A rather ratty sunflower, cut and brought inside because the storms the other day had broken the stem.
Woke up today to a photo from the Texasgirl, of a tree on their backyard bar. Welcome to home ownership, over and over, you crazy kids . . . but really, if the Pink Flamingo is destroyed, that's a little heartbreaking. This bar, as in a full-service bar and small event venue, began as one of two backyard sheds: the one wired for electricity, the one with kind of a lean-to porch roof on the front. Their first summer in the house, while he was digging a firepit and doing other backyard-party upgrades, because in a pandemic what else are you gonna do all day but build a party space, my son-in-law on a whim constructed bar counters between the porch supports. The idea was that while people were hanging out at the bonfire, they'd have a place to mix and set their drinks. Then I guess he thought, "Heeeey . . . there's a whole shed . . ." Over the course of the next months, he astroturfed the floor, built an actual bar inside the shed out of wood pallets, and installed a mini-fridge. Gradually furniture began to collect out there. Parties were held. Many, many parties. Poker nights. 80s prom parties. So many parties. And now . . .
The Texasgirl said that in the middle of the night, she dreamed that somebody had knocked over a whole wall of canned tomatoes. The dream woke her up. Her husband, at the same moment, had been awakened by a similar dream. So they looked outside, and there were leaves where leaves were not supposed to be. They hadn't had a storm or anything. This wasn't the tree she had been worried about. She said it looked great on the outside, but turns out it was basically an oaken drinking straw. So they've been up since 4 a.m., calling the fire department and the power company, counting the surviving chickens (RIP Big Lynda), since the other thing the tree fell on was the chicken run, not to mention the power lines. The power is still out on the whole block, and they're waiting for the power guys to show up and cut the branches off the line.
And as I have done in the past, they're now eyeing the other trees in their yard with extreme distaste. One tree comes down, and your mind turns to the vision of a whole yard without trees. As I was just telling her, I have not for one minute regretted the trees we've had taken down. The front-yard oak, which came down five years ago this month, was --- as it turns out --- not unhealthy, but also not especially pretty. And it was canted toward the house. If it had fallen, it would have fallen right through the Artgirl's upstairs room, forty tons of tree, maybe missing the Artgirl in her bed, and maybe not.
I have not missed that tree for one second since it went away. Getting rid of it meant that I could then plant a sun garden in front of the house, for the first time ever. Granted, the cottage garden I put in has now run away with itself, and I need to go out and confront the apple mint which is busily ruling the world, but it's a lot better than the dry shade sadness we used to have.
I did regret the backyard pecan, but it was already dead. There was no question of its staying put. And now I have my vegetable garden and more tomatoes than we know how to eat, so on the whole, the loss of that tree has been a serious win for us.
Meanwhile, here it is: Saturday in North Carolina, too. The sun is shining. Today's high is 91F, so welcome back to summertime. The run of rain and cooler weather was nice while it lasted. I'm going to finish this cup of coffee, then bathe and wash my hair and attire myself in some clothing item, probably a wool dress. Wait and see . . .
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Feeling like a drowned rat after my bath and hair wash, so not showing my face (but showing my dripping hair, which makes no sense, but anyway):
Here's Maggie B today, for her first August outing. As always, she's simple, clean-looking, swingy, and cool. Yes, she's a shapeless dress, but with a drape that makes her something special.
After a couple of days in barefoot shoes, I was ready for Birkenstocks again. As I reached into my closet, meaning to pick up the trusty Birk Balis, my eyes fell on this pair of Rosemeads, which I bought secondhand back in Lent for a little purple pick-me-up.
I haven't worn them this summer --- maybe because my brain wants to tell me that suede is for cold weather, not warm. But my brain wants to tell me many things that aren't true, and this is one of them. I need to wear these shoes more anyway, to break them in --- they arrived in like-new condition, and I haven't yet fully molded the cork footbed to my feet.
And they're kind of a perfect shoe for this dress. The soft grapey-plummy color provides a nice light contrast with the marine-blue of my lowest hemline --- and an interesting contrast that isn't tan or light gray. I love the Mary-Jane clog design.
So here they are, on my feet, which is where they should be, since I own them.
This feels like a perfect Saturday outfit: a little elevated, simply because it's a dress, but great for walking, great for lounging, great for housework, great for whatever low-key things I have on today --- which isn't at all a long list. This is kind of a no-agenda day.
As it should be.
AFTERNOON:
Everyone else is out, and Dora and I are hanging around doing essentially nothing.
You too can play "Spot the Dora in the Garden."
It's all a mess at this stage, but a lovely, colorful mess.
LATER:
Speaking of messes, have you ever done a dumb thing, and realized, as you were doing it, that it was a dumb thing, but by the time you realized it, you had already reached some point of no return?
OK, well, it didn't seem that dumb in theory, and the outcome isn't that dumb.
See? I had a reason, and it wasn't a dumb reason. I've had this scarf for nigh onto thirty years, maybe more. It was my grandmother's, and she died in 1991, so yeah, more than thirty years. It's this gorgeous, delicate, lacy wool confection. And for the entire time I've had it, it's been kind of a dirty yellowish off-white.
You know where this is going. I mean, of course you do, because I've already shown you the "after" shot. I wasn't wearing it, because the color was doing me no favors. And . . . la di da, dum de dum . . . I happened to have some indigo dye just sitting around.
Of course I did. And although I had resolved not to dye anything else for a while, I figured that from Thursday to Saturday counted as "a while."
At the moment when this whole idea occurred to me --- and it occurred to me as a very good idea --- there was a load of wash in the washing machine. That might have been a deterrent. You'd have thought so, anyway.
But, thought I, I don't want to put this delicate wool thing in the washing machine. I didn't felt the leggings, but I'm afraid I would felt, or otherwise ruin, this scarf.
So I put an underbed bin in the bathtub, ran in some hot water, and added dye. Brilliant, I thought. And then I looked at this big plastic bin full of dark-blue dye in my bathtub. Looking at it, I thought: blue dye is going to get all over this bathtub and never come out. And there is nothing I can do about that. Nowhere to go but forward.
So I did.
Yes, blue dye got all over the bathtub.
Now, our bathtub is old and has needed reenameling for as long as we've lived in this house. The abraded spots do hold stains.
But with some bleach and scrubbing . . .
It's a lot better than I was afraid it was going to be, I'll tell you that.
I washed out the scarf in the sink, and it remains a work in progress:
Again, not as bad as I was afraid it was going to be, but now I'm out of bleach. Also, while the sink was full of blue dye, leaking out of the scarf, I managed to drop my husband's toothbrush in, too, so now I have to go to Walgreens. I am feeling ridiculously Lucy-and-Ricky about all this, but anyway.
Maybe I really shouldn't be left at home by myself. Clearly I'm kind of a menace.
ADDENDUM:
But holy cow, my scarf is so much prettier. I can't stop looking at it. I can't wait to wear it.