vacation, with a side of wedding.

I miss my Ocean. Six days together and then BOOM. She's gone.

Going to the Ocean is like exhaling for a really long, slow time. It is therapy. It is like going home. It's never about doing anything, really. It's about the exact opposite.

I did really want to go. But I also knew that I needed to go.


Meanwhile, my cracked heart is scabbing over. It is healing itself back to love, as I knew it would. Those blasted memories never do stop arriving at my doorstep and I turn around v e r y slowly until I am almost back where I started. Until I almost forget what it feels like to be banged up on behalf of someone else. I am still as comfy as ever, living inside my frosted glass house, where the light can pour in, but also, I am beginning to see out.

That first night by the sea I stayed up until 3 o'clock in the ayem. I sat near the sound of those beloved, crashing waves and remembered times from my life. On this night, my eyes burned and I listened hard and I knew dawn was just a few breaths away. And when the light did come, it filled all the cracks. It shined right through. It filled me up.


This is just how life is for me and my everyday, people. It's not as funny in person as I always think. It's more like, Dude! You need to get more sleep! So, here's what we did on our vacation...we slept in (kinda), had our coffee overlooking the sand and sea watching the sun rise, hit the beach, ate fried fish for lunch, hit the beach, got kittened up, ate grilled fish and ice cream for dinner, slept.

 Rinse. Repeat.

It was brilliant in every way. 

We did a little shelling. Got raccoon eye suntans. At some point, inspiration struck and we ate breakfast at the local dive and went to a cheesy gift shop. I have no earthly idea why we did it. It just seemed like the right thing to do. (Still a little scared of the liver sausage and scrapple, but the cat head biscuits and grits were yummy). Some home-front excitement/drama erupted while we were gone. I didn't get all caught up on my sleep. I'm allergic to sunscreen. The starfish amputees creeped me out a bit. But for six whole days, I was fancy-free to my core. I didn't worry about weeding the beds or sorting the whites. I was inspired and reminded of some of the things I'm most thankful for.

The big bonus, we still have all of summer ahead of us!


OH!!! and we went to a wedding!

My nephew got hitched, at the beach, and we were there! Youn's are going to swoon over this wedding. Well, you'll either love it, or you'll think it looks a tiny bit like 27 Dresses. (There are bound to be a few stragglers out there who don't understand the appeal of breaking surf and sandy toes as wedding decor.) The flowers knocked my socks off. And just to be clear, weddings at the Ocean are the most romantic, evah. It's true.

I will leave you with a few teasers, because that's just the kind of girl I am.

Baby blue skies. Crashing waves. Sea shell filled beaches. Sandy toes. Salty kisses. Playing in the ocean with my sister and being five years old again. Best shrimp and grits in the history of the world. Adorable ring bearer. Dreamy vows. swoony beach wedding. White chocolate wedding cake. a peaceful easy feeling all the live long day.

 I remember looking out at the crowd during the ceremony and seeing my mama sitting with an empty chair beside her. It was one of many moments that made me weepy. Then I looked around, and I saw him in the chipped up paint and the rusty gates and especially in the eyes of his beautiful family. He was there with us.

So, here's to vacation, with a wedding thrown in for good measure! {clink} I adore you.

peace.

 fried green tomatoes

1 large egg, lightly beaten
1/2 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup self-rising cornmeal mix
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
3 medium-size, firm green tomatoes, cut into 1/3-inch-thick slices (about 1 1/4 lb.)
Vegetable oil

 Whisk together egg and buttermilk. Combine cornmeal mix, salt, pepper, and 1/4 cup flour in a shallow dish. Dredge tomato slices in remaining 1/4 cup flour; dip in egg mixture, and dredge in cornmeal mixture. Pour oil to a depth of 1/2 inch in a large cast-iron skillet; heat to 375° over medium-high heat. Drop tomatoes, in batches, into hot oil, and cook 2 minutes on each side or until golden. Drain on paper towels. Sprinkle hot tomatoes with salt to taste.

a wing span of seven feet.

When the sun is shining, it sends me running outside like Dorothy through the poppy fields. Yesterday was one of those days. There was much summer spring to be had. and plenty of plant cameraderie. The fresh air was free. The tossed-out sunshine made my heart smile.

 I cried twice, during the day. Why? Why?

The first time was during the weeding.  It was one of those moments where, if I had so chosen, I could have taken it up a few notches, to the full-on ugly cry. It was weird.

Then it happened again, when I saw the peonies popping up. You heard me. peonies make me weepy.

Yes, I am still a little confused. But I realized they were taking me back to a few years ago to when my dad brought them over from his garden and planted them for me.*sob*

Mr. Weatherman says that it should have been in the low sixties last week. Instead, we saw eighty. So I understand, every ordinary day is a gift. But today I'm here to tell you, so are the extraordinary ones.

On an extraordinary day, you'll fix the limbs of a naked tree against a blue satin sky and notice knots of red gearing up for a show. Suddenly, it doesn't matter if the pipes keep clogging or the dust makes you crazy. Spring is here, and she makes things better.

  I sat in the sun with fresh air on my cheeks and forearms, a prelude of all that comes next, I could not help but think ~ Summer's coming! But I did not dare say it out loud. Because for one thing,well, it could still snow. And for another? I didn't want to hurt Spring's feelings, did not want to relegate her to opening act, especially when she's so dang good at putting on a show.

The scrawny-legged Freshmen class of the flower garden have arrived with slumped shoulders and braces and man, are these girls beautiful. They don't know it yet. They're whisper thin, they bend with the breeze. They know enough to hope that they'll bloom into something more, but they're not buying a slinky prom dress and strappy heels quite yet. They're sick to death of hearing the flat-chested jokes from the snotty hostas, who are all round and hippy. But everyone knows, hostas were made for the shade. They'll live and die without anyone feeling particularly inspired or wowed by them. They're filler. deer food. But don't tell them I said that or they'll key my car.

Life swells into color as I lean into that decadent, blooming, bird-song springtime lullaby, and I'm constantly taking stock. Right now I'm caught up between daydreaming about a stretched-out wedding week on the beach, and frantically cleaning to within an inch of my life so that I might fall asleep under the delicious heaviness of air that blows through open windows rather than duct-work.

I try to picture last spring, which was spent within arm's reach of my garden but never in it, and the best I can do is a grainy film-strip version, the kind we watched in 5th grade, wheeled in on special cart. The images were gritty, the far-off voices didn't quite track and there was always the occasional blank screen. I look back and see sun. and rain, dirt and grass. flowers. I can see it, but I'm not sure I was actually there. I can't smell the roses. or even the hot dogs. My world last spring spanned only as far as the length of my arms. My arms are short, but they were long enough to hold the gift of those hazy months, lined up like toy soldiers. But, to do that, to fully hold the gift of spring, it takes more than hands and arms. It takes clarity and steady breath. It takes eyes able to see up past the clouds. It takes a heart with room to store up the sunsets. It takes a wing span of seven feet.

This patch of ground that now sings me out of my frustrations and hugs me into hope has taught me the better part of Patience. I have struggled to resist the love, lashed out at everything new, everything old. I have waited to get with the program. waited for my heart to push all of its baggage into the very middle, freeing up all the rest for love. love that I never knew I needed.

 This spring, I'll reach out, over and over and over again, and hoist myself up. My hands long ago memorized the dimensions of his ribcage. My heart still wonders what to do without him. He knows for sure, this time around, that he is fully loved. And I know for sure, this time around, that I am ready to live this one. Maybe it doesn't need to be me vs. the pain. Maybe when I see the good peeking out in the hearts around me, it strings me back together a bit. Maybe I have things to teach others. still more to learn. if only I would just take a hard look and see some of it reflected back on me. I have discovered that I'm just not cut out for the big picture. Quite regrettably, it appears that I simply don't have it in me. I was not prepared for this. I am waiting for the day when I discover my peonies in full bloom. when they are the perfect pink, pouffed up fluffier than my grandma's old powder puff, full-on debutantes with eighteen petticoats and teetery heels. Life feels different in the spring, like walking into a childhood memory that belongs only to me.

 Most evenings I walk right back out into what remains of the dusky daylight and get my hands dirty all over again. There exists a directly proportional relationship between the amount of dirt caked beneath my finger nails and the clearness of my heart. I am convinced of this ~ peace finds me in the dirt. It burrows into the cracks of me, it chaps my hands in such a way that I still feel the joy the next day.

I poke around, fiddling with the fun stuff, while the hard things stay in the back of my mind. I chop at weeds that run deeply into the earth. I yank out the ugly and toss it onto the heap. I think about what I would put in it's place, knowing that there is a chance the ugly will still pop up out of the new. the prettier I am trying to replace it with.

In my solitude, I find my heart asking those same, familiar questions...expecting different answers.

As the sun dips too low, I make my way inside and scrub my chapped hands.

I sit down to fold the last load of whites and the cotton snags against my scraped and sandpapered fingertips. The truth that was etched into them while I was outside has followed me in, where my real life is lived. Life is a tricky boat to steer and sometimes I struggle to make sense of it. I'm wistful about the days when the words came more easily and didn't cost me an ounce of pain.

Oh that life could be all Delphinium and English Daisies. Mostly, it is laundry. weeding. And cleaning windows. scrubbing woodwork. and frustrations that keep me from smiling as often as I should. Today, I know this, I'm ready to live these last Spring weeks with a new kind of peace and a new kind of joy. Or maybe it's the old kind. Maybe it's the Good Ol' Days, coming back around and slowing down just enough for me to hop back on. Still, it may periodically trip me up ~ this odd existence, so I have joyfully surrendered with the assumption that this change will steamroll me right into the next phase of  my life. All I know is that when "it" finally does lollygag 'round the bend, I hope it finds me with a smile on my face. And maybe a clean shirt and blow-dried hair, but I'm not holding my breath.

peace.

Berger Cookies
(go here for recipe)

thawing.

Even though I've only known you for a few weeks,  I am enamored with your soft, longer days and with your gentile persona.  I love how your morning sun shines on my face and the warmth I feel in my heart when I see the gifts you bring. Your gentle days send me straight to garden estacy. I don't mind telling you that winter was hard this year. I felt the yuckies grab hold and just keep digging deeper and deeper. At times I felt it was mocking me, waning my resilience like a bitter chill. Sometimes I fought back, hard. Other times I just sat quietly. waiting. On the days I woke to freezing rain or sleet, I found my moods reflected in the muck being trudged through my house.

There are always issues to deal with. Tragedies across the globe. Nothing at all. Yet I would feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. Many times I wanted to wave my white flag and surrender. Then you came into my life. Days were sprinkled with sunshine. Puddles emerged from under the ice. Robins appeared. A vase of tulips sits on my kitchen counter. the puppies bask in the sun rays streaking through the kitchen window. All at once I realized the ice was not the only thing thawing. I flipped the calendar page, glad to say goodbye to March...April always used to feel full of hope and promise to me. Tomorrow I may get knocked down by winter again,  but somehow by turning the calendar page it all feels doable now. I feel a shift. Hello April, please be kind this year. maybe, you can make some magic happen. you owe me.

The weathermen are threatening more cold weather, but I'm going to my happy place and will believe these 70 degree days aren't going to budge. All the local garden stores have started putting out their hardy annuals, varieties of bagged mulch and soil amendments and I have to admit I'm like an addict when it comes to that first sniff of rich, dark dirt. I want to grab my trowel and start digging! I knew I was in trouble when I caught myself with my nose pressed up against the glass of the local garden center wondering if I could possibly keep another hydrangea bush alive in my deer infested yard.

If my plan succeeds, I should be rolling in various varieties of roses, peonies, Astilbe, and phlox not to mention Siberian Iris, Brunnera, carnations, candytuft and sweet peas. Oh, and did I mention the herbs? Yea, sweet basil, dill, and oregano and I'm bound and determined to find organic peppermint so I can brew my very own peppermint tea. Now, I know parents are not supposed to have favorites but I will admit that peonies absolutely drop me to my knees. When  in full-bloom, they are heartbreakingly beautiful and come in so many luscious colors and scents it's like trying to pick a ball-gown and a favorite perfume when I'm contemplating my next purchase. Ok, yes, they are a bit high maintenance what with always needing constant support,  but my peonies at the end of the season remind me of a queen who has fallen on hard times. Her dress might be a bit tattered and torn, but she valiantly fights off marauding deer and sends up blooms so gorgeous that there is no question who rules this garden. And as any good serf will, though it's time-consuming, back-breaking work, I gladly kneel at her feet.

Ah, how I miss my garden right now! I'm certainly having a great time planning it but there are pieces of my heart left behind in that dirt from past years. I wonder if my Lady's Mantle will come up or if my Bleeding Hearts will make an appearance, and if my little dogwood made it through this tough winter. Have I mentioned that I love gardens? One of the challenges of living in the midwest is dealing with long winters and a short growing season, especially since an English garden is my idea of heaven! Just imagine the surprised looks I get when I wander into my local nursery and asked if they have English boxwoods, Sweet Williams or perhaps some David Austin roses? When I first came back to town, the guys would just shake their heads and offer me Russian Sage, Butterfly Weed, Goldenrod, or Allium. "Those boxwoods will never make it through the winter!", they'd said. Ah, but make it they did and so did the wisteria, the Hidcote lavender, the pinks and the cranesbill and the David Austin roses. I've even managed to keep a magnolia alive and had gorgeous pink blossoms the following spring! Yes, I mulch like a fiend, yes, I've lost too many tree-roses to count, but for all of my hard work and all of the losses, the reward of seeing that first rosebud open, seeing the explosion of colors as my sleepy garden pops back to life and smelling the glorious scents that waft through my windows makes it all worthwhile...and then some. Flowers are my Jimmy Choos.

So, while old man winter is still stomping through my garden, I'll take my garden moments "sugar-coated" and wait for my hardy, little plants to wake up and put on a show. There are hostas still in their corsets, and pre-peonies popping up everywhere. So, I was wandering through my still-sleeping garden today to see how everyone was doing and, as I was trimming my espalier, a fleck of green caught my eye. I crept a little closer and what did I discover? Beautiful, tiny green buds on my white lilacs! And as we are getting ready to embark upon another gardening season, I realize I let some of my flowery children stay up way past their bed time. they finally put themselves to bed, and like giggly girls at a slumber party, have not received all the sleep they need. I fear they willl be cranky come end of April. some of the more responsible ones have been snoozing a bit longer having tucked themselves in early. Melodrama aside, I'm loving Ohio's Midwesternly ways, consider it to be one of her finest fringe benefits.The place is a hidden gem in the truest sense of the word.


Ohio? First reaction?  Second?  Third?
Right.  Thought so.  It's not San Francisco.  Bear with me. 
I still may not have forgiven Ohio for not having an Ocean, but she can saturate a landscape like nobody's business. Here, spring startles.  Muted need not apply.  After months of monochrome, the simple fact of color is a little astonishing.  sort of Wizard of Oz.  One day, there you are all down with the grayscale, then out of nowhere, BOOM! queue the technicolor. For all that, there's a gracefulness to it. an orderly re-entry. easy on the eyes.  It begins slowly, the odd tree buds, the early daffodils, the occasional rewind. Pacing, you know.  But by middle of April, spring outgrows its awkward-gawky stage, and hits this rather elegant stride.

Everywhere, sleeping trees are awakening, right on schedule. The plump bump in the evening is morning's leaflet, as tender and wrinkled as a newborn. Branches hang a bit lower each day, with the weight of thousands of tiny buds. It may be the juxtaposition that gets me, this coming and going. It's the rubbing up against of what's coming and what was.  The shock of chartreuse against dull. Spring is nothing if not symbolic, and oh so poignant.  Very changing-of-the-guards.  Very cycle-of-life. Metaphysics always improve my mood when I'm still cleaning up after last year's messes. And all of it, seemingly lit from within.  And that rain! Dude! it seriously pumps up the shimmer.  And those new shoots always glow a little.  I would, too, under the circumstances.  Still, I think there's a peculiar magic to this fleeting cast of illuminated high spring hues. But look quick.  It won't last.  Summer comes on fast.

By June, all this vivid will be ho-hum, color the norm, contrast a memory.  But right now, there's this moment, a.k.a. April, when the landscape is handsomely tailored, distinct. Stones are punctuation marks still, not hidden hazards, all overgrown.  There are seam allowances yet between this plant and that.  There's brown ground to be seen, old growth, crisp remains, patches of dirt that make everything pop.  Spring is a spare, clean organized statement to summer's lush, flooded run-on baroque.  I have never been spare, or clean, or organized.  But I have always admired this about spring.

It's breathtaking.

Magical.

I'm not even playing.

 peace.

cream puff cake
(go here for recipe)