a weekend in carolina: the cold and the warmth

 

there was an afternoon this weekend when i tried my best to pull weeds from the flowerbeds in front of the house. i dug my nails into the earth only to find tiny slivers of ice and a frozen ground. it reminded me that we are still very much in the middle of this carolina winter. when days can turn from pleasant to blustery in the instant that wind picks up your hair and cuts into your chest.

but there was another afternoon when sunshine cut through the pasture near our house and spilled into the brick floor of the sunroom and reminded me, soon. soon there will be dirt to churn for the garden and honeybees in the backyard. there will be lights strung from the shed and suppers on old picnic benches. there will be sundresses and bare legs and feet, and entire evenings spent listening to music on a blanket by the clothesline.

mama taught me never to rush things. to not wish away days and write too many things on my calendar in anticipation. so i'm trying to appreciate these last few weeks of cold. the early mornings by the coffee pot and the nights spent wrapped in blankets by the fire with heavy socks on. soon enough, summer will raise her heavy head and coat our little corner of the world with thick heat and i'll wish for these mornings where my little honda creaks under the shock of heat running through its veins after a night spent in a cold garage.

oh, the foreshadow of hindsight. such a delicate little oxymoron she is. 

wal-marts and mondays

 

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when snow falls on a small town, suddenly you go from having very little to do to absolutely nothing. shops and schools close. people get in pajamas and stay that way all weekend, huddled in kitchens and on sofas. they have real conversations and finally watch those movies on their lists.

but we had to get out this weekend. had to feel the weight of the truck on the road. had to slip into a corner booth and listen to live music and eat sloppy barbecue. and when that was over, we played our favorite game. we call this game, "people watching at wal-mart." with milkshakes in hand and the lights off, we park a good enough distance away and make up storylines about the characters that walk in and out of that glorious, extremely well-lit mecca of retail. because at wal-mart, people are at their most ordinary, and i love that. no pretense. no makeup. no heels. just running in to grab some cereal. or a firearm. or a grill. or maybe a t-shirt.

and last night was similar. just an ordinary monday. with a walk to mom and dad's. with desert before supper. with a dark room filled with the bachelor and dallas, and a fire.

but i love these times. an entire life is built on ordinary mondays and ordinary people. moments of familiarity that slowly, over the course of months and years and decades, shape us into humans capable of feeling and reaching and loving and even dreaming.

scenes from a country weekend

this weekend was a breath and release. a sigh in the country. a remembrance that the thing that most stirs this heart is the sight of cows behind a split-rail fence. that and good pintos.

hope yours was beautiful, too!

this weekend: beating the heat

there's only so much to do in a small town when the temperatures crawl past 100 degrees. only so many cool, air conditioned buildings that provide reprieve. so we piled in the car and drove. just about anywhere we could. as the cold air blasted our shins and cheeks and pablo rested his head inches from the vent.

we found ourselves in a little deli an hour from home. with expensive, tiny sandwiches that were about the best thing i've ever tasted (it's a good thing i don't let myself wander into places like this too much. i'm a guppie for organic, delicious fare and am easily duped into giving my right arm for a tiny slice of something labeled "free range.")

we sat on old rocking chairs and ate homemade ice cream, overlooking a pretty dairy farm run by an old man in overalls. i decided right then and there that this man was living my dream.

then, we nestled ourselves indoors the rest of the time. where the chill was blasting through the floor like ice and we could lay against the hardwoods and let it blow our hair around. we made squash fritters and mini pizzas.

and the sun rose and set, and like that the weekend was over. it marched out on the heels of a wet, dark rainstorm that happened last night. cooling down the blistering pavement and quenching the yellowing, dying garden. and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

scenes from a country cottage: a sunny weekend

after a week of sharp inhales, short breaths, tight ponytails and pressed pants,

finally, an exhale. a deep, bellowing exhale.

with suppers under the pin oaks and clothes on the line and harvest from the garden.

a renewed appreciation for life in the country. beside the cornfield and the tractor shed. living out these honey-slow days, storing them up for when the phones won't stop ringing and the people won't stop talking and the clock won't stop spinning madly on.

we're building a time capsule, he and i.
of slow glances and early suppers and late night swinging on the porch .
burying it deep beneath clean sheets and warm earth
digging it up again when we're tired and have lost appreciation for this little town we never left
remembering these days
remember your blue collar?
what about my dirty feet, wet with clay from the morning?
ah yes, now it's coming back to me.

to build a garden, part one

 

we needed to stake our claim on the ground. to mix the dirt between our fingers and remind ourselves from where we came. the urge to plant a garden hit us only a week ago, on a walk down a little path near our house. we passed the bridge over the old creek and it just hit me: the need to grow something.

in the few days that followed, we shoveled, tilled, mixed and planted. our knees were black with compost and our gloves sweaty. we planted way too many vegetables, and too close together. we've yet to come up with a good watering schedule. we're keeping away critters with tin pans tied to a stick. we are novices, in the simplest sense. rising early and going out in the dark with a flashlight to check on them.

and even if none of them produces, i'll remember this may. this season of change. this laboring with my love. and even when grass grows back over that little 10 by 10 square, i'll look at it and know. that things and people die. but sometimes they grow too. and it's the cycle of  both that keeps us pushing on.

springtime calls her childen

 

there's a meadow that runs beside and behind our little cottage. every spring, the wildflowers start popping up. we were back there last night, working on the garden, and i couldn't help but pick a few. look! i told robert, free flowers! you'd pay a bunch for these at the store! i can't get past the fact that these little flowers are dancing in the back of our house, just ripe for the picking. i've been putting them in little bud vases and mason jars all throughout the house. my only caveat? after about a day, the daisies taken on a slightly pungent odor. thus, i've now got jars of wildflowers sitting on my front porch. as long as we get to enjoy them one way or the other, all is well.

i think God sends the wildflowers to remind us of the beauty in the little things. in digging through red clay to start a garden. bending down in grass shin-high just to pick a renegade daisy. lying on our backs on a blanket in the back yard, watching the sun turn to moon behind the pin oaks. spring is the perfect season for such things. a breeze of time between winter and summer, where all the earth joins in a brief but beautiful exclamation of color.

p.s. there's still time to enter the Mixed Tape Project! your comment is your submission into the giveaway, so be sure to enter! ALL songs are welcome. that's what makes the collection so special.

i wanna grow something wild and unruly

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yesterday, robert and i were walking out by the muscadines and we spotted a pretty little plot of land that would be just right for a vegetable garden. it's near the tree but not under it, so the shade distribution is great. there are gardens up and down our little country road and i just love seeing the little seedlings sprout their pretty faces up toward the carolina sky.

during the summer, when my cousin and i were little, my mama would always take a picture of us in front of the cornfields, measuring how tall we were against how tall the stalks were stretching. she would label the picture "children of the corn," which was kind of funny.

so to all you rooftop planters, you country farmers, you urban sowers, what are your best gardening tips? we're starting from vegetable transplants, as we haven't had too much luck with our baby peppers we started from seeds in little plastic cups. tonight, we're tilling the land. just a little 10x10 square. in hopes that the family of squirrels and renegade deer that prance around out back won't become privy to our little plans.

thank you!

scenes from a country cottage: meet the cast

gray clouds have shrouded our corner of carolina this week. but yesterday afternoon was different. there's a sweet sip of time before dusk when the sun dances across the back field. when my prayer tree stretches to meet the setting sun and the blades of green lean and fall, only to rise back up and sigh into the ground with each whisper of a breeze. meet the cast of characters that inhabit this little place!

 

 

 

 

 

1. Miss Geranium has been exceptionally lovely this week. she spent a few days in the laundry room for fear of frost, but the return of warm winds means she can display her blooms for all roadside onlookers.

2. late afternoon sun splayed across the shed.

3. muscadine vines and a dirt path. two of my favorite things.

4. ivy twisting itself around the back of the shed like no one's watching.

5. tools of the trade.

6. poor Mr. Clothesline lost one of his lines after a downpour last autumn. one day we'll replace them. nothing smells better than laundry from the line, and nothing makes me feel sweeter than hanging it up there.

7. one of my favorite little apple trees. all bony and bare.

8. oh hi Mr. Strawberry Plant! too bad your berries are really small and odd looking. you're still fun though.

9. Miss Azalea fights for her last breath of spring.

10. Mr. and Mrs. Myers ham it up before a symphony concert.

it's not a huge cast, but we're a pretty tight bunch. living out our days and evenings on this little plot of land. between the church and my childhood home. building a life where the green grass grows.

the power of a good walk, and a good dog

yesterday, we took off from our little cottage and walked toward my parents' house. we met mama and my sweet sister halfway and walked the rest of the way with them. we took my favorite route. the one past the pastures and little brick cottages that line our joining roads. it was peaceful and reminded me that there is more to this life than work. more than bills and tests and papers and stress. there is earth and grass and a sunset. that's what's important.

then, alas, pablo woke up with an ear infection this morning. my sweet boy. one vet visit and ridiculously overpriced bottle of ointment later, he's on his way to recovery. i've never seen a more adorable sick pup. (he looks immensely sick in this picture, but it's just the sun in his eyes. all is well on the pablo front:)

*update on nanno: thank you from my entire family for your prayers. the doctors now think he's just got a nasty case of pneumonia, not congestive heart failure as they originally thought. still not the best prognosis, but a little more sunshine than we've had.

xoxo

a life on main street

robert and i spent the day in lexington on saturday. a place with people! after being quarantined in our cottage after my bout with a cold that just wouldn't quit, to be among the living again was a sheer blessing.

the thing i love about lexington is this: it is frozen in time.

it's like the downtown portion of main street that's filled with old storefronts that, when the sun hits them just right as it sets, fill you with nostalgia and make you want to walk among them for hours.

but the whole town is a little main street. with old evening gown and tuxedo rental shops, reminiscent of a time when people got dressed up more. an old hardware store right in the middle with millions of aisles filled with little knick knacks and farm tools only desired by red-faced men in overalls.

i swear, there are times i wish the whole world was a main street, and all we did was hop from one cute little shop to the next as we lived out our days among the concrete.

but life's pretty sweet, if not downright delectable, where the concrete ends.

but to sit at an old pharmacy soda shop and sip a sour limeade isn't a shabby way to spend a saturday morning, that's for certain.

this ain't hollywood, this is a small town

 

 

 

there's something about a little diner. about sweet tea and chalkboard specials. about old men in overalls sitting, waiting for the sun rise. strong coffee. eggs with cheese.

but mostly, there's something about waking with your husband. piling into the car and driving in the cold morning (or is it still night?) air. running against the breeze into the warm shelter. sliding into the booth with rain on your jacket. holding hands across the table, right beside the sugar bowl.

our little hometown recently resurrected its diner. after sitting vacant for years, a sweet woman reopened it. and subsequently breathed life back into these roads. these people with red faces and calloused hands.

there's talk of a highway expansion in the future. about a new road pummeling through our dainty two-lane main street. but as long as there's little places like this, i have hope. in the goodness of people. the saltiness of bacon. the strength of will and vinyl siding. and the pride of a small town.