I wish I had a river

I couldn't bear to leave my flowers from Bow Street behind, so they made the four-hour drive to the country with me, listening to podcasts (I'm so modern) The Moth and Judge John Hodgman.

Saturday we had friends over for dinner, great fun except for the part where Bob sliced his finger on the mandolin (onions not music) and had to go to the hospital for repairs.

But we carried on--there was pumpkin soup, gingerbread ice cream and a typically eclectic Catskills mix of folks--half gay, half straight, lives filled with journalism, art, Harley Davidsons, vegetable gardens, the Bronx Zoo, poetry, and a delightful five-year old named Ruby... 

The high hills were frosted with snow, and the raw days of November have arrived.

 I am stockpiling books for the winter. Loved The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt--great writing and great story. I also enjoyed Elizabeth Gilbert's The Signature of All Things (Victorian botanists. Lots of moss.) Deep hefty books filled with engaging and eccentric characters--you might want them on your own winter list.

On the way home, the flowers and I listened to music, songs that remind me of my California years.

a long country weekend

A glorious five days in the country--hot and humid, 

but there was shade and water, family and friends.
The carnival was in town, with rides, games, fried dough and fireworks,
and it was nice to see the villages crowded and lively.

I saw a young beaver by the brook and ate soft serve ice cream at the general store.

We had a party and it was fun.

 I arranged and rearranged everything and made fruit cobblers.

My husband cooked dinner for 30 in his new kitchen.
The boys moved picnic tables, set up drinks and built a campfire.

Patrice brought me flowers from her garden. 

Her peonies have a heavenly fragrance, like old-fashioned roses.

The next night we went to a friend's annual potluck, fireworks show, and bonfire. Before the fireworks everyone sings the Star Spangled Banner. Burning wood and gunpowder mingles with the smell of pot, a trio of scents that evoke the western Catskills pretty well--thrown in cow manure and fresh cut hay and you're there.

flowers in the painting studio

These were a gift from my husband's colleagues. 

Something about the arrangement troubled me. 

He thought they were too stylized.
For me both colors and arrangement lacked harmony.

  Well aren't you interesting, I thought,

 not giddy with love in my usual way.

But I grew fonder of them, 

especially when viewed from above, 

and took them to the studio yesterday.

I made some quick sketches 

and contemplated the many ways to paint a flower,

but there is nothing like the real thing.

Spring is later than usual in New England (and the Catskills too I'm sure, though I didn't get there this weekend) and my garden is bare, but I'm enjoying the many blossoms and friends, the warmth and love and laughter over at Jane's Flowers in the House.