I painted the floor of my oldest’s nursery almost nineteen years ago.  It was white with a Wedgwoody blue border.  I have longed to paint another floor since and have measured and sketched meanders and hexagons, but have not again taken brush to wood.

The first thing I did to my current house was rescue her from the troubling orange cast of the light stain of her floors.  (Who thinks that color is a good idea? It should be illegal.) Having invested a good little bit in the no-red-not-too-black-just-rich-brown shade that runs throughout, I can’t come to terms with painting over it.

But, oh, that blue in Christopher Spitzmiller’s country house! Bold, yet grounding (no pun intended – okay, maybe a bit) this floor made my pulse jump and fingers itch for a brush the second I saw it.  This is one of those great rooms that if someone were to describe it to you – “Under the eave, snappy red and white chrysanthemum wallpaper, painted furniture, bright blue floor.” – might make you say, “Hmmm.” And yet, on sight, it’s perfection.

I still can’t cover my floors; there were too dear.  But my porch floor, she who was cracking and peeling not one but three layers of paint, was recently stripped.  The poor darling, I had planned on leaving her bare, to recover and breathe a little bit.  I’m not going to break it to her yet, but I have a colorful future planned.

Image, Christopher Spitzmiller’s farmhouse in Architectural Digest, July 2015.  Photography William Waldron; produced by Anita Sarsidi.  Spitzmiller’s spool bed once belonged to Albert Hadley.  If you can find one with similar pedigree, I say, do. But I run across these beds pretty regularly and they do look awfully swell painted.


This seems the perfect image to kick off the holiday weekend! Enjoy!

A few weeks ago I started seeing KC Needlepoint popping up on my Facebook feed.

“KC Needlepoint? What gives?”

I was thrilled to learn that two fringe friends of mine have teamed up to open a new needlepoint shop in town.

Clean, bright, fresh and well-stocked, I was there this week as they were wrapping up training their new associates.  (A few of whom I know to be veteran and prolific stitchers themselves.)

They open Friday, but have already had people dropping in to buy.  Their open house is Friday and Saturday from 9 a.m. – 4 p.m at 105 East Gregory in Waldo.

Stop in to see what’s up.  Food, drink, prizes and giveaways make it a party.

Don’t stitch? Don’t fret! There are quick and easy projects – and lots of friendly and patient help – for beginners.

KC Needlepoint
105 East Gregory
Kansas City, Missouri

You can find them on Facebook here.

Walking the dogs last week during a break in the rain, I realized the Linden Trees had bloomed. I did not notice because I was looking for them or even looking up, but rather because I walked into an invisible cloud of their scent that stopped me in my tracks.  There were Linden Trees on my old walk route by the yellow house and I would slow my pace as I approached them.  I have not imprinted their placement on my new path, though to tell the truth the dogs and I are more flexible than we used to be and do not follow the same route every day.  Because of this, the intoxicating sweetness of their scent is always a delightful surprise, like running into a former lover and finding that all that’s left is fond memories.

I’m working on a project for a friend and there’s a large Linden Tree in the front yard of her house.  I stop under it as I come and go and close my eyes and breathe.  The smell is so sweet; it is as thick as syrup and I have the feeling that if I open my mouth and stick out my tongue I would taste it. I never remember when the trees are going to bloom and I never remember when the scent fades.  So each year, I drink them in, thrilled that they have bloomed, grateful as long as it lasts.

My oldest son is graduating from high school Wednesday.  As I scan my Facebook and Instagram feeds I am seeing dozens of faces of his classmates and my friends’ children as they take next steps.  So many people comment that it went so fast.  They say that they blinked and suddenly there is an adult standing before them.  But it doesn’t feel that way to me.  Though I can still feel the fleshy pillow of his hand, it seems a lifetime ago since I walked him into pre-school with his security blanket tucked discretely into his bag.

In a way, we have grown up together.  I was a woman when I had him, thirty-one, but he made me an adult.  It occurred to me the other day, that for the most part, I did what I set out to do.  He is kind and he is curious.  He is funny and he can laugh at himself. He is tolerant and he is not afraid to take risks.  He is a horrible slob and an incorrigible procrastinator, but I fear he gets those things from me so I cannot complain.

He was an old soul when he came to me, and subsequently, easy to raise.  I have ferried him to the threshold of adulthood; the joys and challenges and responsibilities of his life will take him the rest of the way there and I will no longer have a leading role, but will instead be a supporting player.

My middle son is not taking the idea of his brother going away to college very well.  He does not like to talk about it, and when we do I smile and tell him how excited I am that his brother will have the opportunity to see the world in a new way.  It is thrilling.  “Aren’t you going to miss him?” he asks me.  Of course I am going to miss him. But I feel so fortunate to have had him with me nearly every day for his whole life until now.  If he stayed with me, I would not have done my job very well.  Besides, as he goes into the world, just as he carried that blanket into school, he will carry a piece of my heart inside of him wherever he goes.  I hope he takes it far.