boy thoughts

if i were a boy, i think i would look something like this. my cologne would be new mown grass, sawdust, old spice, and a touch of woodsmoke. i would know how to make bread, be amazingly kind, and i would be patient.  i would have dreams that smelled like patchouli, maple and spiced tea.  i would plant a patch of poppies and play music for the person in my heart.

berks co. bakeoven

dendron

autumn thoughts

tonight. my daughter takes my hand, and says come with me. she wipes my tear stained face and settles me into the black wicker chair where annie faces the window. she draws me hearts in the perfect shade of robins egg blue with machine that makes black eyed susans grow all year. she offers to start the woodstove, she says we havent used it in years. she takes my hand, unlocks the dining room door, pulls me to the porch and tells me to say goodnight to the moon. that should work. as she yells at the cloudy night sky, i look over. her hair is gold even in the dark. her hand is warm. and i realize that i need nothing more than this to feel right again.
we walk inside and decide that we might be boys for halloween.

texture

girl

pretty..

rest revisited

Rest is not idleness,

and to lie sometimes on the grass

under trees on a summer's day,

listening to the murmur of the water,

or watching the clouds float across the sky

...is by no means a waste of time.

----John Lubbuck

rest

tattered ironstone

dreaming of the next cycle of my life. too many dishes,
too many recipes to try, and pretty linen aprons. 
more time with my child, heavy blankets, feeling safe.

fraktur

a hessian fraktur, lancaster county historical society. love.

spinning

the price

    There is love of course. And then there's life, its enemy.
                                                              -Jean Anouilh

yard work

cant you see dozens of these?  filled with fresh lettuces in the winter and brimming over with heirloom melons that crack in your hands when perfectly ripe in the summer. fresh basil for your pesto in the late autumn, a sprig of lavender for your pillow so you can sleep in january. all painted the same green as the steps and soon the doors, so that it is an evergreen area in the coldest and loneliest part of winter. filled with soil that was processed with your own hands.  little green boxes of hope, life and renewal.

lionel and annie

lust

fireworks

fourth of july.

left work early. stolen time. brought a ricketty wood chair that i found in the dump in surry, virginia up to

the top of the yard, above the pear tree and the barn, past the blackberries and all of those soybeans. and i sat.

smelled like coffee. the fireflies- so many, millions it seems. dizzying. then booms, bouncing off the trees. fireworks from every town, presented themselves to me, five different displays at once. and me alone on my wooden chair with a chilled bottle bottle of muscato d' asti and a full heart.

moment captured

a moment captured, wed night. fireflies. lavender.and heavy mint in the breeze.

sitting on the rocking chair, facing the spring house. the night is just about here- not quite dark yet because i can still see the paper without the porch light. the woods and field are twinkling. if you just relax your eyes you wont get so dizzy watching the firflies. the rain breeze is blowing, it will thunder. i can smell it, metallic warmth. my girl is inside drawing- it is a picture of her and i dipping candles. billy joel is on the radio, barely louder than a whisper.
the rain wind is blowing the smell of the half burnt poplar from the fire pit. leaning on an old cookbook, has a recipe for apple frenchies, a version of french toast made with applesauce, cinnamon, nutmeg,and buttermilk. my mind drifts to next autumn. apple sauce, made with green apples,raw sugar, too much butter and white wine. so good.

small scissors

big girl.

glimmer bit

bits

"Baking Easter Bread" by William Kurelek, 1968.

reminder

“I love people. I love my family, my children... but inside myself is a place where I live all alone and that’s where I renew my springs so they never dry up.”

pearl s. buck

thankful

preservation

*

window,  jacksonville rd.,  in house that my father lived in with his family.  the house was torn down.

kate

borrowed from kates blog.  my dear friend who is dreaming about change. she has gathered this.

"Make a radical change in your lifestyle and begin to boldly do things which you may previously never have thought of doing, or been too hesitant to attempt. So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservation, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun. If you want to get more out of life, you must lose your inclination for monotonous security and adopt a helter-skelter style of life that will at first appear to you to be crazy. But once you become accustomed to such a life you will see its full meaning and its incredible beauty."

Jon Krakauer, Into the Wild

i have another friend that is very dear to me that tells me that if you want something enough, it will happen. 

reminder

i have been blessed.  i have a child that has gold radiating from her core.  she holds my hand and sings 'moon river' to me.  the audrey hepburn version, of course.  i can see the moon from bedroom window at around 9 pm.  i have all of my teeth that i gave willingly to the tooth fairy so many years ago, original envolopes and all.  i have friends that are so encouraging, so devoted and so different.  i have had a hard time but i needed to write this out so i can remember and that you can see my fortune. 

lillys

conservatory

affection

charge forth

simple

patsy cline in the rain. taking the backroads, trees are black against the pink sky. putting on a sweater that still smells like woodsmoke.  eighties love music.  handwritten letters. checked shirts.  walking on peppermint  and tattered jeans.  modesty.  honesty. bravery and sun tea. 

heather

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I.

We sit beside the headstone thus,

And wish that name were carved for us.

The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife,

As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life

With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.

We dealt with books, we trusted men,

And in our own blood drenched the pen,

As if such colors could not fly.

We walked too straight for fortune's end,

We loved too true to keep a friend;

At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I

We seem of no use in the world;

Our fancies hang gray and uncurled

About men's eyes indifferently;

Our voice which thrilled you so, will let

You sleep; our tears are only wet:

What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

It was not thus in that old time

When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime

To watch the sunset from the sky.

"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said:

I, smiling at him, shook my head.

'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

Though now none takes me on his arm

To fold me close and kiss me warm

Till each quick breath end in a sigh

Of happy languor. Now, alone,

We lean upon this graveyard stone,

Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.

Suppose the world brought diadems

To tempt us, crusted with loose gems

Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.

We scarcely care to look at even

A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,

We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I?

In this abundant earth no doubt

Is little room for things worn out:

Disdain them, break them, throw them by!

And if before the days grew rough

We once were loved, used, - well enough,

I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

flight

jump

"I don’t want to earn my living; I want to live."
Oscar Wilde

lilacs

view from the second floor hall window. early am. birds are all i hear.

proud flesh

Proud Flesh.  a nude study of her husband, Larry Mann, with whom she has spent the last forty years. Sally Mann, with her true talent. as literate as she is visual, her essay about this work is a testament to the power of deep trust honed over time. moved by this paragraph:

And so it was with fire and ice, the studio woodstove too far away from the light to do him any good on a cold winter afternoon, that Larry and I began this work of exploring what it means to grow older, to let the sunshine fall voluptuously on a still-beautiful form, and to spend quiet afternoons together again. No phone, no kids, two fingers of bourbon, the smell of the ether, the two of us—still in love, still at work.

coming

When lilacs last in the door-year bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd--and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

- Walt Whitman,
When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloom'd
(I, Leaves of Grass)
 
you can almost hear them start blooming.  smiling because we made it through the winter.

dainties and summer thoughts

soup

leek and potato soup
4 leeks (white parts) minced
1 small onion minced
2 tbsp. butter
1 qt. water
2 tsp. salt
4 potatoes minced
2 cups hot milk

cook leeks & onion slowly with 1 tbsp. of butter in a saucepan until they are soft. do not brown.  add water, salt & potatoes.  continue cooking slowly for about 40 min. add milk & tbsp. butter.  serve with a piece of french bread, which has been dried in the oven,  floating on top.

black bass hotel, 1950
bucks cooks, an artists county 1950

there is a great story that goes to this soup...full of warmth and fun and apples.

lists

me

a girl
in green gauze
simple domesticity
wood fired
seasonal
outdoors as important as in
heirloom pumpkins and tomatoes
blips of great grandmothers
dreams of long tables of antique silver and ironstone
outdoor concerts
full moons
daisys
sacks instead of purses
seed saver and plant exchanges
linen blankets
beeswax
painted floors
blue hydrangeas
turquoise
spoon and fork christmas trees
rustic stone fruit desserts
spun sugar nests
mudcakes and altered art
work boots and skirts
farmers markets
freckles and silver necklaces
too much sugar and cream in black tea
night walks
lanterns
lavender, fig and rose ice cream
                                     gonna build it right back
                                     to a castle not a shack
                                     with the sun across my back
                                     how sweet, how sweet life could be

thankful

    princess nightgown and black wellie boots.. with levon the stag sheep.

tracks

the sun came today, brought the warmth and i tried to harvest the gift. i have to do things around the house that i will have to do again countless times, but i dont mind. i have an established burn pile in the back, ready to be lit. soon. trying to find my purpose. mother. friend. companion. career? cook, harvester, manufacturer. dreamer.  its just too hard to put it into words. i feel like i haven't been given permission until recently to figure any of this out.

necessity is the mother of invention.

i hope to see an old big table, in the top floor in my barn, (which currently has hardly any steps up to it and houses wendy bird, resident vulture.) a giant wall with fabric scraps, old pages from books, a simple photo of my daughter's sad brown eyes and a giant rug with turqoise in it. pillows made of mattress ticking. nubby warm blankets for the occasional nap. the scent of damask rose.  lanterns.  my new bee tile. wall of jars, with herbs that remind me of childhood and warm summer nights. a line of chairs in various
stages of disrepair. for friends. my sewing machine, and a brown floral to make a festoon curtain for the window that overlooks the field. when i am brave enough to climb the steps, (you have to walk on the very ouside of them and hold on to the walls), i watch the wind blow the tops of the corn. in the winter, you can see all the way to the hill above the covered bridge. the college lights up the horizon. gold. but the barn is in pieces.

tracks before the train.

locarno

the most beautiful place i have ever been.  if i even think about it i am almost breathless, the night i sat on a balcony in the youth hostel.  the air was so clear and warm and glowing.  at the time,  there was a festival in the center of town, there was dancing. i danced with dozens of people i never met nor spoke the same language with.  the music stayed in my ears till morning.  the alps hugged this sweet little city.  when i looked up, i saw only stars, millions of glimmer bits that winked at me, telling me that they had their own secrets and stories and they knew all of  mine-  they had been watching me.

renewal

It was one of those March days when the sun shines

hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the

 light, and winter in the shade. ~Charles Dickens

checks and short gowns

The Henry Walton 1776 painting "Plucking the Turkey"

companion

tom

back country

sustenance

To make a very good Barley-Gruel.

Of three Ounces of Pearl-barley make a Quart of Barley-water; shift it once or twice, if it is not white; put to it four Ounces of Currants clean pick’d and wash’d; when they are plumpt, pour the Gruel out to cool a little, and beat up the Yolks of three Eggs and put into it, with half a Pint of White-wine, and half a Pint of new thick Cream, the Peel of a Lemon, and as much Sugar as you like; stir it gently over the Fire ‘till ‘tis as thick as Cream. ‘Tis a pretty wholesome Spoon-meat for Suppers.

A Collection of Above Three Hundred Receipts in Cookery, Physick and Surgery
 Mary Kettilby (1724)

mourning

this morning i lost my dove, emmylou.  she helped bring life back into my home.

love

respite

trapped in a snow squall in my drafty nest. lost my train of thought for a bit. ok, a couple weeks. npr on so low i can only hear it when i hold my breath. on the window there is a framed photo of the coast of vinalhaven, maine. my final destination. the cats are unraveling the caning on an old white chair that i found in smithfield, va. i find my mind drifting to random images of two or three bin laundry sinks that would work well along the side of the house as a gardening bench base. i intenionally redirect. to a small resturant in a rural area. maybe it is mine. it's evening, in the summer, and there is a tiny potager garden in front, and white windsors with a bake oven made of stone in the side yard, where i would produce pies, and breads for the amazed guest.

stolen laugh

1898 mark twain on jane austen-




Every time I read "Pride and Predjudice" I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin bone.
 
though these are not my sentiments,  i found this wonderfully funny.

honey

a new year that will be better than its sister. a new endeavor.  i am in the throes of a beekeeping class and i am in love. so much going on in such a small place. i especially adore the worker bee. they make up 99% of the colony and they are nurturers. they defend the hive, collect water and pollen. they feed the queen, drones and the upcoming brood. the worker bee is an army of sterile females that clean the colony, produce propolis, wax and honey. they keep the brood area at a constant 95 degrees in the height of summer and the dead of winter.
and she remains faithful to her particular bossom the entire time that blossom is in bloom.



''There are certain pursuits which, if not wholly poetic and true, do at least suggest a nobler and finer relation to nature than we know. The keeping of bees, for instance." -- Henry David Thoreau

affection

four

i grew up in the house next door. i actually moved there when i was four, but really, thats when i think my memory started. the smell of peppermint that grew wild in front of the barn, the grapevine that was in the backyard. in the summer we were always outside. when hot it was time to run to the shade of the house. a sharp line of chill in the back. the ping of dad in the barn hitting the anvil and the smell of coal burning in his forge. going out in the evening to play on the trail after our baths. it felt clean and the sky was a perfect mix of pink and black. frantic because i couldnt tell time yet. i could do cartwheels. miles of them. i dreamed of the color of peaches and glued clover flowers on foam plates to give as gifts.

my own daughter is four and i think about her memory starting now, a half mile through the field from the house i had all those memories. in the spring i plan to build her a lovely playhouse, based off a picture of one in s.c. that has the presence of my house. she is afterall, a wonderful housekeeper. she was raised her first two and a half years in a virginia town that was always blooming. the only thing she remembers about the village is the hydrangeas and tea roses that were so fragrant in front of our summer kitchen. she remembers the drum and fife corp parades and me cooking over a fire. i have made it so the smell of woodsmoke is in her blood.