When Life Give You Lemons . . .

 . . . retreat to the splendor of the Garden. 

Hoe a little, havest a little, have a cold drink,

then wander through the gardens

taking photos with your brother, friend, and gardening partner,

basking in the glory of the late day light.

Now, what was that about life and lemons . . .?

Framed Fabric Art

Framing fabric to hang on the wall of a room is an easy, affordable, graphic way to add a jolt of pizzazz to a bare wall.  These 8 prints were created in just a couple of hours using simple materials. 

Framed Fabric Art

Materials

Fabric scraps

Picture frames

Spray Paint (optional)

Mats or card stock

Ruler

Pencil or pen

Masking or painter's tape

Old cream-colored Martha Stewart picture frames from Kmart

 were given new life with a fresh coat of white paint.

Use a mat that fits the frame or cut card stock to the size of the frame.

For this project, I used the mat and card stock to provide a white, sturdy 

opaque background on which to place the fabric.

Choose small pieces of a variety of fabrics that coordinate with

the colors of your room.  Preassembled packets of coordinating fabric pieces,

usually 18" x 21", called tonals, are available at stores

such as Wal-Mart and JoAnn Fabrics.

Cut each fabric piece larger than the mat or card stock.

Tape three sides of the fabric to the card stock or mat.  Securely fasten

the fabric, making sure the fabric is taut on the front side.

If using a fabric with a large pattern or an obvious one way pattern,

take care when positioning the fabric before you cut it. 

Place the fabric in the frame, tape the final side, pulling the fabric

tightly, then tape.  Add the frame back.

And, there you have it - colorful, inexpensive, easy art!

This art will adorn the walls of a pink and green nursery,

adding a big splash of color, tying together the colors

used elsewhere in the room.

 

And she is born!

Oh , the indignities that must be suffered by newborns

 as they make their way from the calm darkness of their mother's womb

 into the loudness and brightness of our world.

Being wrapped in swaddling clothes had a calming effect.

The perfection of of her tiny face, with Dadddy's hand behind her head.

And she sleeps.

Words cannot begin to describe the magnificence.

Mindless Meandering

The quite perfect Amish countryside in mid July in southern Ohio.

A flock of sheep under the watchful eye of a sheep dog,

a huge fluffy white creature, none too pleased with my presence.

A Front Porch Visit

Tonight, Better Half took some dinner up to our neighbor/friend/third dad, Frank.  He lives up the hill from us. We've known him for 27 years, since we first moved to the North Forty.  He's watched us grow up.  He is a widower.  His wife, Connie, died a couple of years ago after prolonged illness. 

I saw Better Half take a seat and then Frank take a seat on the other side of the front porch.  Not wanting to miss a a good Sunday evening visit, I bounded up the hill and had a seat, as well 

Well, we watched the cars drive up and down the street.  Mama amused us with her antics.  She rolled around on the cool concrete of the porch for a while, then burst out into the yard to perform her theatrics.  Frank kept a watchful eye on her for us.

After some minutes of catching up, Frank asked us if we were too young to remember the pool.  Anyone from this small town over the age of 25 knows "the pool".  For decades, and for generations of young people,  it was the place to be in the summer.  I knew it as the Terrace Club, and later as Dreamland. 

It was a huge pool with sidewalks all around and a veranda above it on the east side.  The pool sported two piers, one in the shallow end and one in the deep end. I remember skinned red knees as a child from jumping from the pier and hitting the rough concrete bottom.   Five diving boards ringed the south end of the pool.  On the west side of the pool rising high above the poool, were three grass terraces.  Apparently, some fairly interesting adolescent kinds of things took place on those terraces, though I can't say that I know that first hand.

There was a swim team.  There was synchronized swimming.  There was a water show every summer. And, there were regular swim dances on the veranda.  I think a lot more dancing took place than swimming.

The Terrace Club served the best french fries ever. You padded through the screen door, hungry and wet, into the snack bar, which smelled of chlorine, stale wet bathing suits, grease and cheeseburgers, to order your food.  You then ate your fries at the blue metal tables and benches on the veranda that overlooked the pool, in the shade of a bluish green corrugated roof. 

I spent hours and hours at "the pool", strategically lounging on my towel, hoping, ardently, to be noticed by my crush of the week.  I learned to dive off the meter board at The Terrace Club, though I never screwed up the courage to dive from the high dive board.  I even took Ivey and Orion there as babies, just before the pool closed for good.  They liked the french fries, too. 

But, I digress.

Frank met his wife, Connie, at the Terrace Club when they were sophomores in high school.  He had gone with a friend who was going to meet up with his girlfriend.  By the end of the afternoon, Frank asked Connie if he could walk her home.  She lived on 5th Street.  He lived on 8th Street.  She said yes, and so it began.

Frank became a front porch regular at her house.  Soon he was asked to dinner.

World War II interrupted the courtship.  At the age of 17, Frank enlisted in the Navy and said his good-byes to Connie. They continued their relationship by letter.  He traveled completely around the world.  It's almost impossible for me to imagine 17 year olds sailing around the world on a ship in combat.  Once back in the country, and on his way to being released at the Great Lake Naval Training Center, he learned his train would stop in Portsmouth on its way to Great Lakes. He sent a telegram to Connie.

There she was, at the station, with her parents, where they spent a few lovely moments together. 

Frank returned to this little town after being released from the Navy.  Three days after stepping off the train, he and his friend headed to a jewelry store, where he bought Connie an engagement ring with his discharge money.

They were married at the age of 20.  They spent many happy decades together.  There was great love and affection in his voice as he talked of the love of his life.  He, no doubt, misses her greatly. 

Then, quitely simply, he told us it was her birthday.  Today she would have been 85. 

Happy Birthday, Connie.

Eat A Peach

A trip to our favorite peach orchard today. 

We've been buying peaches there every summer for years.

The orchard sits peacably in a narrow green valley,

along a winding road and creek.

Not a high-tech operation.

In fact, there was not a soul in sight when we arrived.

This orchard operates on the honor system.





You choose an overflowing basket of yellow peaches.

You pay $10.00.

Always a hard choice,

because the baskets are so full and the fruit so luscious.



Once you've made selection, you put your $10.00 in the locked box that sits on the counter. 

Of course, we didn't have correct change.

So, Better Half had to open the box, deposit his money and take his change.

Still, not a soul in sight.

Old tractors  

and peach crates abound.

More of the crop waiting to take its turn on the display shelf.



Better Half picked one of the choicest fruits to sample before we left the orchard.

As he took his first bite peach juice sprayed in every direction.

The fruit was fully ripe, sweet, with yielding flesh, and as juicy as any peach I've every tasted.

One of the quintessential joys of summer!



Nesting

Impending grandmotherhood has given me the nesting instinct.  (None of the photos in this post have anything to do with the subject matter of the post.  I just like them.)

Because I have been so busy helping The One and Orion prepare for the arrival of the I-can't-wait- for-much-longer granddaughter, (just imagine how her mother must feel) I realized, with a good bit of alarm, that I had not begun to prepare a place for my granddaughter to place her little head when she comes to visit.

Better Half and I trooped off to the basement this evening to search for the crib he was sure we saved.  We did.  It is buried behind decades of the stuff of life.  Better Half has promised to resurrect it tomorrow.  That will be an undertaking, to be sure.

I've begun to ponder painting the guest bedroom, formerly known as Orion's room.  The colors I'm pondering are called Gleeful and its lighter cousin, Springtime.  Both are Sherwin Williams shades of green, not much different than the chair on which these flowers are resting.

I had envisioned a fairy pink and ivory palace for the little princess, but realized that if a little prince happens along after the little princess, it might make more sense to choose a more neutral palette.

So, we've got a crib, a rocker, and a basic small dresser..  It looks like we need a new mattress, some bedding, a box of diapers, a good many books, and open arms, most of all, open loving arms.

I can hardly wait.  I'm like a five year old on Christmas Eve. 



Hurry along, darling baby girl. We're all so anxious for your arrival! 

Second Time Around

Yesterday, my mom and I set out to craft a bridal bouquet, in a farmer's market style, if you will, 16 table arrangements, and  one floor arrangement in an antique galvanized watering can.

The jars waiting patiently to be filled with blooms.

The first flowers arrive from the North Forty gardens.

The next flowers arrive from the roadsides surrounding this little town.  Better Half and I set out early Sunday morning to do a little trespassing on railroad property to gather blooms.  Actually I gathered blooms while he played with his Iphone, but it never hurts to have your attorney close by when committing a tiny crime. 

The next flowers arrive from Fuhrmann Orchards.

The next flowers arrive from the bridegroom's parents farm.

Soon the kitchen is filled to overflowing to with an almost staggering number of blooms. I remarked to Better Half that the beauty in the kitchen was about to make me cry.  He mumbled something about understanding and returned to the golf game he was watching on TV. 

Mom and I began to audition blooms for the bridal bouquet by placing them in a large glass of water.  When we were satisfied with the color and number, I began to weave the blooms into a loose arrangement.  This was the result, held by my able assistant, Mom.

The bouquet consisted of daisies, black eyed susans, butterfly weed, wild sweet peas, golden rod, bachelor's buttons, cosmos, straw flowers, cosmos, daylily, gomphrena, queen anne's lace, angelonia, Japanese fountain grass, echinacea, zinnia, snapdragon, celosia, and nasturtium. Whew!

Posing for a formal portrait, the bouquet shows off the green grosgrain ribbon which covered the base.

Ready to be delivered to the bride. 

About this time the skies began to darken.  Lightning streaked around the North Forty and the thunder became deafenning.  One particularly fierce bolt struck the neighborhood transformer and the kitchen where we were working was plunged into semi-darkness, not very conducive to crafting wedding flowers.  So the whole show moved to the back porch, bucket by bucket, jar by jar, where work began again.

Once the flowers were finished, they were delivered to the dinner site.   Here, they sit quite comfortably in the formal setting.

When the dinner was finished rather late last evening, I collected the arrangements, and returned them to my back porch, too tired to dispose of them.  This morning, the brightness on the porch made me smile as I walked through the house.  And, tonight, when I returned home from work, the slightly wilted arrangements still managed to bring a smile to my face. 

As I set about making a typical Monday dinner of grilled chicken and salad, I glanced up to see Better Half, on the back porch, peering down at the arrangements which dotted the concrete floor of the porch.  He then gently chose one of them, lifted it up, and placed it on the dining table. His simple, sweet act stopped me in my tracks. 

This was his choice.  As we sat down to dinner, I looked at the rest of the jars sitting on the floor, and one by one, more of the leftovers began to make their way to the table.

Soon the table top was filled with five slightly decrepit, yet colorful, leftover flower arrangements.  Leftovers never looked so good.

Thank you to my friend and the newly married couple for affording me the opportunity to create beauty, to my mom for the light-hearted spirit she brought to the arrangements, and to Better Half for letting me enjoy them a "Second Time Around".