The Wedding

I have waited a week to post about this much-anticipated event--the wedding of our son, Howard, to the lovely lady, Dawn, whom he dated years ago when they were 18.

Although Dawn knew her heart then, as so often happens, the young man did not.

Both survived the rough patches of failed marriages and some years alone before re-connecting earlier this year.

It was love at second sight--and we are honored to welcome her into our family at last.

Wedding rehearsal;

Dawn and Howard with the friend who would lead them in their vows.

Susan, our niece, applies her talents to the decorations.

Friends of Dawn offered their tropical garden as the venue for ceremony and reception.

Howard stands with scissors and glue gun at the ready while decoration of the pavilion is discussed.

The groom and his best man [his Uncle Andrew] ready for the drive to the wedding.

The groom, well-dosed with allergy meds against the profusion of flowers involved.

Howard leads me to my chair.

Perhaps the wedding planners hadn't thought that the late afternoon hour would place the lower garden in blazing sun!

Jim, hair wafting in the breeze, escorts the bride along the flower-strewn aisle.

The bride, an accomplished vocalist, sings to her love.

Matron of honor, the bride's sister, Jennie, supplied the harmony.

The exchange of vows.

Posing at the pavilion.

You can see the slanting rays of sun which made photos a bit awkward.

Katie, Howard's dear dog, obligingly wore the flowered collar which Dawn bought for her. 

The table prepared for the bride and groom--before the flowers were moved in deference to allergies.

It didn't take the groom long to be out of his finery!

So many photos--so many memories to cherish as a family.

  For us, a quiet morning walk on the beach before being delivered to the airport for the day-long journey back to Kentucky. 

The newly weds planned a week of sorting themselves and quietly enjoying time together with the rush and bustle behind them.

Blessings on them!

Up and Down the Lane

The lower farmhouse, blanketed in early morning mist.

When the power company installed electric lines in March, we were told our house is about 900 feet up the private lane from the road.

I have struggled with the math and have a somewhat shaky concept of this as approximately 1/6 of a mile. Thus to walk a mile a day I would need to go up and down the lane...how many times?

At one point my feeble calculations suggested that the end of the mile would land me at the mailbox rather than at the house.

Jim roars up and down the lane with his 4 wheeler--often with tools or such in the carrier he has strapped on the back.

I could take the van or car--but nearly always trudge along afoot.  I walk to the mailbox to collect the mail. Sometimes I take a 'smoothie' or a cold drink for Jim; sometimes I head down to see and appreciate the progress he is making on the house.

Messages have to be carried down, as we have no cell phone reception here in the 'hills and hollers.'

I have strolled down the lane to pick strawberries, and sometimes to help with painting and such.

It is good exercise and gives me a chance to enjoy the sights, sounds and scents along the way.

One day last week I took my camera.

In the week of hot weather punctuated with rains, flowers and grasses along the way quickly alter.

Daisies flourish in clumps on the side hill near the house and in the hedgerows along the lane.

A fence post wears a mad cap of woodbine.

Jim used the bush hog to cut the hay in the pasture that so briefly held Pebbles.

I have thought the dried pods twined on the fence were milkweed. 

Seeing this vine, I'm now puzzled regarding identity.

Petals have fallen from the daisies along the fence that borders the brook.

It appears to be a seasonal brook--chortling over the stony bed during the heavy spring rains, now nearly dry.

Blackberries grow along the fence in thorny profusion.

I am wary of plunging into that thicket of brambles when the berries ripen.

This is the spot where I saw the rough green snake draped gracefully over the wire.

A tattered butterfly alights on a fragrant red clover.

Wild grapevine unfolds glossy leaves and clambers up the fence.

Queen Anne's lace bows in the wind.

The upper reach of the lane divides as the ground slopes upward. 

The longer stretch runs between the workshop and the basement level of the house;

The drive to the front door on the upper level climbs the steeper way past the sweet gum tree with its dead top spire, runs along the cement retaining wall where Amish visitors to the former owners hitched their horses and buggies. 

The drive fans out at the back of the house creating a parking area near the small stable and loops back down to the lower drive.

Puffing up the hill with the mail tucked under one arm, or carrying a bowl of berries, I raise my eyes to the house. 

The window farthest to the right in the upper story is in our bedroom.  The center window is in the master bathroom--still a work in progress. The left hand window and the nearest one on the long side of the house denotes a small room adjoining the bathroom.  We are calling it a 'dressing room'--which sounds a bit too grand.

The walk-in shower will be there, a towering cupboard for linens, various storage pieces. 

There is much to be done--and the work goes more slowly than I anticipated--mainly because Jim needed to carry out renovations in the lower house before finishing our own.

Unfinished, with much to sort, still it is feeling like home.

Domestications

I see that I had loaded these photos days ago, then not added words.

I'm a bit surprised to see that it has been nearly a month since I created a post.

I've slapped a photo or two on my Face Book page, made a few brief comments, all the while missing the centering that comes from sorting my thoughts into whole sentences and paragraphs.

For over a year now, I've had a sense of striving to keep up--a sense of being unsettled.

We are working on our third house renovation and adjusting to the second move within that year.

I daresay that could account for the scattered and sometimes witless impression of spinning in 

slow circles. 

The heavy crop of strawberries has now finished--it must have been perfect strawberry weather--enough gentle rain, warm days, resulting in berries to be picked and prepared for freezing nearly every day for a month.

We have eaten our share--on shortcake biscuits, on lemon cake, sponge cake--eaten them on waffles for breakfast.  At last count, 50 + plus quarts have been stashed in the freezer to be enjoyed in the cold months of winter.

I have kept the smaller of my two sewing machines [the Elna] set up on the table in the dining alcove.

I unearthed a stack of curtain fabric, losing a frustrating amount of time rummaging about in bins, finding elusive chunks of yardage in the basement room where oddments have been heaped.  These were pieces of fabric which I was sure were in the bins stacked in my yet to be wired sewing room.

The first window to be curtained was the east one in the pantry. The window is not due east--in fact the house sits between the two wooded ridges catty-corner to the points of the compass.

This window does catch the brunt of the morning sun bouncing off the shiny roof of the shop which is a few yards across the graveled drive at the lower level entry.

I dragged out a pair of lined curtains which were made to hang in the entry of our last Wyoming house. I ripped off a border along the center edges of the panels, refinished the lining and hems, and achieved a rather gaudy but effective hanging for the pantry.

The pantry shelves appear to have been cobbled together by someone who was less than a skilled carpenter.

The walls were painted in the ubiquitous blue semi-gloss favored by the Amish, odd bits of 'trim' were haphazardly nailed to support the sturdy wooden shelves.

At some point Jim will rework the shelving for me.

I have always appreciated the convenience of a pantry.

The New England farmhouses of my youth had them--some small and simple, others rather grandly arranged with shelves and high cupboards to hold the stores a rural family needed for the long winters when trips to the market would be few and far between.

Jim incorporated pantries into the design of the Wyoming houses.

My collection of large crocks cannot be arranged above the kitchen cabinets which reach tight to the 8 ft ceiling.

For now, they are ranged on the floor in a corner of the pantry.

The repurposing of the curtains and tidying of the pantry shelves took up most of a morning.

I wish I could account for the hours of other days.

I've  made lined valances for the master bedroom, shortened two pairs of charity shop curtains to fit under the printed toppers--soft creamy cotton in a loose weave.

I made curtains for the adjoining bathroom--while I couldn't match the fabric of the altered curtains, the off white cotton which I had in my stash goes well.

I have sanded and applied polyurethane to two vanities and a set of drawers for the bathrooms of the lower farmhouse.

I have pottered in the garden, setting out perennials.

Fussing over seedlings on the side porch.

My three small rosemarys have been given fresh soil, the tiny lavenders pricked out and established in a motley collection of pots and old plastic trays.

It is a season that rushes from springtime to full blown summer heat.

I cannot keep up!

Rough Green Snake

I have been known life-long for my horror of snakes. When one crosses my path, I instantly screech loudly and levitate.
The presence of a certain shaped stick on the trail or the shuffling of dry leaves in the woods, a length of faded baler twine flung onto the verge of the roadside--all these are apt to provoke the same reaction of shuddering distaste.
I mentioned this once to an elderly friend who nodded sagely and remarked, "We are daughters of Eve, and the remembrance of the serpent lingers."

Trudging up the lane this noon, an over-filled bowl of strawberries clutched in sticky paws, I scanned the shrubbery along the fence line, wondering if I would again see the Brown Thrashers who have been busily building their nests amongst the willows
It was a surprise to note the length of supple green draped horizontally on a section of the wire.
I knew that it was a snake.
 Strangely, its presence a few feet away didn't inspire me to scream, spill the berries, and take flight.  As I watched, the snake moved slowly, gliding toward a clump of blackberry bushes. 

 At the house Jim was unloading the colanders and bowls full of strawberries which he had carefully conveyed on the 4-wheeler. 

'There's a strange snake down the lane, " I announced. 

"What kind of a snake?  What color?" 

"Bright green," I replied, heading inside for my camera. "I think you should have a look." 

We headed back down the lane on the 4-wheeler. I directed Jim to stop a few yards behind where the snake had been. 

At first I thought it had departed, then we spied it resting gracefully beyond the next fence post.  At the last minute my deeply ingrained wariness of all serpent-kind revived and I thrust my camera into Jim's hand. 

The slender green snake was cooperative.  My camera operates differently from Jim's and the green creature waited patiently, seeming undisturbed by our proximity, while Jim fiddled with buttons and I coached from a comfortable distance.
The snake slid along the fence, wound downward through the brambles, poked its head out inquiringly when Jim gently waved his cap a few inches away.

My tentative identification was smooth green snake [Opheodrys Vernalis] --although I went on to read about its 'cousin' the rough green snake [Opheodrys Aestivus.]  The differentiating factor is 'keeled dorsal scales' on the rough green snake.  Our neighbor, Jay Rose, assured me that the rough green is a local species.

The description of 'keeled scales' stayed with me as we hulled, sliced and packaged 18 quarts of strawberries for the freezer.
With the berries tidied away, I braced myself to endure a close up photo online of a serpent with keeled scales--oval scales with a distinctive ridge down the center.
Zooming in on my photos in Picasa, I determined that our resident snake does indeed wear keeled scales.

I'm under no illusion that this interesting encounter will alter my reaction to snakes in general.  I will continue to leave the room if one shows up on the TV screen.  I will surely yelp and jump if I even imagine one is lurking in my path. I will be reluctant to harvest the blackberries when they ripen knowing that our rough green snake has laid claim to the fence along the lane. 

Peony Love

Two years ago I discovered this lovely single peony in the midst of a rather mundane offering at Lowes.  Much as I love the petticoat ruffles of the 'bomb' type peonies, the singles seem more exotic.

I dug peony roots last spring planning to set them in a to-be-created perennial strip at the Bedford stone house which we were renovating at the time.

The peonies, along with a few other plants, spent the summer in large pots on the back patio.

The area where I thought to establish a garden wasn't practical as a maze of tree roots made digging nearly impossible.

This white one with its delicate greenish center surprised me--when--and where--did I acquire it?

Although the plant is young and was hastily stuck into the ground here in late October, it is flourishing.

This is definitely one from a bargin packaged root bought at  Wal Mart--slow to establish in its former setting, it is out-doing the others in terms of blossoms.

The blooms are small but ambitious.

When we bought the little place in Gradyville in March 2010, one of my first joyful discoveries was the presence of two vintage peonies which had spread to bushel basket size at the edge of what was to become our vegetable garden. Both were pink, one blooming earlier than the other.

I thought I had separated roots from each one--it may be that the peony planted next to this one--not likely to blossom this year--is the 'other' pink. Most likely one of the pinks is the old variety, 

Sarah Bernhardt.

This bud, opening unevenly, has a rakish look.

Iris roots in what will likely be a temporary spot.

I found four colorations of purple iris at the Gradyville home and had been dividing them each year. There was also a distinctive 'butterscotch' iris which I hoped would increase.

I snatched these roots from the ground on one of the last days packing there--seemingly I dug up only one color.

Several clumps haven't blossomed this spring--maybe I'll be happily surprised next year to see the coveted butterscotch blooms.

Yesterday, in a rare moment of sitting on the side porch I saw my first ruby-throated  hummingbird of the season, buzzing amongst the roses. Today I unearthed one of the nectar feeders and hung it out.

Sweet-scented, fragile petals.

A few plants purchased in April from a local nursery, became root-bound in their inadequate pots. 

With little time [and energy] to spare for clearing the remainder of the strip designated for perennials, I have moved most of the plants into larger pots, doing the same for those that I up-earthed from the interim garden at the stone house.

In this view you can see that the house and workshop are set very closely together, only the width of the drive between. The over-hang area of the house is typical of local Amish construction.  Anna Miller had a clothesline here to supplement the long pulley line which ran from her wash house to a tree on the other side of the brook.

The door from this back area leads directly into the finished basement room where we installed the washer and dryer.  If I choose to hang out towels and sheets there are only a few steps to carry the laundry basket.

Down the lane is what we refer to as the 'lower house'--the one currently claiming Jim's energies as he renovates it to "English" mode of living.

The above photos were all taken on Monday, before dark clouds ushered in a late afternoon rain.

There were several sharp showers overnight, and it was with fore-boding that I went out on Tuesday morning to view the peonies.

Nearly every year peonies at the height of their beauty have been muddied and flattened by a deluge.

These plants are somewhat sheltered by the overhang of the workshop roof. 

Also, the bushes are smaller, therefore less weighted down with rain.

The blossoms came through the rain unscathed.

The cool showers erased the humidity which had been with us for a week, bringing the sort of days that we wish could be typical of the entire summer season--bright, shimmering hours of sunshine without 'mugginess'--air washed clean, trees, grasses, wayside flowers, refreshed.

We made two trips on Tuesday for building supplies.

In the evening I hauled out stacks of curtain fabric, measuring, considering, picking out the hems on several sets of curtains made for windows in former houses.

My mind seethed with ideas, but today my time has been spent in baking and tending to laundry rather than sewing. 

Perhaps tomorrow I will create curtains.

Each day I will take photos of the peonies, their season is so brief and they are so flamboyantly beautiful.

Lemon Drizzle Cake--the Recipe

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/lindas-lemon-drizzle-cake-51159200

Above is the link for the recipe I used. Interestingly, there isn't a given measurement for the lemon juice if one needed to use bottled rather than from fresh lemons. I'm guessing 1/3 to 1/2 cup.
I was using eggs from our neighbor's hens--they varied in size--I used one large and two quite small.
I see that to follow this recipe exactly the zest should all have been added to the batter and the juice saved for the drizzle.  Several similar recipes added zest to both.
I'll likely never know if this cake is the equal of the ones made by Jennie aka Bovey Belle

INGREDIENTS

• flour for dusting the pan
• 1 stick butter, softened, plus more for greasing the pan
• 3/4 cup superfine sugar
• 2 large, free-range eggs, beaten
• finely grated zest and juice of 3 lemons
• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose or light spelt flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/4 cup milk
• 1/2 cup confectioner's sugar, sifted
• 
  
• Preheat the oven to 350°F. 
• Butter and flour a 9-inch non-stick loaf pan.In a medium mixing bowl, cream the butter and sugar together with a wooden spoon (or use an electric mixer). Gradually beat in the eggs and mix until light and fluffy. Stir in the lemon zest, flour, and baking powder, and mix well. Add 2 tablespoons of the lemon juice and mix well again. Then beat in the milk.Pour the cake batter evenly into the prepared loaf pan and bake for 45 minutes.In the meantime, mix the remaining lemon juice and the confectioner's sugar together in a small bowl to make a glaze.When it's ready, take the cake out of the oven and cool in the pan for 5 minutes. Then turn it out onto a plate. Pierce the top of the cake all over with a thin skewer. Spoon the lemon glaze carefully and evenly over the cake until all of it is absorbed. Ready to eat.

Strawberries!

Late this afternoon Jim picked the first ripe strawberries of the season.

The Millers had established a fair-sized 'patch' in the back yard of the lower farmhouse.

Here they are, sliced and sprinkled with a bit of raw sugar.

Jim prefers berries on 'shortcake' [baking powder biscuits] but settled for serving them over slices of the lemon cake with dollops of vanilla ice cream for topping.