Monday, November 1, 2021

Welcome November, my favorite month of the year!

 When it comes about November I get the queerest feeling, as if the real year is beginning.

                         Nelia Gardener White

 


 

Friday, October 1, 2021

Heavenly Autumn

 


I have never been a lover of the hot days and I hope John Donne was right when he said it will always be autumn in heaven.

                                             Elizabeth Goudge in 

                                The Joy of the Snow

  

Wednesday, September 29, 2021

Tail End of September

 September has been lovely here at Home Hill, ending with comfortably warm days after delicious four days of chilly nights and days where the AC was off and windows open. 

I am ready for frost on the pumpkins, even though we haven't bought our pumpkins yet.

Yesterday there was a flash of orange in the garden, a monarch butterfly that tantalized me by flittering here and there but not landing long enough for a good photo snap.

 


If it were not for these late migrating beauties I would be more than ready for a good frost. The garden is dingy, no doubt about that. I'm ready to move on, ready to welcome October and praying it won't bring the record breaking heat we had in October of 2019. 

It would be nice to order up the weather we'd like, wouldn't it? Or maybe not. That's probably in better hands than mine. 

Still....

By the end of September one becomes surfeited with garden beauty...So come quickly, sharp early frost! Obliterate some of this beauty! Clear decks for the majesty of Autumn!

                                   Richardson Wright

                                   The Gardener's Bed-Book

 

Thursday, September 23, 2021

One, Two, Three, Four, Five

 How could one month have gone by since my apology to yellow post? Surely it was only the other day.


 The days slip by far too quickly, don't they? I only cut one bloom to dry from the oak leaf hydrangea before they were past their peak.

But isn't it perfect? 



Two large hydrangea bushes were loaded with these blooms. I could have picked a bushel but settled for three. They dried beautifully after absorbing two inches of water. 

 

Two green ducks said "Take us home!" at the Fourth of July sale at our local antique mall. So I did. Along with five English Blue Willow saucers to serve as coasters for wet glasses. 



One dear dachshund peeks at me over the red sofa.

Did you see her?

Friday, August 20, 2021

An Apology to Yellow

Dear Yellow,

I am ashamed to admit that I have tried to keep you out of my garden. What was I thinking? 

My heart has always belonged to purples, blues, and pinks. And white. 

And by late August those favorites lose their zing, enough so that I want to look at the garden with watercolor eyes.

 


And in doing so I realize that it is Yellow that saves the day.

I am grateful for the faithful purple and white perennials that reappear every year but this year the garden needed more and the resident gardeners had less to give of themselves so on Memorial Day RH went to the 50% off sale at the family nursery that is down the road from our previous dear Valley View and came back to Home Hill with pots of blooms, all but one of which had Yellow in them. And my, how Yellow livened up the garden!

You have been gorgeous in your petunia petals!

 


And in a calla lily fountain bursting up out of a bed of something or other.

Always we have lantana but always purple. A purple pot came home with RH and an orange but this year yellow came too.



 

And for my kitchen porch a large pot of velvety purple petunias and enough little pink flowers to perfume the night air. (Dianthus?)


And a plume of a grass that is nothing like the papyrus plant in the garden (?), with a pretty Yellow canna bulb in the middle.

 


You've been my own personal Yellow "orchid" to watch for as I work in the kitchen.

 


And last but not least, all summer long on the kitchen porch, Yellow roses given me by a daughter-in-law for my birthday.


 

So, I humbly apologize to you, Lovely Yellow! I'll never be a Yellow snob again. 

This final picture was taken by my son and sums up exactly what my purple garden needed. Yellow. Because it makes purples more purple!


 


 

Thursday, August 12, 2021

Too Hot to Cook

 

It was far too hot to cook yesterday, 95 F. but felt like 103. 

Time for a no-cook meal of buying Costco's shrimp salad and adding some chopped celery with leaves, a chopped jalapeƱo, chives, squirt of lemon juice, and a little Trader Joe's 21 Seasoning Salute. Chill and stuff some in a hot roll.

 I did saute the inside and outside of bakery rolls in butter, quick heat along with making tea for RH's iced tea but that was better than heating up the oven. And his almost nightly small dish of cooked frozen okra. Don't ask. Along with a pickled egg--I put boiled eggs in pickled beet jars when they're empty--it was a nice too hot to cook meal.

[First picture my supper, last one RH's; we each stuffed our own roll. It may be too hot to cook for me but never too hot to garnish or choose a sterling silver fork.]


 Today is supposed to reach between 98 and 100. Between that and a vet visit, I'm all for a repeat of last night's supper. But one of us doesn't like leftovers. Frozen dinner, RH?

 

Friday, August 6, 2021

Two Fictional Marriages

 

Marriage relationships are often the basis of Pearl S. Buck novels. These two books that I found recently at our local antique mall, 1941's Portrait of A Marriage (preceding by 35 years Nigel Nicholson's famous biography of the same name about his parents) and Buck's 1938 novel This Proud Heart, made me wonder about Buck's own marriage. To Wikipedia I went and found that her second marriage, her most successful marriage, was to her publisher with whom she shared many interests.

Both of these novels are about artists, the husband in one and the wife in the second. The spouses in both books were polar opposites from their artist spouses, examples of the old adage that opposites attract. Putting it simply, these two books could be thought of as cautionary tales about the importance of having something in common before committing to marriage, not that two young people are likely to consider that. But back to the books.

My copy of Portrait of A Marriage is beautiful. The dust jacket picture is of the type of Pennsylvania stone farmhouse that I so admire.

The house was made of fieldstone, brown and dull red and streaked with weathered gold...Over the porch a trumpet vine climbed in full leaf but not yet flowering.

 The artist in William drew him to anything beautiful and the house set in the valley was beautiful. 

The endpapers of the book reveal the second beautiful thing that the artist fell under the spell of, the farmer's beautiful daughter Ruth. (Endpapers of a book can sell a book to me, also deckled edges some old books have. A ribbon doesn't hurt either.)


William, educated and from a wealthy family, immediately wants to paint Ruth making bread in the kitchen that he finds much more charming than his own parents' that only the cook is ever in.

...a big stone-floored room, and in the middle of the outer end wall was a wide fireplace in which a cook stove had been put. Above were good oak beams, smoked to a dark brown...But the kitchen, he thought, as he entered it again, was beautiful.

Alas, despite the beauty of this book, I did not care for it. I did not even care for the beautiful Ruth. Actually, I didn't even care much for William. The marriage did last and I did too, finishing the book, something I normally no longer do if I'm not enjoying it. 

But it is a Pearl S. Buck novel and I am an eternal fan, besides hoping that Ruth would grow and become more than the stubborn closed mind woman she is. To the last page that never happens. 


 Then I turned to the second Buck novel, This Proud Heart published in 1938. It has no dust jacket, no pretty endpapers, no pretty pictures. But oh my goodness, how I loved this book!


 Susan marries Mark with one desire only, to make a perfect home for him. 

She stopped one day when the morning was half over and looked around her living room. Everything was finished in this house. There was nothing more to do. The house looked back at her brightly, the windows clear, the floor shining, everything in its place. There was no room for anything more she could make. The last cushion, the last curtain was done, and one more would be too much. Her small linen closet was full of linen she had embroidered and hemstitched. Outside, the garden was tended and blooming with midsummer. Mark was to make the garden, but she had run out on sunny days and weeded and planted. Yesterday she had even mowed the lawn. But he was angry at her for that.

I say that everyday, don't you? All my work done by  mid-morning and my house and garden perfect. Right.

While I enjoyed reading the book up to this point, loved all the domestic details, it was the rest of the book that was fascinating. What did this wife do when her homemaking duties failed to fulfill the artistic yearnings she had previously satisfied through amateur sculpting? She began to carve in marble and then to become one of the few sculptors who carves directly into stone with no drawing, no pattern, no small model made first.

With each marble block Susan lets the particular piece  reveal itself to her chisel.

I loved the thorough job that the author did fleshing out this artist's career as a sculptor, the detail she went into about the actual sculpting. 

I liked the wife in this book. I liked her dull husband even though they weren't suited at all. There wasn't a grand passion between them whereas the relationship between the painter and his country wife had a marriage that succeeded only because of the passion between them. 

I'm not knocking passion in a marriage, far from it. Marriage is complicated enough with it,in real life and in fiction. Pearl S. Buck does it so well in her novels about her time period. She was, after all, both a Pulitzer Prize and Nobel Prize winner during her career.

Would her books sell today? Probably only to old fogies like me. 

I shouldn't fail to mention that the author's own life, from beginning to end, was complicated as well as sometimes tragic.