pantry.  Manhattan and a tiny studio, again who are we kidding, of course no pantry.  Back to Raleigh where I would purchase my first home, which was spacious, but quite miraculously…no pantry.  So here in Savannah, after a good 12 years on my own without one, the pantry-less state of this house seemed normal to me.  And though I had desperately wanted one, the fabulous surroundings and experiences I had had to date seemed to make my sacrifice seem minimal.

The problem with living with no pantry, however, is that you never have any back up.  Each dinner or party requires a trip to the store for precisely the ingredients you need.  And so, that is how we have lived.  But, I have always admired, even envied those women who seemed able to prepare a meal, snack, hor  d’ouevres, or a batch of brownies at a moments’ notice.  Guest unexpectedly drop in and snap, like Mary Poppins, the hostess pulls something lovely out of what is seemingly a magic carpet bag: the pantry!     

Beyond that, there is the safety issue.  I mean every hurricane season when I am gently persuaded that I need to have a certain number of “staples” in my hurricane preparedness closet, I am grieved.  I simply cannot be prepared as I have no place to store all those things that Jim Cantore insist I need.  And so, each year I let him down again. 

But not this year, because this year I have a pantry! Well, at least I have a pantry unit.  Thanks to the kindness and skill of Honey Bunny, I have a wonderfully designed thirty-four feet of linear pantry storage (this seems simply decadent at the moment).    I have controlled myself.  I have not run to the store to buy useless loads of supposed staples.  To us that simply means a box of crackers, canned tuna and salmon, mustard, tomato soup, and some peanut butter.  But I love the idea of filling my new shelves with useful things that one should never be without. So I will give you a sneak peek of our rapidly evolving pink kitchen, and ask you a question:  what ingredients in your pantry do you find indispensable? And, what kinds of creative things do you use them for?  I patiently await your advise friends.

My almost empty pantry. Don't worry, doors will be forthcoming...and don't you just love that little pig!

So, we (and by we I mean Honey Bunny) have already hit our first glitch in the pink kitchen: and NO, it is not the color because, as I said, “pink works.” I can even quite honestly say that not only does it work, but Honey Bunny kind of digs it.

But, somehow, I managed to marry a man who is dedicated to routine.  Oatmeal every day for breakfast; a sandwich every day for lunch; a walk at precisely the same time each and every morning and evening with his dogs; socks must go on first.  I promise, I have never seen anything like the structure that he manages to apply to each and every movement.  It is one of those weird quirks in a spouse that we sort of love them for, and dare I say it, hate them for.

But there are upsides to his habitual movements.  For instance, every morning like clockwork the alarm goes off; I turn over to burrow in my covers for just a little longer; awake a lovely fifteen minutes later to the heavenly aroma of coffee — lovingly handed to me, in bed, by my ritual following Honey Bunny.  I guess no one can hate that character “flaw.”

This week, however, the routine was interrupted.  You see Honey Bunny loves his coffee: drinks it like a camel.  We must go through at least 2-3 pots a day.  And, though I had never really noted this (maybe because I was lazing in bed) there is usually a cup left in the last pot. This cup he saves.  It is the elixir that allows him the strength to make it through the awful ten minutes each morning when he must wait for the rhythmic drip of a new pot to come to its end.

In my re-appointing, cleaning, and reorganizing  of the pink kitchen I had caused his world — his fragile systematic world — to shatter.  The microwave (which I thought was rarely used) had simply disappeared.  How would he get through the torturous eternity of waiting for fresh coffee, without the fortitude of a stale, day-old cup? And, what would we do with that last left-over cup? Surely we could not waist such precious liquid!

After much comforting and talking, I managed to convince Honey Bunny that the counter space we had gained in the removal of the microwave was far more precious than that one cup.  But as always remorse quickly followed.  Was I ignoring the needs of my husband for two feet of space?  After all it was his Routine.

Creative thought was needed for this problem.  After much consideration and contemplation I had to admit that, of course, I was right.  But maybe I could have my space and drink it too.  You see Honey Bunny is equally fond of iced coffee — really the man doesn’t care, he would take coffee intravenously if he could. So a new idea was born, with the helpful hint of a friend.  And. I must admit that this one is inspired.  So I thought I would share (even if it was not exactly mine).

I poured the leftover coffee into some inexpensive ice cube trays and made frozen “coffee cubes.” After stockpiling for a few days, I could then allow Honey Bunny his precious saved cup, or now even an afternoon cup of iced coffee: filled, rather brilliantly if you ask me, with coffee cubes.  The wonderful benefit is that our iced coffee no longer becomes watered and weak after only minutes in the scorching summer heat.

Coffee cubes have even inspired further research into wonderful ways to enjoy Honey Bunny’s favorite comfort.  Like a wonderful Thai iced coffee I found on coffeeterritory.com:

Indgredients

4 portions:

• 2 teaspoons of ground cardamom
• 4 tablespoons of sugar
• 4 tablespoons of fat cream
• one tablespoon of almonds extract

Preparation

Brew four cups of coffee with cardamom seasoning mixed into the beans. Dissolve sugar and almond extract in the hot coffee. Let it cool.

Fill (half-way) 4 highball glasses with crushed ice and then cover with  cool coffee.

Add a tablespoon of cream into the each glass just before serving.

New possibilities are endlessly being imagined at our house, and we now have a way to never again waist any of Honey Bunny’s liquid elixir.  Give this a try, and you might just find a new way to enjoy coffee this summer.  I think you may just love it!

Peaches, One of nature's most delightful gifts

With all this talk of party politics and government defaults, it is not surprising that business seems to have slowed in the past month.  Let’s face it, what I do is one of those expenses that can be avoided when people are worried.  And so, once again, I turned my eye to my own home and my own family.

 First, getting in shape!  We had seemed a little off in a lot af areas lately; and, much to Honey Bunny’s dismay, suddenly my time was not limited and I could focus on straightening all those out of shape places right back into to shape.  Goal one: the waistlines.  We all needed a little trimming and so out came the healthy food, and away went any semblance of the junk.  It seems such an easy and actually delicious change, but in the rush of life we seem to tend toward those things that seem simple like the Wendy’s drive thru.  So, we chucked the fries and avoided said drive thru all together because, guess what is not available at that window?  Peaches: fresh grilled peaches!  Life is already trimmer and more scrumptious (Mother has even lost 10 pounds, for which I am very proud of her).

Second, trim the mess.  This is a very difficult process for me.  I do not like to throw things away, period.  AND, every time I do I find myself needing something I had removed from my world within a matter of days.  There is only so much stuff that can be packed into a historic home with few closets though.  So I decided that I just must do it.  It was time to begin a thoughtful, not rash, but thorough purging of the stuff.  Therefore I began said purge, making a deal with myself — because deals are the only way I can force myself to proceed.  Purge house became tackle two drawers/shelves a day to remove things for which I have found no use or purpose in over one year.  It seems reasonable and I don’t get overwhelmed with the process and quit, as I have in the past.  I will admit to only one break down so far — as I was prepping for a photo shoot this week, I found myself in need of candles – orange candles —  which I had discarded only two days before.  Frustrated, I managed not to tackle a single drawer that day.  But, alas for every two steps (or drawers in this case)forward, there must be one frustrating, seething, and torturous step back.  Today I will try again though.

Three, face the waistland that was once my garden.  This is where the trouble really began.  In the month and a half when showhouse and work had been all-consuming, my garden had been sorely neglected.  Now I look out upon a scene teetering upon the edge of unacceptable.  Weeds clog beds shutting out the light from lower specimens like strawberries, grass is actually going to seed, and trailing tendrils of the baneful grass St. Augustine have begun to disguise even the walk ways.  Dismayed, I wonder how this happened knowing full well that my neglect is the culprit (though honey bunny’s oblivion is still a mystery).  And yet, the record-breaking heat refuses to allow me to return to my duties.  Leaving me only one option.  Destroy something inside.

With my frustration girding my strength and propelling me forward I tackled (big pause) the kitchen!  Yes I know that I still have the incomplete bathroom waiting upstairs from my last similar project, but suddenly the kitchen had to be updated.  It is one of those rooms that others call charming, but I find irritating.  I think the simple reason for my disdain is that it bears no mark of my presence, it is simply the kitchen I entered when we bought this house, and with no love for it I have grudgingly lived with it for years.  There is nothing wrong with the kitchen per se, it just isn’t me.  So I decided it was time to do something to make me embrace this space.

Solution: paint the town red..no, no, I mean paint the cabinets pink! Yep, that is what I did, a wonderful warm hue called ”rosy outlook.”  Pink, a color that has never been one of my first choices; but here it seems cheery, and unorthodox, and inspiring, and enlightening.  Plus, I get a real kick out of watching the faces of friends as I tell them what I have done. There’s something quirky and sinful about this, but the shock and dismay which registers on their faces as they question my taste and sanity just makes me want to prove them wrong.  And pink has a wonderfully harmonious and warm quality that lends comfort and a glow which leads to cheeriness.  Believe it or not, pink works. Life seems rosier already. 

Try something new  and fun in your homes this summer.  You might just find yourself singing along with Edith Piaf (or Louis Armstrong for those of us who are rusty with the French) and a little more inspired for your day.

I want to tell all my refined friends that I remember sipping tea on the deck with my mother and sister every summer, and enjoying its refreshing quench while fluttering fans, shelling fresh peas for supper, chatting, and in general making memories that would last for a life time.  But, that would be a big lie.  The truth is that I only remember drinking this lovely concoction once.  The memory that accompanies this delicate tea is far different for me.

But, my mother did have a sun tea jar, and its disappearance was quite a dramatic event in our lives.  We had moved to the house in which I spent most of my childhood.  It was a lovely house, set right at the edge of a river and looking out over miles of stunning marsh that sheltered a world of enchanting  wildlife: alligators, rabbits, raccoons, armadillos, opossums, crabs, in short an endless array of the most interesting of God’s creatures.  With all of those fascinators, however,  came the abhorred snake.  And, occasionally one of those slithering sneaking snakes would find its way into the cool of our house — usually when my sister or I was home alone.

On one summer morning though, the ear-splitting  peel of my mother’s scream tore through the house bringing my sister and me flying to her side in response to find mother pointing and staring at  the offensive curve of a tiny snake in our hall.  Now I have to admit here that snakes are my downfall.  I squeal like a girl, run, scream, tear up , hide at the mere sight of one.  I seriously discuss legislation to prevent the airing  of those commercials where a snake suddenly jumps at the screen in a strike, every time I see one.  In short: I’m ridiculous.  So, the fact that my defense instinct immediately abated as I bolted up the stairs in tears should come as no surprise. Shaking and peering through the open risers of those stairs, I watched as poor Anne was the only one to count on and Mother screamed at her to cover that snake.  What she was supposed to do I am not certain of, but she quickly ran for something, returning with a very sweet delicately pink quilt to throw on its offensive, and most likely terrified form.

By this time my hysterical Mother was screaming into the telephone that Daddy should come home and get that wretched creature out, at which point she and “the girls” would be packed and leaving –”not to return until he had fixed this house!”  Again, I am not so certain what she thought could be done, but that was the ultimatum.

Twenty minutes later my father had excused himself from his meeting with investors, arrived at the scene of the horror, and carefully confined said snake only to be met with further hysterics.  Daddy’s undoing was his choice of container: for there in the hall sat the egregious snake, terrified and staring out from the bowl of my mother’s perky little jar emblazoned with a bright yellow happy sunshine and the words sun tea.  I am not sure which event was more horrifying as mother wondered (quite dramatically) “how will I make sun tea Doug?”  To which Daddy promised a shiny new sun tea jar guaranteed to never have been inhabited by snakes.

Fast forward about 25 years…and no jar has been forthcoming.  Until this Christmas, when thinking that I would be funny, I wrapped up a shiny new beverage jar with plastic snake inside.  Unfortunately, my humourous gift never reared its silly head, as I forgot it on the way down for Christmas morning.  So about two weeks ago, when I came across that package I decided it was time to try out my own sun tea (don’t worry, I did give mother something for Christmas).

And to my delight, it was the most wonderful concoction I could ever have found: a few tea bags placed in water on the front stoop.  No heating or brewing, translate this to no heating up my kitchen. No work, just forget it, all day if you would like!  What could be more marvelous to deal with this record-breaking heat?  Best of all is the refreshing sip of a marvelously smooth tea as somehow, the gentle though bitter bite of black tea dissipates in this low heat brewing method.  At the end of the day, as you settle into evening you find perfection  in a glass — and in my case a little memory and a giggle: making sun tea just one of my, newly rediscovered, favorite things.

It is oppressively hot here in South Georgia: the kind of hot that prevents rapid motion as it presses in and down on you from every direction:  that causes even the house flies to go into a state of slow-motion lethargy; the kind of hot that has only two solutions  — float in a pool until you become a living breathing example of those dried apple dolls you used to find sold along the Blue Ridge Parkway or sit in a rocking chair and just try to move your eyelids only enough to focus on the wonderful page of some kind of masterpiece.   Any kind will do.

The heat seems early to me.  Perhaps I missed the spring all together in my hectic work and travel schedule as I drove up and down Interstate 95 again and again; preventing the enjoyment of those April and March evenings when Carl and I sit on the porch and slowly increase our tolerance of the very heat that I now find so intolerable.  But now as I briefly try to glimpse the gardens that surround me I find that within seconds of entering them, I must concede defeat and meltingly waddle back to the safety of the indoors.  So I sit and wonder too what happened to my garden and its promised delights?

Nature too has wilted in this heat, and I find that the joy I so often take from my toils here is remiss in appearing this year.  True, travels have distracted me, and so progress came to a halt in April.  But, never-the-less the forward march can be seen.  The outlines we so laboriously crafted last summer and this spring can now be deciphered as something lovely; not just the random plantings and meanderings of a strange amateur.  Neighbors can now appreciate the plan and see its potential, as I have in my head for years.  This is quite gratifying to say the least. But heat and neglect have caused even the stalwart zinnias to wither and scorn the blaring sun.  Only the agapanthus and glads continue to exert effort in their struggle to display their glorious forms.

So yesterday as I was painting in my office the now almost timeable bark of the dogs interrupted my process as slips of mail “invaded” the foyer, a daily ritual that seems to torment Thomas and Georgie. To preserve said invading foe, I ran to quickly scoop up the query.  Much to my delight, there amongst the usual suspects was a cherished little garden pick me up, a publication that I have come to love: the Van Engelen’s fall wholesale price list!

I came upon this little jewel quite by accident while reading an article a friend had saved for me.  There beside the words was a small advert for Van Engelen’s, “the best Dutch flower bulbs at the best prices.”  No display of beautiful flora just a short text advert. There were two things that I dearly love together in one sentence: flowers and frugality.  So I ordered a catalog that day and proceeded to wait, and wait, and wait for it to come.  Then one day, when I had long since forgotten my request I went through the old mail to find a small blue publication with the large letters of Van Engelen emblazoned upon it and a single color cover with a few smurf-like petals below.  Elated that it had finally arrived and I had not been forgotten, I quickly ripped open its cover expecting to find delight in the eye candy of flowers I would behold.   

My breath caught and all at once dismay, frustration, disappointment, and disgust filled my head and chest.  There were no pictures, just words! How dare they send this? And what kind of business did not realize that a picture is worth a thousand words?  I repelled that catalog from my hand so quickly you would have thought it contained anthrax.

Somehow, however, days later it resurfaced and intrigue overcame frustration.  I sat and began to read, and quickly remembered the wonderful enigmatic secret of the written word.  There in those descriptions imagination took hold and I could picture all kinds of glorious and painterly, wonderfully mysterious, and exotically captivating blooms that I had never before seen.  I imagined that long ago fore gardeners had done much the same as they mailed off and requested foreign seeds, envisioning what would come and then glorying in the surprise of what actually emerged.   For instance the catalog richly describes the Viridiflora tulip known as “virichic” in this way:

This jaunty beauty has an elegant, almost lily-like form and exotic coloration. It opens a dreamy pale rose with tawny yellow highlights and green flames, and matures to a darker purplish pink with green flames.

Can you just imagine?  God’s creations are amazingly vibrant and intricate. This beauty however, will not grow in my region and so I am left (somewhat gloriously) with only the picture in my head.  So now, I wait expectantly each year on this catalog so that I can become engrossed not only in its wonderful and wordy representations, but also in the imagined pictures that will doubtlessly fill my head. Instead of dreading the heat and disaster outside, I read and plan how to better attack the garden next year and think on the glorious additions it may boast. And so I leave you with this image, and a thought: a picture may indeed be worth a thousand words, but oh how much a thousand words may be worth in the mind of a creative reader.

The Virichic Tulip, as seen on the Van Engelen website.

 It is hard to say, but I think I may like mine better.

Grace Kelly modeling a great pair of gloves.

Every year about this time I am met by the same quandary: how to avoid looking like a street urchin straight out of Oliver Twist and still spend the hours I love working in my garden.  Dirty nails, somehow they connote a dirty life in the minds of many.  I choose most days to wear them as a badge of honor…no one can look at my hands, and not understand that I “work.”

The truth is however, that everything I do seems to dirty those nails…not just gardening. But, the hours I spend weeding, cutting, trimming, and roaming in my garden exacerbate the situation.  So I have tried it all.  Every time someone tells me a solution, I try it and find the solution itself is equally odious.

*Wear garden gloves.  Simple enough, except that the dirt often permeates the surface of the gloves anyway, and I become frustrated by the loss of dexterity caused by the gloves.

*Scrape your nails over the surface of a bar of Ivory soap. One, my mind wonders, why Ivory?  Is it only Ivory that will solve the problem?  Two, what do I do with this clawed soap in the off hours? Three, I don’t like the feel of the ivory soap compacted beneath the surface of my nails any more than I like the dirt.

*Trim your nails short.  Really…if you have ever done much garden work (and by this I mean work not supervision), then you know that there is no need for this suggestion.  Your nails are already short.

* Soak you hands and nails in a bowl of water and Clorox when you come in from the garden.  But, guess what.  Then your hands smell like Clorox water.  Certainly not the loveliest scent. Again, I am not sure which is worse.

Tooth brush, nail brush, hair washing (which does work but is not always convenient), manicures (also effective if I had a manicurist on retainer), and the list goes on.

And so I continue in my mindset, just go with dirty nails.  Except this year.  Events have made this an even bigger struggle.  Hiding one’s hands while decked out in a big yellow hat for a friend’s wedding seemed beyond ridiculous.  Gala opening and fashion show spent doing the same certainly did not bespeak refinement and/or confidence.  And so, here I am again.

This Easter I found the solution.  Quite without thought or effort I happened upon the solution that I once thought was an intriguing, even enviable, fashion; but now believe was sheer genius on the part of mothers and grandmothers.  Easter morning I found myself looking at the same permanently blackened nails, but even more horrifying were the stains from the dyed eggs that I had hidden that morning.  Why those rainbowed hues would not wash off, I can not say: but, the resulting eyesore was simply too much.  And so, in desperation, I grabbed a pair of my grandmother’s vintage embroidered gloves which adorned a chair in a guest room and headed out the door.  Ahhh, a functional purpose for these lovelies. As Charles Eastlake would say; “down with pretense, sham, aesthetic quackery, up with honesty, sincerity,” — at least for the gloves.