In My Next Life!

This could well be me!  Give me an open field, assorted boxes of goods to sell, a warm afternoon, and I swear to you this could be it.  Perhaps without the cigarette…and maybe the mix of “treasures” would be slightly different, but I admired this woman’s complete love of the moment.   I swatted away no-see-ums that dove up my nose when I breathed in or down my throat or took passage in my ears or circled my head and shoulders…not so for Donna!  We talked some and she seemed to not be bothered with the little critters.  I think it was the cigarette smoke that kept her at peace with all the best that Todds Field had to offer last Sunday!

A Favorite Table at Rowley

Why did I not buy this dog?  I loved it enough to take more than one photo.  I pondered how this dog reminded me of my childhood boston terrier  (known in our Locust Street house as the Boston Terror.)  His name was Bows and he arrived tucked into my Dad’s work-coat pocket.  I can’t remember ever seeing a more adorable living thing!  He peed on the carpet, tore apart the cover for my mother’s treasured  mangle iron and pooped in hidden places like closets and on the tops of black patent leather Mary-Janes.  And he did other things that divided the house into war zones.  We loved him even on his most out-of-control days.  Back then, no one ever heard of dog trainers or dog training unless, of course, you had a big ole black lab who could fetch fallen ducks filled with buckshot from the pond while the brave hunter stayed cozy and tucked into his duck blind.  So Bows ruled the roost at 1065 Locust Street.  I can’t believe I didn’t buy this little chalk dog!

Sunday's Gift of Veggies

After Rowley, the open field and the dog I didn’t buy…I worked at the store.  A lovely young man came in…we chatted about veggies and pigs (which he raises), and then he laid on my desk this divine little stash of fresh veggies from the gardens out in Dover!  Thank you to the handsome young man whose name I don’t remember.

Well...It Is Time To Vote Again!

How can I even suggest you go online (to the city voter Boston A list) and once again vote for the store?  We won last year, and I feel a tad ashamed to suggest you vote for me again.  I guess I have no shame!

Morning Toast

Last weekend, my friend John invited us all down for three days at his house in Provincetown. Now, before you doze off because I have written about this place in an earlier post or two, I promise I will not  go on about what an amazing host he is nor will I tell you the place is beyond scrumptious, and I won’t tell you that the “us” of us were three pugs, my daughter Maren, her husband Nathan, and the two grandkids Reeve and Bae.  Nope!  I won’t tell you a thing of all that.  I just want to show you a few photos which, when I returned home, wanted to make me tear my own place to ribbons.  I longed for less expected placement of the treasures I own…I longed for natural walls and a turn-of-the-century toaster and that Cape Cod light filling up the space in all my own rooms here in Roslindale.  Thank you, John, for your generous self!

Bathroom Door, Old Paint, Hand-Woven Towel, Mercury Knob

Seed Pods on Silk Ribbon

Pink Paper Hollyhocks on the Guest Room Mantel

I woke each morning to the sight of these hollyhocks made of the finest pale crepe paper.  One night the wind blew with such fierceness, I was certain I might be swept out to sea…of course, I would have grabbed these pink hollyhocks on my way out had that been the case!

Living Room Mantel with Canvas, Waiting the Artist's Brush

In the evening, John lights much of his house with candles.  Oh, there are a few wall sconces with the dimmest of bulbs, but it is the light from those candles that is forgiving for those of us over forty.

John at the Stove

One night, we ate the most delicious pasta from Amy Chaplin’s blog “Coconut and Quinoa.” The ingredients were dead simple…roasted cherry tomatoes, thinly sliced red onions caramelized in olive oil, spelt pasta and a terrific feta cheese to toss it all. Check out Amy’s blog, there are some superb recipes for vegetarians.  What a wonderful weekend it was!

Hornets Nest

Now you all must know that I am no cynic when it comes to love and life.  And rarely do I go on about the makings of love but I spotted this hornets nest hanging in the Margaret C. Ferguson greenhouse on the Wellesley College campus and I thought…hmmm, could be some sort of symbol for this lovers’ day.

It is a complicated structure as most relationships tend to be, and it reminds me of two things.  It reminds me of the time my second and last husband decided to take matters into his own hands.  We had a doozie of a hornets nest hanging out under the dining room window.  Now, one could easily have called in the hornet/bee authorities, and in minutes, the whole buzzing thing would have been removed.

But no, this was a job for the man of the house.  There was much preparation for this caper complete with a can of hornets nest spray which had, as I recall, a very long reach. The secret of using the spray was well posted: “Get no closer than 24-inches.  Spray directly into the entry hole.  Move away from the nest rapidly.”  The man of the house wore quite an outfit for the occasion.  There was the Quaker lace tablecloth (a wedding present rarely used), which he draped over his bald head and down over his face and neck, tucking the random ten feet of the lace cloth under his coat. He  wore a hat with a visor and a pair of gloves with gauntlet cuffs (all the better for those terribly mad and upset hornets to buzz into).

The three of us (young adoring wife and two beautiful adoring daughters) watched from inside the dining room window.  It was a hot day, I remember that, and the husband was definitely over-dressed…but then you could think about the lace cloth and how there was some sort of ventilation.  The hornets thought about that too.  In all my years of marriage, I have never seen such a running about with hornets…who seem to move pretty fast.  We were stunned and then fell into fits of laughter.  Once the swelling went down on the husband’s assorted stings, he also laughed at the folly of it all.

The second thing this hornets nest reminds me of is my mother, who loved nothing more than stirring up a bit of trouble.  She loved to say, “Gawd, Joanne, that (insert name of any one of her sisters) lives in a hornets nest. Or, you got yourself into a hornets nest.” Either way, a hornets nest was, to her, delicious trouble pure and simple!

A Favorite Corner of John's House

One very wet weekend when the whole of New England felt as if it were heading out to sea, my friend John invited me, my daughter Maren, her husband Nathan, the two grandkids Bae and Reeve plus the collection of pugs (Dino, Lulu and Moss) to his amazing and wonderful house in Provincetown.  It was the day after Wally’s death…my choice was to sit and sob at home or to wander off to P.Town with this delicious cast of characters and be caught up in great food, wonderful friends, lovely ambiance…do I need to tell you what I chose!

One of Many Cabinets in John's House

The whole of John’s place is akin to a Cabinet of Curiosity. Around each corner is something that surprises or delights.  The bedrooms with their peeled wallpaper, exposed raw plaster and furnishings of antiques make you want to stay forever.  I had the front bedroom on the second floor and from my bed, if I leaned in just the perfect way over to the left, I could see the beach and watch the waves whip over the hull of several small boats moored out there off shore.  The storm raged for three days…water collected in puddles the size of wading pools down Commercial Street.  We ate fine meals, played a game or two and read books by candlelight.

Front Parlor

Detail of a Favorite Stoneware Bowl

Bae with Lulu and Dino

Beech Forest Trail

Before the rain began in earnest, we went to the Beech Forest Trail which was a pure Mary Oliver experience.  Mary Oliver is  one of my all-time favorite poets; she lives in P.Town and has written of this trail and the surrounding dunes.  There were birds of all kinds in the bare trees, many of which swooped down and ate seeds from our open hands.  We saw a  small nuthatch, the plain titmouse and a number of chickadees with an occasional cardinal.  The sky was a threatening grey, the wind was just beginning to perk up but in our little corner of the path all was right with world.

The Last of Summer's Leaves

Well, what can be said of a Tuesday…the middle of February, the dead of winter and another snowstorm.  My friend Diane labeled it this morning: “restless” that’s what she said.  It is true I want to take up belly dancing and get a wild tattoo.  I want to throw a few worn out linens in the suitcase and head for the sun.  I want some cold outrageous coconut drink,  and I want to sip the whole thing poolside with a sweet young pool boy who delivers it to my chaise lounge.  I am wearing the worn linen trousers, and the sun is covering my bare feet…my face is, of course, protected by a big colorful shade umbrella.

I went to see Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart yesterday, and I left the theater with an urge to head west.  And once I got there, I would walk into one of those bars that dot the side roads of Nevada.  I can imagine the smell of such a place, having been there more than a time or two.  It would smell of stale smoke and wet wool and spilled beer, and the bar itself would be rubbed smooth.  The tall bar stools would have chrome legs and tired leatherette seats.  In fact, the  whole place would look a bit tired.  There would be a juke box playing Western songs, and I would settle right in way over there in the dark corner, and I would watch the world happen.

Parked  out front, at odd angles, would be pick-up trucks with dented bodies and back ends littered with assorted pieces of ranch life like shovels and maybe a big black and white Blue Heeler just waiting for his master.  There would be hay scattered on the worn bed of the truck and, you just know, there would be a gun rack and bumper stickers from political parties I would have nothing to do with!  But I would love the scene for the moment and for that time “restless” would not enter my world!

 My mother could get restless, and when she did the whole house would shift.  Moving furniture was an art form for her…something one did when all else seemed so the same.  Over her lifetime, she shifted the bathroom at the house on the corner of 6th & G Streets three times….the sink, toilet and tub went from Avocado to Harvest Gold. In the end, they were all Mauve…her final and most cherished color!  Of course, this shifting, which grew from “restless,” required a plumber and a carpenter and took weeks to manifest…but it cured her “restless” for the time being.