The "Dogwood Festival"

We have a glorious white dogwood in our back yard. I used to cut big branches stuffed full of velvety petals and fill a large cut crystal vase for the dining room until I realized after 2 years that the ritual brought with it two weeks of severe allergies and a horrendous cough. Now on beautiful days like today I'll get close enough with my camera to look, but never smell, and each morning I stand in our second-floor sunroom and look down on God's little backyard masterpiece. I think on days like this, I would like to have a Dogwood Festival.
The Dogwood Festival would only be announced a few days ahead of time to assure the arrival of the full blossoms and a sailor blue sky. We would serve mint tea with dogwood shaped sugar cubes and cucumber sandwiches cut like flowers and dilled potato salad with radishes and baby asparagus. There would be fresh scallions with sea salt and crackers with havarti cheese and just a dollop of raspberry jam. There would be a little Wendell August Forge pewter dogwood tray with homemade buttermints and sour cream~orange frosted cookies.
We would eat at a picnic table under the tree and play tag and badminton because the yard is so small, and after a round or four we would have to go get our heavy sweatshirts to chase away the chill in the air. We would light a fire and tell stories of our adventures in the woods and along the streams and what we would find when we would venture out on a spring day when the smell of the earth would call us. Toadstools and salmanders and moss-covered stones in the coldest streams that we used to dip our hands into for a sip of water even though we weren't supposed to.

Then someone would light the dogwood tree lanterns as dusk was arriving and gather the children around for the legend of the dogwood. Even though the Easter messages are weeks past, we would remind the children and Dogwood Festival guests that the cross-shaped blossom caught the blood stains of Christ and bear His crown of thorns in their centers. That though this sacrifice, we know the grace of God as we live His Life here on earth -- the Life we were uniquely created to lead. And by this time it would be quite chilly so we would move to our chairs against the old house on Hope Street, seeking the warmth that the sun stored in those old bricks, and we'd listen to the frogs in the meadow and look skyward to see if we can still get a peek of Orion and say goodbye... for now.
And we would watch the dogwood 'til dark and take bets to see how long the whites would show, and then we would talk about summer and lightning bugs and baseball. We'd watch the blossoms as long as we could and hope that tomorrow would bring us just one more day to look at them.
The little ones would start to yawn and we'd say our "goodbye"s and "how fun"s, and we'd turn out the lanterns and head to bed and wonder what people do who don't have a dogwood tree in their yards.

To Every Season, Turn, Turn, Turn

It's that time of the year again! No, we're not quite thatching grass yet, or tipping out our double-hung windows with ammonia cleaning solution. Here on Hope Street, we've lovin' our early spring, and got so caught up in the unseasonably warm weather that we forgot an important spring task. Today, I finally managed to set aside a half-day to do the deed: the semi-annual seasonal clothes change-over! Audience groans... don't we all hate doing this?

Meet our double closet ----> I can't be original to the home because it's the only maple in the house, but on closer look, and I think I only know this because I dated a guitar player way back in the day, there is some curly maple in parts of the panels. Can you see the waves in the top of the third door? It's just neat.

Begin. Start with a step-ladder, but fantasize about someday installing one of those library ladders on a mounted rail.

Climb up and start to pull out these linen bins that you picked up at a little store founded by Sam Walton. There should be a couple of franchises near your hometown!





You will see the paper tags where you labeled the content using a Sharpie. You can flip the tags over to the other side as you change your closet over.

Here comes the BEST part! Look in your bins. Wow, I forgot about that silver blouse! I am so excited to pull it out and get it back in circulation!

In springtime, add all that wonderful color back into your closet. I somewhat organize by color, but I'll break it up (look at the navy between the reds and pinks.) Hmmm...someone has an orange fetish. Remember ROY G. BIV?

I usually pick out my pants first when I put an outfit together in the morning, and then find a blouse to go with, but, hey on a crazy day, I'll go the other way! Here is a little staging hook I have for blouses, and if you look, a little peek at my shoes. I wore this cute knotted top to a special luncheon I attended today with black pants and blush jacket and shoes.

 Here's what else is in my side of the closet. And it's here where I confess that my husband and I actually call this room the Closet Room. The room also has two other closets, two dressers, an end table, place for my jewelry, and room for an ironing board. Here, I stack some casual slacks, some special shoes, silver polish cloths, stain sticks and leather cleaner, plus a little blue bag shopping memory.

On the other side is my makeup travel case, some odd scarves (for their odd owner), a box for broken jewelry, a pretty box for receipts and a bigger one for suntan lotions (I know, that doesn't really belong.) There is also "the button book." The button book is currently in need of some attention!

Here is a peek at the button book  ----->> Buttons, threads, toggles, snaps and such for my clothes. I keep them. I organize them. Guilty, I label them. There have been a few times the button book has come in handy for mending, but mostly, I enjoy the craft of organizing these buttons in a little album I bought. Sometimes I think if I die and someone finds my button book, will they keep it in its special organizer on a shelf, or will they pitch it?

Oh, gosh, see how easy it is to get distracted during the changing of the clothes? FOCUS! Of course you must know this also means dusting, running a load or two of laundry, throwing away hangers, starting a donation pile.... oh, for the luxury of being able to keep everything out all year round...

My belly is now growling for lunch; I've spent all morning in the closet room, and I'm ready to fill the bins with sweaters and tweed and wool. <<-------------- Sandals need to come out and boots go back up. I use a big Longaberger basket that I purchased in the Seconds quality area at the Longaberger Homestead in Ohio. I am not quite ready for shorts yet, so I leave the bin handy, up top.

And so, with every season, the ritual looks much like this, and then I climb back up the ladder, cinch up the donation bag, and feel a huge sense of accomplishment! Thanks for taking my closet tour. ~ Erin

Linking to Metamorphosis Monday at Between Naps on the Porch

Easter at House on Hope

So it's just man and wife here on Hope Street, and we're fortunate to have some family fairly close and my husband's 3 nearly grown children just minutes away at their mother's house. The year before we got married, we decided we would start our own family tradition - Easter Brunch. Let's leave Thanksgiving turkeys, Christmas hams and such to all the "grandmas" in our lives, shall we, and wedge our claim in for a Resurrection Brunch. I am sure it's what the disciples would have eaten once they heard the good news, right? Some hearty sausage gravy and biscuits and a Belgian waffle? Well, we've enjoyed such menu planning from year to year, and even invested in a 3-bin warming server, which takes up precious pantry space, but is golden at parties, Christmas and brunches. Let me tell you, these warmers are genius. Breakfast foods like toast, eggs and pancakes are a labor of love on behalf of the cook; we turn them out one or two at a time, elect the lucky recipient to "eat while it's hot" and claim the batter remnants or any "extra crispy" pieces for ourselves (we've all scraped toast into the sink, let's be honest). And then we cooks typically consume our second-hand delicassies from the griddle or on a plate from the countertop. Now, these warmers let us get everything ready before hand, allowing us to remove our flour dusted aprons from our belted A-lines, enter the room a-la Norman Rockwell with piping hot cinnamon rolls and call, bon apetit!

Yeah, right. It just don't ever go down quite that way, does it ladies? Fortunately, reality is somewhere between these two extremes.

This year, attendance was looking a little thin, so we scaled back our menu, and I even thought, "Geez, should I even decorate?" I have a large binful of colored baskets, ceramic bunnies and eggs, Easter ornaments, chicks, stuffed cottage-y type bunnies, candy dishes, lilac candles, table runners, place settings... takes me hours. It's easy to say, I'll pass this year, isn't it?  

I can't tell you how good I feel when I decorate my home. I smile. I breathe easier. And I don't mean this to sound trite, but I really do feel like I am doing the Lord's work when I create vignettes to bring the seasons into our home. I feel at home. I feel peaceful. So I decorated. And we brought home some fresh potted tulips and narcissus. I didn't empty the whole attic bin, but I got out my favorite pieces. I tried out some bamboo placemats that I had in mind for an Oriental theme, beneath our aqua floral place settings, and matching linen napkins. I got out enough baskets to pop some pastel color into the earthier corners of our dining room and topped it all off with some vintage Easter postcards I picked up last year at a nearby antique store.

So we didn't pull out the warming bins this year, but we poured out love into preparing delicious food for our family, set aside time to thank the Lord for our many blessings and for His great sacrifice and New Life and Hope. And we've continued a more precious tradition than sausage -- a home that's simple, memorable, welcoming and true. I don't know if I'm just doing it for me, but it sure does feel right, and my time in decorating my home for important occasions, when we honor God and our country, as we welcome family, or even celebrate silently over the waffle batter in the kitchen, this is how home should feel. 

Linking to Tablescape Thursdays at Between Naps on the Porch

http://betweennapsontheporch.blogspot.com/2012/04/teeny-bit-of-trouble-big-giveaway.html

We all need some fixing

As my husband is fond of saying, "her house, our home." I bought this house six years ago in September on a leap of faith and a prayer, as a recent divorcee on a meager salary. Looking back, I can only wonder, what the hell was I thinking? It was financially risky, but I remember thinking it was a trade-off to get my life back. A homebody can't feel at home without a home.
She certainly was a fixer-upper. Dark wood trim framed dark walls over beat-up floors painted with Kilz and scraped again. Scars where old knob and tube were yanked and capped, with the new electric running nearby, sometimes patched up with leftover trim board, right on top of old cracked lath and plaster walls. Yellow linoleum running a foot up the wall of a tiny kitchen. Loose windows that caught snow on the inside sill on a blustery day. Printed paper wallpaper patterns so tiny they would jut out 3-dimensionally, even when I hadn't been drinking.

But this old girl had good bones (and so did the house. ;) Solid brick built on Ambridge steel beams dug into the side of a shale hill. Nine-foot beamed ceilings capped with original drop case molding. A fireplace with built-in storage banquette seating, never painted. Little arched windows that shot the sweetest little sunbeams you ever saw. A pocket door to a den, four bedrooms, living and dining, and one decent-sized bathroom. (As you see pictures of our home or read this description, you will recognize classic architectural features of a Craftsman style home, prevalent construction in the Arts and Crafts era from about 1900-1930.) There were huge planks made into canning shelves in the basement with plenty of room for storage, a tool room and laundry. Plus a two-car garage, some overgrown landscaping and a new sidewalk. And the aforementioned porch.
In that first year in the house, I cleaned, painted, plastered, insulated, and had new hardwood installed in the worst of the areas. The yellow linoleum in the kitchen hit the dumpster pretty early, too, traded for black ceramic tile (don't ever do that -- I'll tell you why later). New stock cabinets (there were only two!) were installed around a new microwave, stove and 'fridge, which took me nearly a year to pay off. I scrimped every penny that year. Actually, I think I scrimped for quite a bit longer.  It was a cold winter that first year, and I hunkered down even more to afford the gas that heats the house. I blocked the chimney with newspaper and I put foam tape in the window gaps. I kept my thermostat at 66, down to 60 at night, and piled on the blankets.
At times the house was a wreck. Torn up, mid-project, on my timeline, dictated by whatever my own labor limitations, budget for materials and the occasional handyman would allow. Yes, at times, you just want to shut the door on it all and wonder if it will ever get done. Heck, I still wonder that.

I would shut the door... and I'd take some time-outs on that porch. Half-covered, half-open, the porch is like having a thousand-square-foot tree house, perched on that steep hill, in among the maple trees. I'd watch storms roll in, drink a glass of wine by candlelight, or turn on the radio to Latin music and pretend I was on vacation, basking in the hot sun on the terracotta tile deck. All pretty much free, save a $9 Chardonnay.

I didn't know it then, we needed each other -- this house and me. We found our beauty and dignity again, lovingly restored upon our good bones. And we're still together.

Welcome to House on Hope Street

Welcome to my new blog, House on Hope Street. Let me tell you the story of this charming street sign, standing askew and catty-corner from my front porch. I would sit on my wicker chair and look out across the street, and often my gaze would fall upon this sign. Simply stated and a bit worn from its vintage, the word HOPE worked on me one summer. I had a nasty commute, would get home beat and uninspired, and had quit looking forward to weekends. One day I looked at that sign as I would most days and it was just as if one of the 90-year old bricks fell off my chimney and hit me on the head: I was missing HOPE. Whatever it is that puts a glimmer in your eye in anticipation of something new or fun or precious or better. Whatever it is that puts a spring in your step, oh, about halfway through Thursdays. Whatever inner inspiration that scurries your mind in planning, creating and what-iff-ing until you fall asleep at night. I was sitting on my patio chair waiting for all that to come back to me, and all along it was taunting me from across the street.
I made a vow to myself to be more intentional about planning, doing, seeing, visiting, sharing. Being more purposeful about meeting joy half-way. Being artful, learning and doing. I turned my life around, for better or worse, looking at this sign, all while sitting on the porch of my little House on Hope Street.