Sloane, Author at The STUFF Sisters

Missing Persons

I am not a total slacker. I decorated for Christmas. Admittedly, the other holidays are seeing a marked reduction in decoration of the home.

I used to decorate for every holiday. Valentine’s. Easter. Fourth of July. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Of course, Christmas. This was when we had a young child at home. I am not sad about not having the child at home. I am a bit sad about not seeing the things that others gave me throughout the years to decorate with.

One was my dad’s mother. If there was ever a woman on this planet that loved to celebrate every little thing, it was my grandmother. She was not a wealthy woman, and many of her decorations were tissue and, in particular, honeycomb and cardboard shapes. Turkeys. Eggs. Pumpkins. Five-and-Dime treasures. At the end of the “season” they were delicately folded back down and clipped shut with plastic-covered steel paperclips. I inherited a turkey and a baby chick. Both have very little wear and tear from over 50 years of use. One, the turkey, sports a 29-cent price sticker on the inside.

I have to admit that only one item for Valentine’s Day has made it out of the box this year, and that is the hand-worked and painted heart that I love hanging on the front door. It made it out a few days ago. I didn’t have the energy to pull out the other favorites. Too tired from a business trip, I promised myself next year would be different.

When it comes to the mid-winter holiday of Valentine’s Day, both of my parents embraced it to its fullest. Little keepsakes and sweet bites. Dainty bouquets. Notes of love and sweet cards. Small silly gifts. Any and all of the above was pretty normal when we were kids and young adults. My mother still is amazing at giving little gifts of love on a day that can seem unimportant and contrived. She reminds us every year that we are “still kids.” To her.

Valentine’s Day can be just a spot of fun in a winter that is often all too drab in the Midwest. I sent little gifts to my nieces in Chicago this week. Our son will be receiving his mail delivery from home with a few extras stuck in to remind him that he is adored. We will eat heart-shaped pizza with my mom and my other niece on the “big day.”

I will miss my grandmother. She, like the others, is a missing person on these days. I was lazy to not get out the plastic straws she gave me right after our son was born. I am certain of that. They are bendy (her favorite kind of straw) and look like stacked conversation hearts (a favorite holiday candy). I can only imagine that the combination of the two was a no-brainer when she saw them. I carefully washed them every year after our son used them and then packed them away. Last year saw them in a small glass vase sharing their bright perkiness when I entered the partially dark kitchen on my way to work every morning.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

p.s. Featured in all the photos are items we are selling at our store this year. My grandmother would have loved them all. I am giving a few myself to ones I love. It’s how I was raised….

p.p.s. I am not a total slacker. I decorated for Christmas. Admittedly, the other holidays are seeing a marked reduction in decoration of the home.

He Would Have Been Horrified

Rain was changing to snow. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees in less than an hour. It was dark. We were still two hours from home. The highway I was on was familiar but not memorized. I was not wearing socks.

Friday night I stood in the ice-flecked, bitter air at a truck stop in very rural Iowa. The wind that blew across the concrete from the wide open and fallow corn field beyond was cutting. In the brief minutes it took me to finish operating the gas pump and wait for the receipt, I heard my grandfather’s voice in my head at least two times.

“Are you prepared for the road trip?”

“Have you checked everything?”

Maybe there were a few more of his comments bounding around my frozen brain. He spent his career as a Missouri State Highway Patrolman. He not only loved a good road trip – as I was on that day – he spent most of his career working the highways and back roads of central Missouri in a car. He didn’t teach me so much about cars mechanically, but what safety on the road really was.

When I was in college at Mizzou, I made trips to Chicago to visit my boyfriend (now husband) many times in my 1983 Honda Civic 1500 S. Thirty years ago, at lower speed limits, it was a rock-solid eight hour trip. Time meant nothing to me and my passengers. Well, not time of day or daylight. We would leave for a weekend just as soon as we could on a Friday and not get into the car in Chicago to return until midnight on Sunday night – a time chosen because it was exactly eight hours and forty minutes from the start of my geology class.

He knew about these trips. When I saw him during this time of my life, he would drop hints like, “Sweetie, have you checked the tire pressure lately?” or, “How’s your washer level?” I visited him and my grandmother often. One, because I loved them with my every fiber, and two, because they lived in Jefferson City, which was only thirty-five minutes from my dorm. A hot meal and great love was a short ride away.

Any deficiencies in my car upkeep was dealt with in the carport right off the kitchen. Extra jugs of washer fluid were always on hand, and I knew exactly where it went. His son-in-law may have been my chief teacher of all things under the hood, but my grandfather’s eyes shined with pride when I knew to pull the dipstick, wipe it, and place it back before pulling it again for the “real” oil level reading.

I had checked my car tires before leaving Friday morning. I checked the gas level. (Oil level and the like are now the purview of the dealership that leases me my car. I trust them.)

Travel safety was my grandfather’s ultimate goal. He always wanted me to have a few bottles of water in the car in the winter. A blanket would be nice. “Pretzels keep nicely,” he would mention. Of course I had harnessed a AAA card in my wallet, a birthright of all his descendants. Cell phones were not of his era, but I now have one.

He would have been horrified at the conditions last Friday evening. Rain was changing to snow. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees in less than an hour. It was dark. We were still two hours from home. The highway I was on was familiar but not memorized. I was not wearing socks. There was no water in the car. Heck, I didn’t even have a winter coat with me. Quite possibly, his first born great-grandchild, who was in the car with me, was coatless as well.

An angel swooped in on us when I bothered to try and swipe the salty road crust off the windshield while idling at the truck stop. I had pulled forward from the pumps so my dear friend had a shorter walk from the restroom. Nothing came out of the sprayers. My husband jumped out and purchased a gallon of the magic blue water like he was jet propelled.

I am wise enough and have been happily married long enough that I did not jump out of the car to help my sweatshirt-clad husband find the reservoir in the thirty degree wind. He did just fine, although he utilized one choice cuss word.

I would have so loved to see my grandfather’s smile had I been the one to remove the big black cap and place it for safe keeping in the track of metal to the left formed by the fit of the hood to the body of the car. Far away from moving parts. Safe and secure.

p.s. These photos were taken Friday when we drove to and from Kansas City, Missouri, to Des Moines, Iowa, to eat pizza that we meant to eat last March on another road trip. It’s a long story, but the pizza and friendship were divine. Much love to my friend and travel buddy Sherry Jackson, who remembers my grandfather well and enjoyed many a meal at their home when we were in college. You can read about the trip that birthed this one here.

Bacon

I might have know then, when I inquired about the thick chunk of meat in butcher’s paper, that by the end of the week I would be struck with heartache when I opened the refrigerator to reach for the Greek yogurt.

Today I missed him for the first time. As in: My heart silently whispered to me, “I miss him.”

And it is all because of six slices of bacon. The fleeting pain I felt and the blink of quick tears were caused from the extra slices of salt-cured meat my husband bought for a recipe earlier this week that called for two. I might have know then, when I inquired about the thick chunk of meat in butcher’s paper, that by the end of the week I would be struck with heartache when I opened the refrigerator to reach for the Greek yogurt.

My son eats breakfast. When he was a baby, his happiness in the high chair with the sun coming in the kitchen windows was glorious to behold. He would make yummy sounds at just about anything I put on the plate, which within minutes was moved to the tray, where he enjoyed his food the most. Bananas chunk were fine, mandarin orange slices even better. This would keep him entertained while I put eggs in the pan. Cheese was always a small part of the mix, and, as he grew I slipped in vegetables – spinach (a favorite), tomatoes (not), roasted sweet potato leftovers (loved when available).

The baby grew, the highchair moved on to others’ homes. A plate at the worn pine table was now full-time home to “special breakfasts”. Those were his words for breakfasts where I had time, usually on the weekends, to make bacon. Bacon takes time, and, if I try to rush it at all, I burn it. Bad. Like smoke fills the house. He likes his bacon very crispy, but not black, so I have been handed a lifetime challenge.

His hands-down favorite meal that I make on slow mornings – and with a teenager, that could be early afternoon – is crisp bacon, very cheesy scrambled eggs, cranberry juice, and thin pancakes my grandmother taught me to make.

And the best part of this meal is that I always eat it with him. The sun shines in the windows, but I make the yummy noises.

And he smiles every time.

p.s.These photos were taken in September when we visited him for Parent’s Weekend. I look forward to his return for Thanksgiving. I need to let my employer know I might be late one morning of our busiest weekend of the year because I will be burning bacon from lack of practice.

Pride and Envy

Maybe I take a little too long to complete projects, but hey, I’m occasionally drawn to other tasks. Like growing a business. And child rearing. And going to parties.

Long before I started my career selling art, I got hooked on needlepointing. My mother had done a great pillow I remember so well from my childhood, but that languished for years needing to be finished. I was in awe when I watched her work on it as a child. It now resides in my guest bedroom with a like-designed pillow my sister Casey needlepointed for me as a gift.

I have completed six pillows, one belt, and one holiday stocking for my husband, and I have been part of the pair of parents that attempted and finished a gorgeous stocking for our son. All this in my short life of fifty years.

I say short because needlepoint takes time. Maybe I take a little too long to complete projects, but hey, I’m occasionally drawn to other tasks. Like growing a business. And child rearing. And going to parties.

To this day, there is no machine on the planet that can needlepoint for you. It must be done by the human hand. Needle up through the canvas and needle back down, all while pulling wool or cotton or silk behind.

So, on Wednesday, I stood in awe at all that my friend Patricia had accomplished. I was transfixed by the artistry of her paintings on canvas and the forms themselves. The birds, butterflies, divers, and fruit held me in place. She had painted many of these canvases herself and had painted an original work to make all others from in the future. To scale and to size.

I felt like I was cheating my work as I stood midday during the work week at what was feeling more and more like an art show. It seemed like my sister and I should leave the small needlepoint store and take a leisurely lunch somewhere. A walk and possibly a nap. Art was all around me, and my friend had made it all. My envy of her talent has no end.

When we entered the store, she was stitching a piece of her own in the quiet. A diver entering a pool was swaddled in her hands. I believe she was working on one of the blue tones, of which there are many. She jumped up to welcome us, but I might have been a tad rude because I wanted to brush by her to see all the canvases tacked to the wall. Of course I hugged her, but it might have been too short, as I was impatient.

For me, needlepointing is quiet handwork. Some can stitch while watching TV. I can not. Some can listen to music. I can not. Some can stitch and talk on the phone. Not me. I do, however, enjoy stitching with others, but my last several projects have been worked on in solitary silence,

My greatest memory of stitching is when my sister and my husband and my mother were all stitching projects during one year. This was over twenty years ago. I had begged my mother to finally finish the pillow she had started in the 1970s, and she capitulated. All four of us would meet at my mother’s loft and stitch in silence, breaking the silence only to talk for a bit about current events or to gossip shamelessly. Then, we would drop back off into the quiet. I am always lulled by the scratch of the wool against the canvas webbing. It is soothing and rhythmic. I remember occasionally we would ask each other for help on the serious things: when to stop with one color and begin another or how to tie off a dwindling strand in a tidy fashion.

I stood in the quiet store and was so proud of my friend, She is a true artist in that she sees a future for herself in handcraft and all that that holds. She understands paint, and thread, and patience. She is excited to figure out the business of art, and it shows in her eyes and her smile.

Needlepointing is not knitting. it is not sewing. it is not cross-stitch. It is not crochet. It is not embroidery. It is needlepoint, and it holds me in its sway.

p.s. All artwork seen here is the work of Patricia O’Dell, who is building her needlepointing business under the name Mrs. Blandings. You can find out more here. I am partial to the particular blues she used in the wings on the peacock. Check out the close up below.

p.p.s. You can see her work at KC Needlepoint on Gregory in Kansas City, Missouri.

Day Into Night at 37,000 Feet

I sat on a plane several nights ago in a seat I never seek out. The window seat. Planes have become increasingly painful for everyone, and more so if you have height on your frame. I regularly choose the aisle.

As we flew east and the day turned from pink to brown to night, I would occasionally turn from my magazine and look out. Daytime was leaving me, and my interest in farm, field, ponds, and highways was diminishing. As I continued to read in the dark, not a full paragraph passed before a flicker from outside caught my eye. It then held me for the next hour and a half. I was transfixed and slowly let the magazine fold.

The waxing moon, which was above and beyond my limited view on this clear night, was catching the surface of every body of water we passed. It was one of the most beautiful displays of light I have ever witnessed.

As we passed over ponds, rivers, and lakes, they would shine a silvery grey as we approached, then a shock of the moon would glimmer for only a moment the brightest white. The white you see when you first light a handheld sparkler with a match on the 4th of July. The very hottest center of all that magic in the pitch dark. Then, the body of water would recede into grey. Then black.

Rivers were split second ribbons of mercury. Lakes had sinuous edges. Ponds were usually still enough to catch and hold briefly a snapshot of the moon’s surface.

But the swampy parts – the marshes and wetlands – were the most fascinating. The silver of the moon would pop up between darkened trees and old growth. Big swaths of small silver shimmers with no discerning shape from 39,000 feet.

Quick. Sleek. Gone.

p.s. I lifted this image from Google Images. What I marveled at looked nothing like this. My night was darker, and the moon was not full. I will never be skilled enough as a photographer to capture with the camera on my phone the magic I witnessed through an airplane window. Mostly, I just want the memories to live in my mind forever.

My Own Personal Trainer

I had taken it upon myself during the golden child’s nap time to work stair climbing into my routine. Why use a Stairmaster at a gym you really can’t afford when your mortgage provides you with three flights of stairs in a four-story house?

On one of my recent days away from the store, I stayed home and dealt with a few yard-related chores. It was the day after a tremendous storm, and our three big trees took the chance to shed a few pounds of excess…branches that had been hanging around and needed to move on.

There was also a small bed I had been meaning to edge with limestone. These specific rocks had been waiting for me to deal with them all summer and had been placed at the back of our property. The bed was at the front of our yard. So I moved them.

I decided on my two treks up the driveway to lift two pieces at a time – one in each hand – and do reps with them by lifting them backwards, in an up and down motion, to work a group of muscles that just might need a little extra. These rocks weighed about 20 pounds each, and I combined this stroke-of-genius routine with a slower pace to increase the reps. I took my time with the hundred feet I needed to cover.

A few hours later, I was remembering the last time I took personal training upon myself in a semi-serious manner. It was within the year of my son’s birth, and our walks together with the stroller and the hikes with the kiddie backpack still left me feeling cooped up. I had lived in fear during my pregnancy of losing my core strength and was trying to gain it back, and it just seemed like walking wasn’t the trick. I like to “do” for myself. I do not like to wait – for myself to regain or for others to help. I find the challenge of solo-moving the piano/appliance/sofa just that.

So, I had taken it upon myself during the golden child’s nap time to work stair climbing into my routine. Why use a Stairmaster at a gym you really can’t afford when your mortgage provides you with three flights of stairs in a four-story house? I was checking how to get my first Minnesota home loan and actually considering these kind of advantages already that time.

I would start by strapping the baby monitor to my waist, so as not to miss the sweet darling’s squeaks and cries. This was done with a bungee cord of sorts, as the monitor was not designed for this exact purpose. Why did I not just hold it? Well, that’s because I would carry large cans of tomatoes in each hand and work lifting them into my “stair routine”. If the tomatoes had been consumed before the next session, it was two other matching somethings from the pantry with strict specifics on weight. It MUST be 20oz or more, or why waste my time?

The base of my climb was our driveway. Up the flight of stairs to the first floor deck, up the back flight of stairs to the second floor landing, and up the final set of stairs to the third floor. Then I would retrace my steps to the driveway and start again. This was all done at the back of the house, because the baby’s room was in the front of the house. Always thinking, that’s me.

My initial goal was twenty-five climbs up – with arm movements to match the width of the staircases – and twenty-five climbs down. I eased it up to thirty over time and maxed out at fifty. That’s when I was finally and totally bored with this concept. It was still blended with the walks and hikes, but interior staircases hold little allure. Even the dog, who I had to dance around initially as he did every step with me, got bored and started to just lie on the deck positioned perfectly where he could see me climb the first two flights. His eyes were always on me.

Somewhere during my reps with the tomatoes during the days of the thirty climbs, I changed my lifting and lifted the cans behind me. Angled to go backwards and work the back of my arms a wee bit. I can be zealous in my private moments, and I finished every step and lift. That day I felt good when it was over.

At the end of most of my days with a new baby and new business, I went to bed tired. That night I felt great when I went to sleep.

The next day, I went to lift the baby out of his crib and I found that one arm just wouldn’t make the move to lift. It ached a bit as I massaged it before reaching back in for my sweet bundle. Again, no go with the left arm. I didn’t actually hurt, and there was no distinct pain – it just was telling me no.

So I lifted the baby with my right arm and carried him down the stairs in both arms. By the end of the day, the left arm was fine again. Crisis averted but never told to my husband.

But I will never forget looking over at the dog, who was with me at the crib always. As I massaged my arm, he gave me a look that told me he knew everything and had seen this coming. We spent a lot of time together, he and me and the new human. He turned his head and walked ahead of me down the stairs.

I swear he was tsking and smiling his dog smile where I couldn’t see.

Smart dog.

Here is my husband mimicking my unique brand of crazy all these years later. He’s is choosing the easy way to carry rocks. I, however, choose the one that suits me.

Driving & Not Crying

I like to drive. I am at the most peace behind the wheel versus any other seat in the car. My husband calls me a control freak. Whatever.

On Sunday, I posted the following to Facebook:

“It’s official. Just one hour ago I was laid off from the best day-in-day-out job I ever had – full time mothering. After almost 19 years of dedicated employment, I have entered into a long-term consulting position that comes with the fantastic title ‘Parent’.”

All true. We had just dropped our son off for his freshman year of college in eastern New Jersey with a killer view of Manhattan from his dorm. I was between crying jags after an orientation I can barely remember. No disrespect to the presenters, but the sound in my head while listening to them was like the adults in a Peanuts animated short film.

I was able to focus for a few minutes on the tiny screen and the minutia of the app. I knew I would not be photo-worthy that morning, so I had saved a photo from the day before when we were on the road. I hit “post” and started driving west.

It was time to go home.

In Hershey, PA the day before, when all smart mothers take photos with their children. — In Hershey, PA. The day before, when all smart mothers take photos with their children.

I like to drive. I am at the most peace behind the wheel versus any other seat in the car. My husband calls me a control freak. Whatever. He hates to drive, so I see this as the perfect balance in a long marriage.

The seven-hour drive on Sunday was lovely. Western New Jersey and Pennsylvania are beautiful, and I didn’t miss much of the peaceful afternoon and evening. They soothed me deeply. We chose the turnpike for speed, because I knew a full-fledged emotional “come-apart” was being held in check by the lines painted on the Interstate. As I walked across the parking lot to the hotel in eastern Ohio we had chosen weeks before, my breathing changed and I felt a gasp coming from deep in my chest. In the dark, and within the encompassing sounds of the highway, my husband gently said, “You’re almost there.”

I don’t remember the process of checking in or being deeply thanked for my membership in the chain. Credit cards and politeness were presented and soon forgotten. It was time for privacy within my rich, full life.

Our son is thrilled with his choice. I am delighted for him. He saw no tears from me on Sunday, and I only remember his smiles and his command of his belongings in their new home. He, not we, set up his dorm. Upon arriving home, we found a card left by a friend, and he had written what I already knew to be true – our son is where he wants to be and is truly prepared by all that we have taught and shown him.

Eleven hours of driving on Monday was not the initial plan. We were going to take our time getting home, but the pull on my mind and body was too great, and I steered the car along I-70 until our exit on the Jackson Curve. 700+ miles virtually tear-free. My mind did wander, but, by keeping myself in the driver’s seat, I was accomplishing self-preservation by not wallowing in tears that would have come on the passenger side. That side of the car would have been a salt-water swimming pool had I perched there.

Years ago, I had three bracelets made in brass by a local artist. My son was very young when they were hand-pounded with quotes that I chose and hold quite dear. I wear them as a set throughout the year, but not every day. I did not have them on the trip. However, during my two days of driving home, I kept repeating one in my head – a mantra if you will:

“A long ride back, with stops along the way. To sort things out. Then forgive them. Then forget them. Then it’s time to move on.” – Patricia Raybon

Home is a different place. The dog is seriously puzzled. There are two rooms I did not enter the first day. The quiet is fantastic and scary.

But the freedom is something I am easily coming to terms with. As I dance through learning the limits of that freedom, I am letting the tears flow when they need to.

three at fallingwater — On our way into Fallingwater, a Frank Lloyd Wright home in Pennsylvania. All smiles a day before “the drop off”.

The Itch and The Dread

I have labeled this mental activity “The Itch and The Dread,” and I have been building comparisons in my mind for more than a few days.

Yesterday I sat for a little under an hour at my dining room table and watched my son and my niece work a huge LEGO project. A Parisian cafe with thousands of pieces that will fit into a city scene my son has been building for years. I watched them sort pieces by kind and by size, and I watched him teach her about “the books” – those multi-pages items that tell you how to put the pieces together so that you actually end up with a Parisian cafe. It is architecture and engineering with bound edges and slick paper.

IMG_20150611_112316 — This photo hangs above my sister’s desk. It is almost 10 years old. My niece is on the left, my son on the right.

I sat there soaking up every little piece of their back-and-forth. Her questions and his gentle answers. His watching her get excited and her looking quickly to him with a smile in her eyes as she completed a big area.

20150708_183733 — On the final leg of the flights home from Paris a few weeks ago.

And I sat there thinking about what I was going to do to the dining room after Dakota leaves for school in two weeks. What would be leaving us (the piano) and what I would miss (his impromptu playing). (He isn’t taking the upright piano. I’m just getting rid of it.)

I have labeled this mental activity “The Itch and The Dread,” and I have been building comparisons in my mind for more than a few days. I am itching to make changes to my life and surroundings, and I am dreading his departure from our home.

In general:

I am itching to clean his room with him next week, and I am dreading entering it without him while he is in New Jersey.
I am itching to move the kitchen table out, and I am dreading our first meal at the new table without him.
I am itching for the freedom that comes with no school schedule, and I am dreading how I will feel without limitations set by a young person.
I am itching for the silences I crave at my writing desk at home, and I am dreading the quiet he will leave in every room.

The Itch and The Dread. It continues.

One For Each Decade

And still, my sister – along with a bounty of other sneaks and fibbers – surprised me five times on Monday, the day of my 50th birthday.

I am virtually impossible to surprise. I am the first born of three girls. I am highly regimented in my scheduling, and I will cop to being highly organized in most facets of my life – personal and professional.

And still, my sister – along with a bounty of other sneaks and fibbers – surprised me five times on Monday, the day of my 50th birthday.

20150720_095358 — 4th grade on the left and 7th grade in the middle.

A breakfast with my family and two friends that have stood beside me and with me since 4th and 7th grade. Strong, good women who know secrets and keep straight faces.

A group of flowers, arranged the way I adore them, delivered to my desk.

A schedule cleared and staff hired to cover my immediately-demanded absence from work upon my arrival.

A lunch planned and executed with more family and more friends – one of whom already had plans with me on my birthday and just kept running with the lies and deceptions as plans changed – at a favorite place with favorite cake.

A home dancing with 50 blue balloons delivered and placed around my home by two children I love to my very core.

“One for every decade,” she said, while I thanked her at my door as she left my home on the first day of my new decade.

me and my parents — My mom, me, and my dad. Of course Casey took the picture. She’s just that amazing.

The Second Question Asked

He gave me The Look. You know The Look. He was saying to me silently, “Does everything have a story?” He knew the answer and was playing dumb just so I would respond to The Look. So I played along.

I have a great friend who knows more than a little bit about gardening and landscape design. Right after the first of the year, right after we had had very hot soup for lunch, I persuaded him to follow me to my house and give me advice on a very pressing issue. Well, it was pressing on me. Grand plans for the warmer parts of the year with no better time to contemplate them than the coldest and dreariest days of winter.

As we walked around my very small property, he asked many questions. Sprinkler head questions. “What grows here?” questions. “Who laid this?” questions. “When does this bloom?” questions. He wondered when we had done certain things. He never questioned our choices or our taste. When he spoke to me about my dogwood tree in the front yard, I answered, “A Mother’s Day gift from my son.” My favorite moment was when he asked about yet another winter-weary plant in one of our beds towards the back of our yard and I regaled him yet again with not only what the plant was but which grandparent had given it to me. And when. And why. I was brief, I hope.

He gave me The Look. You know The Look. It can take many forms, yet this one was saying to me silently, “Does everything have a story?” He knew the answer and was playing dumb just so I would respond to The Look. So I played along….

I thought of this again this morning when yet another person congratulated me on the graduation of our son from high school. The conversation rolled along, and before I knew it the question was “popped” again. This is the question that seems to escape people right after they ask where he will be attending college: “Are you going to sell the house?” It has become “The Second Question”.

It has puzzled, the fact that this has been such a frequently asked question this spring. Is it because we have only one child and his absence from our home will have us putting a sign in the yard from loneliness? Is it because we live in an older, historic, and larger home and therefore must be looking for the newer and the smaller?

My friend who gave me The Look on the coldest day this past winter already knows my answer. I’m not leaving the home I brought that bouncing baby boy to from the hospital. The memories live inside the house and outside as well. With the daylilies, a gift from my mom’s mom; the dogwood tree, a gift from my son; the surprise lilies, a gift from my mom’s dad; the bridal wreath bush, a gift from my dad’s parents. The list goes on and on.

And that’s before I regale anyone with what the days were like when each planting was made. They all live with me on the coldest and the warmest days.

Vividly.

p.s. The photo was taken this morning in my back yard. These daylilies were originally grown in the ditch near the entrance to my maternal great grandmother’s farm in Gasconade County, Missouri. They are majestic and stand almost five feet tall when they are blooming.