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More later :)

(no subject)

More later :)

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Source: foxontherun.tumblr.com via Lauren on Pinterest

My mind wandered all over the place this morning on my drive to work while the BBC analyst prattled on about the Eurozone and Spain’s defunct housing market. I think seeing the multicolored gallon buckets with skyward reaching tomato plants dotting front steps and the 8-foot tall maroon sunflowers in the community garden that took my mind ‘home’.


My childhood home had a ‘secret’ garden – or rather, a place no one paid any attention to. A separately walled-off garden from the main backyard. For the most part, it was neglected and forgotten until a notice was served that the trees were encroaching on power lines and then my dad would pay someone to come in and hack back all the trees.

I remember that there was some wild shrubby tree that yawned over the darkly hidden path between the wall of our garage and the neighbor’s stone privacy fence. Those trees would bloom bright lavender flowers and then seeds/pods/pellets would fall and be crushed underfoot, smelling like a musky, smoky, spicy, yet flowery herb. I’d roll them between my fingers and crush them to release the smell, luxuriating.

The back garden was once obviously loved. By the time we got there, the plants were all wild and unkempt, but still – the fig tree produced figs every year, the pomegranate tree always hung low with fruit. There were three plum trees in a raised bed that dropped sour, stunted, desert plums. And a free-range strawberry bed with random herbs poking out. I spent a lot of time in the cool of that place eating pomegranates right off the trees.

There was also a back door to the garage that had an old purple glass doorknob that I loved. In fact, it was the only relic I’d asked my brother to get before my parents vacated their house. It was already gone. Some workman obviously realized the value and stole it at some point. I wish I had it, though. It was like that extra spark of magic in that place for me.

It’s funny how much I think about that garden. I think there are places that a soul just identifies with. That quiet, cool, calm place full of wild-but-fruit-bearing plants felt like me. Protected, secret, loved. For much the same reason that my soul is drawn to wildflowers, I think. Perfect and untended-wild at the same time. Bending in the wind, basking in the sunshine, beautiful in the random.

All of that from a few gallon buckets.

I heard my first cicada of the summer on Tuesday while we had the boys at the park by the river. The heat really kicked up yesterday, the first day of summer. It was too hot for our customary walk AND I was feeling introverted, so I stayed home and cooked. Stuffed shells with hidden carrots and spinach, home made meat sauce. Nicole raved and raved, the boys ate like bottomless pits. Everyone went to bed happy while the light lingered on and on outside.

(no subject)

Source: foxontherun.tumblr.com via Lauren on Pinterest

My mind wandered all over the place this morning on my drive to work while the BBC analyst prattled on about the Eurozone and Spain’s defunct housing market. I think seeing the multicolored gallon buckets with skyward reaching tomato plants dotting front steps and the 8-foot tall maroon sunflowers in the community garden that took my mind ‘home’.


My childhood home had a ‘secret’ garden – or rather, a place no one paid any attention to. A separately walled-off garden from the main backyard. For the most part, it was neglected and forgotten until a notice was served that the trees were encroaching on power lines and then my dad would pay someone to come in and hack back all the trees.

I remember that there was some wild shrubby tree that yawned over the darkly hidden path between the wall of our garage and the neighbor’s stone privacy fence. Those trees would bloom bright lavender flowers and then seeds/pods/pellets would fall and be crushed underfoot, smelling like a musky, smoky, spicy, yet flowery herb. I’d roll them between my fingers and crush them to release the smell, luxuriating.

The back garden was once obviously loved. By the time we got there, the plants were all wild and unkempt, but still – the fig tree produced figs every year, the pomegranate tree always hung low with fruit. There were three plum trees in a raised bed that dropped sour, stunted, desert plums. And a free-range strawberry bed with random herbs poking out. I spent a lot of time in the cool of that place eating pomegranates right off the trees.

There was also a back door to the garage that had an old purple glass doorknob that I loved. In fact, it was the only relic I’d asked my brother to get before my parents vacated their house. It was already gone. Some workman obviously realized the value and stole it at some point. I wish I had it, though. It was like that extra spark of magic in that place for me.

It’s funny how much I think about that garden. I think there are places that a soul just identifies with. That quiet, cool, calm place full of wild-but-fruit-bearing plants felt like me. Protected, secret, loved. For much the same reason that my soul is drawn to wildflowers, I think. Perfect and untended-wild at the same time. Bending in the wind, basking in the sunshine, beautiful in the random.

All of that from a few gallon buckets.

I heard my first cicada of the summer on Tuesday while we had the boys at the park by the river. The heat really kicked up yesterday, the first day of summer. It was too hot for our customary walk AND I was feeling introverted, so I stayed home and cooked. Stuffed shells with hidden carrots and spinach, home made meat sauce. Nicole raved and raved, the boys ate like bottomless pits. Everyone went to bed happy while the light lingered on and on outside.