You know how you sometimes reach into a jacket pocket or a bag and find $20 and think, “How could I have possibly left that there?” Today, looking for my make-up bag (the small red leather one – if you see it, please do let me know) I discovered one salted caramel left in a roomy camel-colored purse. Comfortable in familiar surroundings, he did not appear to be nearly as surprised to see me as I was to see him. We had a delicious, if brief, reunion.
Shopping for a client today I ended up buying a couple of things for myself. The first was a well-priced quilt for the daybed in the sunroom which I needed. Really. Then, quite unexpectedly, these two crystal vessels winked at me from a cabinet. Marked “bar glasses” I felt sure they’d much rather be vases and as they were eight dollars for the pair I put one in each hand and took them home, giving new meaning to the phrase “double fisting.”
The climbing roses that we planted a few years ago are finally blooming in earnest and I went out to cut a bunch. I’d neglected dead-heading and there were fewer than I thought. Fewer still as I said the words, “Dexter, please don’t eat the roses,” a phrase I never expected to say though it did not surprise me in the least as I did.
I’ll keep one vase for for myself and give the other away as its nice to share good fortune. I had a lovely text yesterday from a friend complimenting an outfit I’d cobbled together for Saturday night and the words coupled with his great taste meant the world. He’s met both Dexter and my meager garden so he’ll understand why his cup is filled with good intentions rather than blooms.
There are always things about the boys moving to the next phase that I don’t anticipate. There was a time that I thought I would never again sleep until I awoke on my own. Then one day I opened my eyes and realized that the only thing that disturbed my slumber was my own whirring mind.
This summer they have all reached a liberating level of independence. There is still plenty of “will you?” But instead of “Will you play Candyland?” it is “Will you pick up (insert name of friend) so we can go (do anything more fun than being here)?” And, of course, the oldest is driving, which I thought would be terrifying but is also the most incredible relief.
Which leaves me time to contemplate important things like berries. Berries are another item on the long list of “Reasons I Love Summer.” I usually have a bowl in the morning with my coffee and the paper, delighted at the idea that they are “healthy” and satisfy my nearly insatiable sweet tooth. Blackberries deliver a unique thrill as my mother forbade me to eat the ones that grew over our wall when I was a girl; it made them better then and it makes them better now.
As I eat alone, before the rest of the pack is awake, I’m not bound to set a good example and I’ve abandoned the spoon. I eat them with my fingers. Dewey and cool, I select the perfect combinations by feeling their shapes in the bowl while reading about the news of the day. It must be the color that attracts because the skin gives no hint of the flavor; there is no satisfaction until you bite. And each day I think, “Apple, shmapple, hardly tempting at all.” Berries are the most sensuous fruit.
I crave change from the routine but it takes me awhile to resettle. Our long, rainy spring has finally given way to summer and I am relieved; I flourish in the heat. On a good day in between spring storms I had gone out to run errands and arrived home to find a fort in a small tree in our front yard. As I came into the kitchen Bill began explaining, quickly yet calmly, how it came to be.
“You probably noticed the treehouse,” he said, slicing something into the sink.
I slid my bags onto the counter.
“I did actually.”
“They came up with the idea and had a plan and cut the wood by themselves. They just kept asking me for tools. And a rope.” He looked up at me, “I couldn’t say ‘no.'”
I nodded.
“I completely understand.”
So I went to find the middle and his friend, architects and master builders both, to have them give me the tour. This was just the beginning, they explained, and they outlined their plans with earnest eyes and descriptive hands.
“It’s like something out of Winnie-the-Pooh,” said my son as he and his friend admired their work and discussed its improvement at the same time.
It’s very difficult to argue with someone who makes reference to something that I hold as dear as Winnie-the-Pooh, so I nodded my head and hoped I would be as convincing if someone from our neighborhood association, a group that restricts the placement of lacrosse nets and “sold” signs, calls to explain that tree houses are not for front yards. Just in case, I’m ready to offer the crabapple in the back.
I am on the outs with the weather, holding it at a distance as a friend or lover who has delivered a thoughtless slight but cannot be cut loose. “Not personal,” of course, and I can’t pretend it’s so, but still I don’t care to reengage and can’t forgive. It’s no coincidence that every thing I seem to be ripping from magazines and pulling from showrooms is green. Apple and kelly and acid, anything for every room to cut the gloom of the clouds and the rain. Suddenly, there seems to be a place for satin, space for leather and always a spot for chintz. Ribbon from a friend’s gift graces my inspiration board and boxwood balls bounce across the front beds and still it is not enough.
I need spring.
These are not meant to be used together or even in the same room. They are, clockwise from the largest leather sample top, B. Berger Green Leaf, Garrett Leather Chatham Chartreuse, Cowtan & Tout, Moss Rose, which would be on my office chairs now if it were not for Dexter, Serena & Lily Grass Trellis, which will live at my kitchen windows eventually, if I could just focus long enough to figure yardage, ribbon from a dear friend and Schumacher Honeycomb in Lettuce from the Mary McDonald collection.
