my soap love package, being sent in to be featured in  MaryJanes Farm Magazine. there are very few people who know that i adore this magazine. i am floating when i walk. next, Kinfolk magazine, to document the opening of the folk school part of my business. my cup overflows.

up to my old tricks again, new places are hard for me, but this, this is safe and familiar. i have acquired a space, to make soap and to fix up all of those chairs i intend to sell, in an old bank from the 1870s. i immediatley tore up the old carpet exposing the wood floors. big doors with stained glass panels and a bell when the door opens. being the girl i am supposed to be.

 

soap.

photo credit of sharyn frenkel. this weekend. greensgrow farm csa.

late night, tasha tudors garden book, tea. thats my gal.

a warm winter day. caught the bees in action. i have been wrapping the hive in an old blanket in order to keep my weak colony warm. i ordering a second package this week.

christmas eve, in red

rest in peace

tonight at 6:10 pm, my grandfather, William Richard Gerding, passed away. sadly, i have had him all of my life, but never knew much about him. but here's what i do. he was born on september 30, the same day as my daughter thankful. on the day thankful was born, while in the throws of labor, i called to say happy birthday, and he said that i should stop whining, millions of women did just what i was about to do. he loved dogs, all dogs, and golf. he was a gifted photographer and was a marine. he loved to dance and when he hugged you, it was a strong tight hug. he was a talented woodworker and was excellent at free handing dovetails. he wore red everyday. he loved red. he also loved my nana. even when they stopped dating, and things were never to be again, he persisted and won her back from a man that "pinned" her from west point. he married her and they danced to rosemary clooney, he would tell me about how tiny nanas waist was. they had four children.  for the past two years, any time i spent with him, he would talk to me about shelburne museum, he said that i would get it. i plan to take thankful this year, on my way to maine.

febuary

what a warm sweet day. the sun finally found me, down in the mountain valley, and i curtsied with joy. sunlight bathed the hive, and the bees that i thought would not make it, clustered and spun and took note of the new surroundings. no longer in a field, but nestled tightly along the mountain. i ran outside, armed with the camera and a bursting heart. its like a little part that i put away for the winter was coming back to life inside of me as well. i quickly threw on a pot with all the sugar in the house, and a couple tablespoons of water,for a impromptu feeding, but they were too excited to stop, sit still. febuary used to be a notoriously horrible month for my household. always cold, at the end of the long red glare, it was hard to remember warm summer nights. i used to be married to man that used to be someone that was good, and even then, that month was hard.  the song by dar williams called febuary would come on the radio and we, while driving would both cry. just cry. february's can break things. but this is a different year.

belly fire

"...Tasha Tudor has lived in farmhouses in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Vermont, most of them without electricity or running water.  She has an intense interest in the domestic arts- the way they were done without mechanization.  Her son built her a house thirty years ago that resembles an 1880's farmhouse and is inaccessible by car..."

today, one of my soaps was put into someones treasury list on etsy . i am thrilled and slightly dismayed. since the move, i have not been able to put any energy into thankful sage farm school and the page is looking a bit spare. this afternoon, i found a plate that's tattered but stunning, produced in england in the 1850's. also in my possession, a near dozen of small medicine and tincture bottles to fill with heirloom seeds; daisies, lavender, verbena and something fragrant and horribly invasive, so we all remember to keep fighting. i recently spotted an old cupboard within my meager wallets reach and located and locked into memory a set of four iron chairs that need some lovin. a pair of old round wire glasses and a few small little bits keep catching my eye to go on the figurative shelves of my shop. i am on the prowl for old sap buckets, big kettles to dip candles in, and a couple of sweet pinafores to wear with my boy shoes and my tattered rolled up jeans. i shouldnt publicly lay all of my plans out, but i need to be held accountable, to see it. do you see it? classes given in front of a clay bake oven, loaves of braided breads and pies coming out, and everyone understanding that we all can simplify, find joy in using our hands and being conscious of something thats not our usual constant.. getting a bunch of strong girls together, all with our skirts and bad ass boots, splitting wood, properly. harvesting a strong bounty from your garden and putting it by for the dark cold winter, a sweet summer strawberry on a late january night. some of our mothers knew about this stuff and most of our grandmothers did  this stuff. oh man... i can see it. and it looks good.

moved

its a full moon. i usually have a great romance with the moon, but i cant feel her right now. i feel like i forgot how to write.  i cant find my books on maine, my papers, a phone signal. sigh.

truth

"I never had any other desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I might be master at last of a small house and a large Garden." Abraham Cowley, The Garden, 1666

woman

man

golden days..

i am having a hard time finding the christmas spirit. but twinkle lights and the moons help alittle. 

tasha

starling

love

bare feet

Witch-Wife

 

She is neither pink nor pale,

And she never will be all mine;

She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,

And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;

In the sun ’tis a woe to me!

And her voice is a string of colored beads,

Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,

And her ways to my ways resign;

But she was not made for any man,

And she never will be all mine.

                                   Edna St. Vincent Millay ,1917