The Flower Chair

A few minutes ago, I was sitting cross-legged on my flower chair by the fire with a zebra coffee cup on the blue table and a book in my hand. 

 

It's the same scene that played out early last Saturday morning as well.  Before the text to Karen that sent off the day of random. 

 

You see, that flower chair doesn't really belong in the living room by the blue table and the fire.  But it's still there.   

 

It's still there a week later after a random Friday night in which four friends held wine glasses in their hands and pushed chairs as close as possible to visit in a way that hasn't happened for so long.  Life gets busy, crazy, and in the way sometimes.  So when the life crazy parts briefly and allows for talking until past midnight, you embrace it and squeeze hug it.  Right after you set out the cheese, apples, dates, olives, and other wine night musts. 

 

 

While you sit with music floating in the air, you send up a how did I get so lucky to have these kind of women in my life.  The kind that just say whatever it is that's on their minds.  The kind that are happy for you and all that's going right.  The kind that share where they are and it makes you a better person for it.   

 

Then, the next morning you wake up and walk out to living room to see the effects of the circle of talking and you leave it - just as it is and grab a blanket and a cup of coffee to keep the feeling. 

 

The rocker was moved back to its spot on Sunday but that flower chair is still sitting there in the middle of the living room.  Last night it was a landing spot for parents who were taking their littles trick-o-treating in the cold.  They warmed their hands while I let their kids run wild and encouraged the wild by adding to it myself.  You want another piece of candy Brooks?  Sure thing buddy.  You want me to flip you upside down and tell you in a silly voice, "Love you Hazel?"  Sure thing.  You want me to pull all four of you in close on the loveseat to tell you a whisper story about your Auntie Em?  Sure thing. 

 

I think that flower chair in the middle of the living room is just right.  It begs to be sat on and it makes for the best kind of circle visiting.  Yet another reminder of the perfect tends to come from the imperfect.   

 

It also makes for a win of a spot to drink Saturday morning coffee out of a zebra cup. 

 



Buttery Paper Towels

One day this summer, right after I was hired for this new job, I had to get fingerprinted.  And apparently in this town, they only fingerprint from 7:00-9:00 pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the jail.  I called.  Because it seemed odd to me that they wanted you to come to the jail at night rather than in the morning; I was sure it was a typo.  But no.  They really do have you come at night and it also conveniently happens to be at the very same time that everyone within a fifty mile radius who needs to get a daily breathalyzer and/or other daily check-in comes to the jail.  Let's just say the scene I walked into was that of a movie.  I took a cell phone picture real discreet like as I didn't so discreet like yell, "Who in the heck is in charge of this?  Why would people come to get their fingerprints at the same time as this?!"  

Then, I looked around at all of the stares and I thought to myself.  Self.  Shut it down.  Shut it down now.  No need to be feisty in current company.  

I made it out alive, with black fingertips.  

Previously that evening, I came home to find construction workers and a payloader on my lawn with all kinds of other business occurring simultaneously.  The corner of my lawn, but still.  The lawn!  My yard!  

I might have gone a little yell zone on them as well.  It went something like this.

I'm not crazy.  Yell yell yell.  I mean really, I'm a nice person.  Yell yell yell.  But this is ridiculous!  I swear I'm nice.  Promise.  Yell yell yell.  You will make sure all of those sprinkler heads work because hello?!  Payloader on my yard.  You are on my yard!  Okay so yeah, I mean I know you are just trying to do your job.  Like I said I'm not crazy.  Promise.  But this, all of this (insert flamboyant dramatic hand wave), is a problem.  

Then I went inside and then I went to get fingerprinted at the jail with all the common criminals and then I questioned the sanity of this town yet again. 

All of this is leading somewhere.  

The next day, I was baking cookies.  It was a July morning and I dobbed the paper towel in the butter and greased my cookie sheets and then I smiled to myself because I had this memory of my grandma and her paper towel dabbed in Crisco.  Greasing her pans for buns.  It's amazing, when we do things out of rote, a deep hidden memory of a strong impression.  Grandma's greasy paper towel.  My buttery paper towel.  I am so thankful I had a Grandma Gladys.  A person who gave me so many of those dents in my impressionable self.  

Gladiolas will forever be my favorite flower.  Grandma grew them by the droves in her garden and every late July and early August when they started blooming, she would make bouquet arrangements for church and then stand outside the door and pass the stems out individually after church.  A deep hidden memory of a strong impression.  Forever my favorite flower.  

After the cookies came out of the oven that early July morning, I put some on a plate and brought out to the construction workers who were working in the corner again.  I felt guilty.  Guilty about my rant over them doing their job - even if it was a bit of a careless mode of operation.   I apologized.  They accepted.  They apologized.  I accepted.  They smiled while eating gooey chocolate chip cookies.  I smiled as I walked away.  

I can't help but think my grandma would have smiled at that too.  Deep hidden memories of the model of what my own mode of operation should be.    

Morning Always Wins, Always

Light streaming in on soft blankets.  Running right away while the air is fresh.  Coffee shared outside visiting with family.  Fresh lemons squeezed in unsweetened tea.  Momma D. baking bread, just asking for melted butter and honey.  Buds and blooms and green grass with sun spots all around.  

Morning always wins. 





Not Eggs This Time

Raw honey is pretty too.  Especially when it's sitting on the kitchen windowsill with the morning sunlight pouring through. 

Here's my little latest nugget of revelation, raisins really are much better when they come in the tiny cardboard box.  It's one thing that should not be bought in a bulky bag.  The tiny cardboard box is where it's at.  Chewier.  Tastier.  Just more fun.  I'm a sucker for cute packaging.

When life is really busy, it's important to think about such things as why raisins taste better out of  the tiny cardboard box.  Trust me, it is.    

And now too, I can say "You look better than honey on a windowsill."  Instead of saying, "...better than a peach on a windowsill." 

Revelations I tell you. 



Eggs Again

I pulled out the eggs last Sunday and found a surprise.  His and hers eggs; they struck me as pretty and I was momentarily sidetracked from the French toast mission. 

The little things truly do win me over and remind me to step back and notice.  To take it all in.     

I find when I'm feeling the most fidgety and restless, there are some things that without fail pull me back.  My camera.  The sunlight.  Cooking.  Cleaning.  Reading.  Writing.  A quiet night on the couch with a shared blanket and a movie.  Creating.  Running.  A glass of wine with friends.  Talking to Momma Debi.  Spending moments with my favorite little people.  Being outside.   

Taking pictures of eggs. 

Yeah those things. 

Thank goodness for those things. 

It Finally Dawned on Me

I don't know if it means something, like a certain milestone has been reached similar to the first time you ride your bike without training wheels which if you are me is a feat in itself but I digress.  Help, save, comfort, and defend us oh gracious Lord.  Now I really digress.  Back to the matter at hand.  A milestone maybe?  An official adult-ism possibly. 

 

For the first time, I packed my own coffee pot, filters, and grounds for the lake.  It's like the one thing I like to be able to control every day.  Who am I kidding even pretending there's only one thing I like to control.  But still.  Coffee in the morning is important to me. 

 

 

Not because I'm a snob about the brand, but because I am a snob about the feeling. 

 

 

The feeling of just risen with bed head and barely opened eyes to fiddle with the water while the smell of the grounds floats.  The feeling of pouring it into a good looking cup with the steam billowing up.   

 

 

The feeling of holding it in two hands while I sit in a lawn chair and enjoy the sun shining and the birds chirping and the breeze blowing and all that other hippy stuff I tend to relish right up. 

 

 

It has honestly stressed me out previously about the lake.  Where's the coffee coming from this morning?  Drive to town?  Find a neighbor?  That's a kind of stress I'm just not willing to take on while supposedly relaxing. 

 

So this time while we were throwing stuff in the back of the car, it dawned on me. 

 

Pack my own pot, water, and grounds. 

 

Hello. 

 

In those went.  Along with everything else but the kitchen sink. 

 

And on Saturday morning when Billy and I woke long before the others, I was a happy little lark with my freshly brewed pot sitting on the picnic table. 

 

 

I hippy styled it right up.  If I could have yelled out the sky while I was perched in my chair taking in the morning love, I would have.  But it was early. 

 

Instead, I took pictures of the brown eggs in the rising sun because love a duck they were pretty. 

 

 

Another milestone maybe?  Standing on a picnic table while at the lake to take pictures of brown eggs in the sun.  Which kind would that be?

 

Might Even be Better Than Lip Gloss

A little slice of an early summer heart happy...

 

Clipping branches off a tree on a Saturday evening to throw in a jar on my dining room table so when the sun comes shining in on a Sunday morning, I can't help but do a ohhhh that's pretty when I sit on the love seat and drink my steaming cup of coffee. 

 





A Small Victory

The weekend is here.  Slow mornings with coffee, words by the fire, homemade bread french toast on the You are Special plate, and easy goings...I hope are on your agenda.  

May I also say I need to celebrate a very small victory.  I love the way steam rises from a cup of fresh coffee.  It just makes the morning right and good.  And for years now, yes years because that's how I am, I have tried to capture the steam rising from a cup with my camera.  Fail every single time.  I try and try to figure out the perfect combination of ISO, aperture, and shutter speed needed to make a still of the steam.  I move the cup to a variety of backgrounds.  Try it with a light variety, click and fail.  Try it with a dark variety, click and fail.  Always never quite getting there, to the swirly fog rising from the cup.  It's probably silly how much time I've put into this one small capture I want, but it's the feeling behind the steam I want to be remembered.  

So my slightly obsessive self kept placing my coffee mug here, there, and everywhere...trying. 

And then boom!  After daylight broke last Saturday morning, I managed to get a tiny whisper of steam.  It's not perfect, not by a long shot but what it is...

Is a small victory from a silly little goal of mine.

Here's to the weekend.  Steam capturing and all.