Wife, writer, tinkerer, grower of food. I'm happiest outside our rambling farmhouse with a basket looped on my arm, picking dinner from the garden. That's joy right there. Please follow along; I'm so glad you're here!
And then, the night before pea planting eve, it snowed.
On his evening walk, Del cavorted and frolicked on the end of the leash. His humans were less than thrilled.
There are few things in my life as keen as the heartbreak of late March snow. Tomorrow it's supposed to be near sixty, finally, and all this white crap better be GONE by then, so I can freaking plant. That is my sworn statement. The romance and quiet and seclusion of winter is gone. Spring is what the people need.
Exactly one month ago, I started on a quilt. I need to make this a regular wintertime occurrence. It helps so much. Each little patient seam and square and stitch, one little bit closer to spring. I had fun putting this one together, definitely slap-dash and a little wonky, but full of life and pattern. And I love the colors. I mean, I have to, right? But I mean I really, really love the colors. They're so... March. Ice blue and gray and more gray and brown and white and the littlest, specialest slivers of bright yellow.
This quilt was my bus companion to Philly-- I worked on the quilting sitting by my window listening to Jason Isbell on P's iPod over and over and over with it fluffed on my knees. Sunday, coming home, I used it as a pillow-- my 7am bus was wayyy too early for me to be industrious on the ride.
I still have binding to do, of course-- and I'm thinking deep navy blue-- but that's convenient, because I still have winter, too. Though Monday it's supposed to be 57 and mostly sunny, so we'll see. Yesterday I did some outside-work. Today it is raining and I am getting over this cold, and finishing the last of the quilting. So good. So ready for spring.
I fled Gilbertsville. I spent eleven hours on various buses for the exquisite privilege of spending two nights in a house that wasn't filled with plaster dust. For vintage shopping and afternoon glasses of Chardonnay and walking around without a jacket on Saturday.
It was awesome.
I was ostensibly in town to see Tumbleweed Highway (P's band) play nearby-- and he and the guys can believe that, if it makes them happy-- but really, I was in town to see Meghann. To see Meghann and have girl time. So when we caravanned into the city Saturday morning-- five big hairy guys in a van, plus Brent (Meghann's husband) plus us girls... well, we made short work of ditching them.
Meg and I headed west. All I wanted, really, was people-watching and chitchat and cool buildings to ogle. The experience of being someplace unfamiliar and interesting to look at. But, lo and behold, we found a vintage consignment shop. We couldn't pass that up, could we? Well, no.
I had the heartbreaking experience of trying on a gorgeous dress that didn't fit. Which is probably a smaller heartbreak than the experience of having it look amazing and not being able to afford it. One item in the store was priced-- $450-- so, um, yeah.
We moved on to lunch.
And cheese shopping.
And white wine in tumblers in a bar that seemed, we agreed, part slaughterhouse, part S&M dungeon.
Brent picked us up and we headed back to home. We strolled to buy provisions for the night's dinner and game night. One of us might have been a little drunk. I remember talking passionately about the downsides of women's lib in the cracker aisle.
Then, we got cookin. Two women, one kitchen, two pans of lasagna, salad, bruschetta, garlic bread... Jason Isbell on Spotify...
...one sweet dog, spring sunshine... oh, it was pretty excellent.
And later, there were new people to meet, and dinner, and games. Cards Against Humanity and lots of red wine.
Agh, I had so much fun!
I have decided it should be an annual event, at least. Nice to launch myself into springtime from a place of relaxation and culture, a place of being centered. Because lord knows, when the garden is in high gear, it is hard for me to be centered.
This week is bringing us three more days of highs in the 20s-- ENOUGH, ALREADY!-- and then, finally, finally, it will begin creeping up towards 60. As much as I'm eager, I know it will be the end of long, idle afternoons and weekends away that don't make me scramble to catch up. But that's okay. I'm ready. I'm ready, and it's time.
I blog when I'm happy, pleased with progress, or eager to show something off. I'll own up to that-- and really, isn't it sorta that way for all bloggers? Well. I don't have anything to show off. Progress is pretty uninspiring. It's still winter. We're both, I think, starting to wonder at ourselves-- whose idea was this, exactly?
This is the slow stuff. The slow, logistical, unglamorous stuff. I've been spackling and respackling those lumpy seams while Patrick mutters and paces and jiggers and rejiggers wiring, lighting, and the exhaust fan we're building into the header. This weekend he got the exhaust hose connected to the fan. Next weekend he's touring-- Pennsylvania and Delaware-- with the band... so, yeah, it'll be awhile. It is sluggy.
Meanwhile, I know the luxury of being able to focus on inside projects is coming to an end-- a good and a bad thing. I am eager to be gardening, it is true, but I'm not sure the kitchen project will be able to handle the competition of greeen. We'll see. We'll get it done eventually, right? Probably with help. Yes. Help will be required. Oh, uggghhhh...