christmas at home

 

like any other christmas since i can remember, we spent yesterday at nanno's house. except this time, it was our house. and like always, there was food. there was laughter. there was the 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. stretch of lounging on couches, floors and beds. and we missed him like crazy, his absence weighing heavy in every crevice of that old ranch house. but it's been a beautiful process, this reconstructing of a home. a changing of hands. robert and i have the immense privilege of living here now, a stone's throw away from our beloved cottage.

and the rose bush is still where he left it, creeping along the porch rail. there are notes and names written in pencil on the stairwell to the bedroom that tell stories from my mom and my aunt when they were teenagers. on thanksgiving eve, we stood on those same steps and wrote our names beside theirs. a new generation generating. and his recliner is in his bedroom, along with the blanket i gave him two christmases ago. except now, it's on a new bed. with a new rug and the same old trunk against the wall.

this first holiday of hosting, of rising early and getting the french toast in the oven, sweeping, vacuuming, setting the table, and filling the dishwasher as the last of the relatives drives away, was a gorgeous one. and the first of many. i can't wait to work in the yard, to build another garden, to pick leaves from the old, towering magnolia, and string lights on the shed out back for summer suppers.

it was so hard to leave the cottage. no one asked me to, but the morning of our first day here, i went back there. and i deep cleaned it. i got on my hands and knees and scrubbed the linoleum i used to dance on, the hardwoods pablo used to slide on, and the shower that cleaned our muddy bodies after we got soaked in the downpour last july while working in the tomato plants. and after i threw the last rag away, i hopped up onto the counter and cried (in hindsight, playing "winter song" by the head and the heart may not have been a good idea.) i said goodbye to that place and drove away on the gravel.

but there are new hardwoods now. and new memories to be made. and new traditions to make and old ones to keep. and yesterday was the start. and like nanno would say, "it looks beautiful."

the weight of an empty kitchen

in a few short weeks, robert and i will be leaving our little cottage, following a little different path that will hopefully lead us sooner to our forever home. and i've put off writing this post. partially because of all the hustle and  bustle and throwing away that comes with any move. but more so because every time i sit down to write about it, i start to cry.

but last night around midnight, i slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen to get some water. and with the lights off and the moon spilling across the countertops, i could pretend for a second. pretend our plates were still hung on the wall, the way my uncle arranged them that one afternoon. that my yellow spice jars were still sitting on the shelf, the ones i was so happy to find at the dollar store. i could imagine we still had the chalkboard hanging over the microwave, with notes and quotes i couldn't bring myself to erase. that the oversized alarm clock wasn't in a cardboard box somewhere, along with the magnet from our honeymoon, and the vegetables from our garden were still hanging in the wire basket.

i holstered myself up and let my legs dangle by the cabinets. from that vantage point i've watched a million sunrises and seen my windowsill plants lean into the glass. i saw the oven where i burnt that apple cake this year, and the caramel glaze last december. the old wooden table where we sit on weekdays for supper. the meals i tried to make. the ones that succeeded and the tuna casserole that didn't. that little corner where every night i sit and wait with pablo while he eats. i stayed there for a second and breathed it in.

our first night here, i walked around the rooms in the dark. there are only five. i walked around and around them in a circle, learning their curve and shape. i laid on the linoleum and rested my cheek on its cold flower pattern. i leaned into the wood walls and breathed in their years. since then, i've made my mark on every crevice of this tiny place. i can't look outside without remembering the laundry that hung from the clothesline or that warm march night when i went and sat on a blanket alone and listened to ryan adams while the moon shone over the pin oaks. the little porch and swing reminds me of summer nights and white wine, of waving goodbye to parents and of robert in his white sleep shirt, propping the screen door open to wish me a good day at work as i honked in the driveway.

i cried when i took the first picture off the wall. that first moment of deconstruction, of removal. the transformation from home to house, the erasure of all i tried so hard to build. and i cried again last night, my pillow propped against the headboard, the shed light glowing in through the blinds, just as it has every windy night since 2009. 

places and people change, this much i know. and time marches on, but just this time, i wish it would crawl.

scenes from a country cottage: the squirrels find the corn

 

i was about to go for a walk yesterday, when the late summer sun cut the prettiest glow across the yard and i had to run back inside for my camera. the dog days ended yesterday and there is a new whisper of cool in the air, so faint you have to strain to feel it, but it is certainly ahead. as i walked around, i noticed the corn shavings and peelings and pieces littering the ground. it seems the friendly squirrels who patrol our trees have discovered the glorious, delicious cornfield that flanks our cottage. the other morning, i stood silent in the laundry room and watched as one hopped up on the old well with his treasure, then nibbled and devoured a tiny little ear, leaving just dust and old kernels as he scurried away.

squirrels were the bane of my sweet nanno's dedicated attempts to build a bird feeder on the lamppost by the front of his house. they would climb and swing to get to the top, taunting the babies that lived inside. he built a little silver disc to keep them out, and we never saw them again. but this week, i'm thankful for the little creatures. for bringing me a moment of laughter, a reprieve of silliness. a moment to remind me that this world is really not about me, but about all of us living our day-in, day-out lives, eating, socializing and running. from the biggest to the littlest of us.

a harvest in summer

 

the weekend was hot, yet again. a heavy fog forming, forming, forming until sinking its heavy boots deep into the summer grass, covering the ground with humidity. with no breeze, the leaves on the limbs just sit stagnant, quivering only when a bird or squirrel hops from branch to branch.

but the upside about the heat? the tomatoes have ripened. they are deep and red and sweet as candy. we stood in the middle of the day and ate them by the vine as the sun beat against my bare shoulders and feet. if there's going to be no relief from the hours of sweating and seeking air condition, at least there is fruit. or vegetable? either way, i'm not complaining.

because soon enough, fall will come marching in, and winter quick on its heels. and we will don our cardigans and jeans with moccasins and wrap scarves around our chilly necks. and we'll look at that spot beside the corn and the muscadines, diminished by then to a dirt square. and we'll remember the bounty of summer. and ache for the days when nine o'clock still meant dusky light and mornings arrived with birds and rooms bathed in yellow.

scenes from a country cottage: wedding flowers and a prayer request

 

 

 

 

one benefit of being in weddings for two sweet friends on back-to-back weekends is the beautiful flower arrangements i get to take home. they are little reminders of love scattered throughout the rooms of our little cottage, bringing vibrant color to this early spring washed in green.

see that little yellow rose in the last picture? tonight i'll be taking that up to the hospital to sit beside nanno's bed. you guys have prayed for nanno in the past, lifting him up and sending him words of love and encouragement. he's back in the hospital now with what appears to be congestive heart failure.

i dropped my mixing bowl of banana bread and rushed to follow the ambulance yesterday as it sped past our yard. my heart sank when i realized it stopped in front of his house. he's a good and kind and honest man, and we're not quite ready to share him with heaven yet.

this blogging community is beautiful for its shared space of hope. so thank you for hoping along with us.

real love: in your words

when i asked you to tell me one word for real love, you delivered.your responses were personnel and beautiful and meant the world to me, so i wanted to commemorate them.
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from us to you, happy valentines.

we're headed for a long weekend at the coast.

i hope you celebrate it by showing somebody, somewhere, the words you shared above.

xoxo

scenes from a country cottage: kitchen edition

 

 

 

winter is finally easing out of its heavy boots. it's no longer dark now when i leave the office. when i make the drive home on my favorite backroads. past that little country store and hamburger joint. the little vinyl siding house with the white dog out front, the one who's always sniffing the begonias. that farmhouse tucked behind the woods, with the old white shutters and the ford truck for sale in the field.

when i make it back here, back to this place, there's a pocket of time, about 10 minutes, when it's just me. before robert and pablo bound through the door and the evening begins.

i prop myself up on this old kitchen counter. and watch the sun sink back into the ground. watch the sliver of light dance on the ceiling, then the cabinets, across my shins, then finally onto the metal sink, where it disappears down the drain.

this is my favorite room. my cocoon of sunshine. where i can stretch, still asleep, over coffee and look out onto the road as children on four-wheelers ride by at dusk. where my parents snuck in after our trip to new england. watering our plants and leaving love notes on our chalkboard.

there are old, framed hymns in the den. an engagement portrait in our bedroom. my favorite books stacked up against the toilet tank in the bathroom. little pieces of me, scattered between the bones of these walls. but my spirit is mostly poured into this kitchen. this place of meeting and feasting. of praying. holding hands and making messes. of calendars and photo magnets. cookie jars and coffee mugs.

of five-thirty reflections. of breath between afternoon and night. all from a countertop vantage point, the best view in the house.

the jade plant

 
sunshine spills in the cottage. it pours through half-closed blinds and washes the sofa during these dog days. it lays its rays on the kitchen counter at high noon and cuts a line across to the sink, illuminating unwashed dishes when no one's home to see.

but i can't keep a houseplant. the little windowsill above my sink does well enough, with begonias and a jalapeno plant reaching their green faces to the sky. but an actual potted plant? droopy within days. immediately yellow.

i blame it on my need to over-nurture. let's not forget, i'm the girl who tucks her dog into a velvet blanket each night and prays over him. so i behave with plants. they are alive. dependent on me. my responsibility. so i do what my own mama does--i feed them heaping portions. as mama shovels chicken pie onto our plates even as we insist we only want a tiny slice, so i fill up my watering pail and feed the plants every morning. it's too much. it kills them.

but i come from a long line of women who show love through food. it's in my nature and i'll inevitably pass it down to my children. i can think of worse problems to have.

so i did something the other day. i bought a jade plant. the little tag said it didn't need much water. didn't even need much sunshine. i believe the exact phrase was "excellent for beginners. requires low maintenance."

a plant that doesn't need me too much? yes, please.

however, every morning, right before heading out the door in my heels, i take the plant from the living room and place it on the counter, where sunlight can fill it and it can stretch. i can't help it. and so far, he's a resilient little thing, growing only up.

and so nature blends with nurture. the two currents joining in a symbiotic relationship fueled by good intent. that's what i'm going to keep reminding myself--it's the intent that matters. long after the leaves turn yellow.

scenes from the cottage: soybean fields, offices and an appearance by pablo

 

 

 

i pulled into the gravel drive around dusk last night, after supper with my family. and as i turned the key into the old lock, the one that's turned to the right for entire generations passed, i looked to my left.

and the sun was setting just to the right of the shed. and i noticed the house for the first time. really noticed it. the clean lines of the brick and the way they align so beautifully. the old apple tree in the back curving under the weight of storms, sun and age. the old shed, with its whitewashed wood and new roof.

and as i crossed the threshold into the office, i put my bags down. pablo sprinted in from the living room, followed by robert close on his heels. and i thought to myself, if i wasn't home before, if the feel of gravel under my tires and the squeal of the key wasn't enough to convince me, i am home now.

scenes from the cottage--hydrangeas and sunshine

 

sometimes i wish i could look in on our little cottage in the middle of the workday. when the sunshine spills into the living room around three in the evening and cuts a line across the kitchen counter. but instead, this little haven is only mine from the early evening until early morning. and as soon as my feet slip out of my heels and onto the hardwood floors, i just want to lay on our couch, pull open the blinds and let it have all its blessed influence on me. instead, i take pictures of the prettiness like a good blogger.

our hydrangea bush exploded while we were on vacation last week. we've got mason jars full of blooms in almost every room. because the bush is on the back side of the house, where no one goes. and it made my heart sad to think about the flowers reaching their little faces to the heavens and no one there to witness it. so even though purple and blue are very much not the color scheme of our house, a little cool tone influence is scattered all around, and i kind of love it.