Dreamy Daffodils

Six months ago I opened a bag of "assorted" bulbs and set about digging holes. I blessed each bulb as I settled it into place, and cursed each squirrel that sat nearby twitching his tail in anticipation of a snack. 

I knew that the dry brown orbs were in disguise, wearing jackets of dull, brown paper. I knew that inside each one a thing of beauty was waiting, ready to emerge from a winter nap with all the glory of the sun itself.  

I didn't know then how many different hues of yellow, gold, pink, and cream were on the horizon, or how many sizes and shapes were in store for me. Best of all, I had no idea how wonderful they would smell.

April has arrived, and the happy trumpets are here.

                   Snowdrop Dreaming

As one year ends and another begins, I search for a symbol, and the tiny snowdrop is my choice.. In some parts of the world, the slim green leaves are already making their way through the soil, searching for the light.  Here in the cold of a January Midwest winter, I can only dream of them, tucked into the soil, a few inches beneath the surface, waiting.      

                                   

A  Reality Check

As I read about others beginning to finding snowdrops, I couldn’t resist a little stroll into places in my own garden that had been unvisited for months.  When I knelt down and gently pulled the tattered leaves away from a spot where I remembered planting bulbs last fall, I found no sweet green shoots. Instead, I discovered tiny dried bulbs scattered on top of the frozen soil and unmistakable evidence of marauding squirrels and chipmunks. Devious little diggers all! With a heavy heart, I replaced the fragile blanket of leafy protection and cheered myself with the thought that surely some of the bulbs must have survived. 

It really is too early for me to find snowdrops I suppose, but some deep urging sent me in search of them anyway. So, I will continue to wait.

Waiting is a word I found myself hearing and using a lot this past year. Waiting is what gardeners learn to do. I know that when I finally walk back into the world waiting outside my door in spring, seeds and garden tools in hand, I will be greeted with something new and wonderful again. 

This is a favorite illustration from Sara Midda's book,

In and Out of The Garden

Just as the poppy became a memorial to the casualties of the First World War, so the snowdrops were seen as a symbol of consolation in the midst of another war, 60 years previous, by the British troops fighting in the Crimea. Following the freezing winter of 1855, the soldiers welcomed the flowers with delight, and The Times correspondent William Russell reported," The soil, wherever a flower has the chance of springing up, pours forth a multitude of snowdrops..."

The persistent power of a humble wildflower, refusing to be interrupted, or even displaced, by the brutal power of war, is a concept rich with the symbolism of good over evil. The healing powers of beauty and nature are always stronger than the human hands of destruction. An idea not to be forgotten.

So many years have gone by, each one with its own cold, dark winter. Yet spring has come to every one of them. It will continue to come, announced delicately and quietly by snowdrops the world over, the ones deep in a German forest, and the ones just outside my kitchen window. 

                                    - from Pieces of Us

From Pen to Paper

Until the missing story of ourselves is told, nothing besides "told" can suffice us.  We shall go on quietly craving it.   - L. Riding

     There are choices to make when writing those stories, and as a writer, I cannot deny the speed and efficiency of working on my laptop. But there are times when I crave the feeling of a pen in my hand, and I have recently re-discovered the delights of writing with my own, almost forgotten, fountain pen. From pen to paper, the flow of the ink, the texture of the paper beneath my hand, this connects me to the words with an intimacy that a keyboard lacks. 

 

     A few favorite quotes and illustrations, clipped from the pages of "Pieces of Us," my recent memoir. . . . I decided to turn some of them into notecards, my words on the outside, the inside left blank for someone else's.

     As I worked on my recent book, a beautiful green fountain pen sat on my desk. Like a silent muse, it was with me as the words flowed onto the paper. The pen belonged to my father, one small piece of the inventory returned to my mother following his death in WW II, 75 years ago. The nib is rusted, and it's no longer able to write, but it retains a tangible power to remind me of the many letters that he wrote with it.  

     The navigator and single survivor on my father's B-24 crew, wrote these words to me in his letter twenty years ago, speaking about my father . . . 

      "When others of his crew went out for a good time, he would smile and decline.  Instead, he would settle in with his pipe and write letters home."

  
       There's a personal relationship that develops between a fountain pen and its user. The pen needs to be fed and pampered, stored in a safe spot when not in use, checked for ink supply, and most importantly, it needs to be used. And as it is used, the nib of the pen adapts to the writer, to the speed, the cadence, and the pressure from the hand. 

     When I visited the home of Emily Dickenson a few years ago, I was struck by the simplicity of the space where she wrote her poetry. Her writing desk was a small wooden table in her bedroom. Emily wrote many of her poems on small scraps of found paper.

     Watching the recent "Little Women"  movie was a revelation and reminder to me of the difficult process of writing and publishing a novel that authors, especially women, endured in the past. I especially loved the sound effect of the scratching noise of Jo's pen on paper, and her ink-stained fingers.  From dipping the nib into the ink well over and over, to spreading pages over her attic floor to organize the chapters, I marveled at the work, the dedication, the frustration! 

      It's good to be reminded by those writers and poets of the past. The tools may have changed, but writing will always include work, dedication and of course frustration.

















     My father's pen remains a personal, tactile connection to him. In that spirit, I like to think of my own fountain pen as a connection to other writers everywhere.

     Write your heart out, and make your mark!

First Steps

"Taking  the first step requires a bit of courage, but staying on the path will surely require a lot of grace."



   I love words. I love them as a book, I love then as a letter or personal note, I love them as poetry, and I especially love them as 
a "Quote."

    Heres one to start me off on the new year, I'm back to this beleaguered and bygone place that I have ignored for over a year, my blog.


    I'm not going to call this a resolution, just a restart, fueled by a new attitude about the space I call my blog. Over the years I have come here to play, to learn, and to share.  I have put too much effort and laid down too many expectations in this space, then sat back and waited for something to happen.

What? Recognition, connection, appreciation? It didn't exactly happen that way, and that is the way of most expectations, isn't it? 


    I'm a bit of an introvert, and like many introverts, putting my thoughts into words on paper is much easier than saying them aloud. Knowing that about myself, that and the new attitude I want to carry with me on this path, I'm off, asking for grace along the way.

     About that sharing, I think that may be the most motivating force for me to start again.  As I exercise my writing and my art, this can be a place for me to put it out there for others. Or.....it might just be the place to record my efforts for myself. On a practical note, this is certainly a way to take on the challenges of social media by a senior citizen.

     If anyone is reading this, thank you for taking the time. I would love to receive comments, followers.  If no one ever sees it, well, that's OK as well. 

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Markets & Merriment

It's that time again, the height of the season, and the" Maker's Markets" are popping up everywhere.


Here's to creative women, then and now.

The terminology has changed, but the heart of the matter is the same. We have "Markets" now, and we call ourselves "Makers." We have social media that spreads information farther and faster than the generation before us could imagine. I was a part of that past generation, and I'm still hanging on, a part of the present and current order.

There was no Pinterest or Instagram, but I always found inspiration. All year long I stacked up copies of McCall's Needlework & Crafts, Family Circle, and even Crafts Magazine, where I worked as an editor for a few years. There were some local "craft stores",  but the fabric stores and the local "Variety" stores were treasure troves of supplies.

We called our events bazaars, craft shows, festivals, and open house. We literally opened our own homes, after moving all of the furniture out of several rooms, and set up our wares on folding tables.



We smocked and we sewed and we quilted, oh the things we could sew and stuff. I especially remember the little, pinched faces of the dolls created with stuffing and pantyhose! We knitted, crocheted and embroidered. We painted, we carved and we cooked. Salt-dough ornaments were all the rage!

 We found the time in the afternoon when the kids were in school and the babies were napping. We found time after the rest of the family was tucked in for the night, when we would retreat to our dining room tables or our basement laundry rooms, and create until we couldn't keep our eyes open.

There was no end to our creativity and no stopping us, and somehow we also managed (most of the time) to love and feed our families, actually sitting down nearly every night together at the dinner table, clean our houses, volunteer at our schools and churches, and have fun.




We didn't have social media, but we had social networks just the same, and the word went out via posters, put up in the neighborhood grocery store, flyers passed out, blurbs in the School and Church newsletters, ads and feature stories in the local and community newspapers.

The once a year bazaar at Calvin Coolidge school was the pinnacle of all local events. After setting up our booths on Friday night in the gym, with the help of grumbling husbands, dads and available children, we proceeded to sell our wares all day Saturday. The PTA sold sloppy joes, chili, and hot dogs on the stage, and our toddlers ran around the school with a freedom they didn't usually have!


At the end of the day, we loaded up what was left and went home to count our money. On Sunday morning we went to church, thankful that we now could pay off our Christmas layaways. When the holidays were over, we started all over again.

I have arrived with a different focus today, and I find that painting and writing are the avenues of creativity I prefer to travel. It's been a wonderful journey all along the way, shared with many friends and fellow creatives. The journey continues . . . .

MOMENTS & MEMORIES

Shared with others, Memories and the gathering of children who lost their fathers in World War II.

The Moments were many and unforgettable.

With the words, “To care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow, and his orphan,” President Lincoln affirmed the government’s obligation to care for those injured during the war and to provide for the families of those who perished on the battlefield. Thus, some say, was the beginning of the label “War Orphan.” 

A wreath was placed in Arlington National Cemetery

 at the site of the AWON memorial tree.

So many years ago, our fathers left their country, their family, and everything they knew as secure and familiar. They left with the hope and the confidence that they would return, but only after they had done what needed to be done to keep the ones they left behind safe and free. 

Those who didn't return left behind a generation of children who would be called "war orphans."  We are still here, and we are committed to honoring our lost fathers, and keeping their memories alive for as long as we are alive. 

Arlington National Cemetery on a sunny September morning.

The World War II Memorial,  

the site of a special celebration of our fathers at the 

AWON  Gala 2018.

Working on illustrations for the memoir 

I am writing about my father and me.

England is a Garden

"Our England is a garden 
that is full of stately views, 
of borders, beds and shrubberies,
and lawns and avenues ....."

               - rudyard kipling



This morning's gray sky gave way to a brilliant blue as the day progressed. It's the way of Autumn days, and while October usually signals the end of gardening here in the Midwest, not so in England.



I recently returned home from a tour of September gardens in the UK, newly filled with ideas, inspiration. I spent the next few days shopping for plants and filling pots and troughs with pansies, kale  and mums. I did a good deal of the usual cutting back and cleaning up, but I'm not done yet, and it feels really good.

From the formal gardens in London, here a special garden at Kensington Palace to commemorate the anniversary of the death of Princess Diana . . . . 

. . . .to the deep green country gardens of Dorset, punctuated by surprise pops of color and rustic arbors . . . .

 . . . and how about a flock of fancy chickens, settled into their chinoisserie abode, complete with blue and white china accompaniments.

 Water and the reflection it offers is an essential element,

  . . .and can we talk about stone, everywhere and in every form, a favorite accent in every garden are these vintage staddle stones.

 Archways, doorways, gates, leading you from room to garden room, framing the enticing views and offering an invitation as you enter another experience.

Dahlias were the stars of the late summer borders, rising tall and regal above everything else

 Structures, "follies", dovecotes, sheds and huts, magical little buildings around every corner

 Textures, the velvet moss, the lacy leaves and the crisp conifers, greens of every hue softening the edges of giant pieces of stone.

Vistas, living green sculpture as far as the eye can see, 

 Above it all the drama of the most amazing skies

Thatched roofs atop century old cottages in the Cotswolds,  yes they really do still exist and people live in them, people who serve you tea and scones and cakes! 

I have gained a new outlook, and Im eager to consider this season of the year with new eyes. Ill make a list for next year of more late-season plants to try, and for now I will continue to embrace every day with a newness that will not end according to a page on the callender.

Sweet Peas and Sweet Corn

Its almost over  . . . . summer.  

I shall use this garden as a paint box, palette and canvas  - Richard Page

Sweet peas and sweet corn, big juicy red tomatoes, farmer 's markets, sudden thunderstorms, blessed rains, butterflies and bumble bees, tender twilights and the hum of cicadas.

Before it all goes away,  take time to savor the end of summer.  Like so many endings, sadness and satisfaction go hand in hand. Heres to those garden classics still hanging on, still giving pleasure and still coloring my world.  

Butterflies and late summer zinnias- perfect partners.

Bountiful blooms to cut for bouquets

Late summer annuals are a riot of bold and happy colors

Good morning from this blue beauty

Here's to remembering the smells and the colors when the snow covers it all up.

Sweet is all I can say - So Sweet!!!!

Memories of May

" I would give you some violets . . ."  Shakespeare

Where did it go, that magical month of May, dancing on, carrying me on a happy journey of fragrance,  progressing from one scent to another, leaving me to wonder how one month can hold so much beauty and pleasure.

I meant to write this blog as it was happening, but I was much too involved in the glory of it all, so instead I'll try to remember it while it is all still fresh in my memory. 

It all began with fanciful pots of Easter Lilies, adding their sweet scent inside my house. It only takes one!

Delicate petals of softly scented Violas and Pansies provided a fragrant bed for an Easter egg.

As May Day arrived, the air outside my back door was infused with the heavenly perfume of Lily of the valley. Stepping out in the early morning for a deep breath became an exquisite ritual.

This wild yellow "Canary" rose (rosa xanthina), is the first rose to bloom in my garden, opening it's golden petals to embrace the statue of St Elizabeth. I couldnt resist burying my nose in the honey-scented blossoms.

Hyacinth, short and stout, the waxy blooms infused with a fragrance that no candle or perfume can capture completely. 

The first Peony, a tree peony with blossoms as big as a dinner plate, appeared like a surprise ghost beneath the euonymous tree, with a brief but beautiful bloom time.

The lovely lilacs were next, perfuming the air outside with their unforgetable fragrance, and providing armfuls  of bouquets.

Bridal wreath, cascading fountains of intense fragrance, just like the ones that surrounded my grandmother's front porch.

The first Rugosa rose, fragrance so enticing, just waiting for the bees to visit.

This iris, like palest blush silk, with a unique perfume that rivals the most famous formulas of the perfumer's world.

The fat buds on the peony bushes slowly unfurl and add their honey scented perfume to the garden's medly.  

Mock Orange blossoms, so thick and fragrant the branches bow beneath their weight.

A crown of May Flowers for my resident garden sprite, with beauty as fragile and fleeting as the pleasures of childhood

So farewell to May, a month like no other, with memories to make me forever grateful, forever glad.