Scenes From a Holiday Morning...

 ...in the style of a Vogue feature interview. My Apologies to Ms Wintour and her staff. Also Annie Lebovitz; I love your work. Should I ever get a book published I really want you to do my cover shoot....

It is early morning, the nearly pristine quiet interrupted only by the calling of birds, the rustle of leaves and the incessant meowing of a cat whose verbal demands have brought us here. Here being a garden, curated as though by a mental patient. The author is posed in a careful stance as the aforementioned cat, now in halter and on leash, pokes through the ornamental grasses on the gentle slope of the slowly eroding side yard.

"I try to tell myself I am a morning person. Which I am, if morning would only start about three hours later." The author pauses and takes a sip of pour-over coffee from the hand thrown mug, echoing the many green shades of the yard.

It is 6:32 AM. 

An eclectic mix of geegaws and foliage. Isn't the word 'eclectic' great?

We meander slowly, a drunkards path around gardens bursting with pink astilbe and blue spiderwort, the slowly ripening buds of the daylilies promising bursts of tiger orange in a couple of weeks. It is on, into the front past the heroically leafed split leaf sumac. "I found it on clearance, between a hibiscus with three leaves and a yuca the size of Arizona. The fact that it's still here speaks well of its constitution. A real survivor."
 

Never mind the poisonous name...

We pause dramatically and contemplate our place in the universe compared to this bargain-bin topiary before continuing our feline ambulation down a set of crumbling steps until we finally arrive at our destination, both the beginning and the end of this journey.

The deck.

With cat safely at rest in dappled sun, we sit on the custom Adirondack chairs and survey the landscape. 

Cat, as scene in 'transfer' filter.

The author sips a second, third, fourth cup of coffee while snacking on succulent berries and pausing now and again to take in the delicate thump of a squirrel as it misses its mark on the bird feeder and lands belly first on the ground below.

Accidental holiday colors. tastes like Americana. berries and marscapone courtesy of purchase at Fresh Thyme. Plate by Old Time Pottery

Can't get enough of this 'transfer' filter. Or that fantastic hand-thrown mug.

"Truthfully, I have always found this time, this place a little magical." She nods to the corner of the deck where a day-glow yellow finch has alighted to take a sip from the bird bath before returning to decimate the thistle feeder. 

 

Bird behind deck chairs. Chairs, family heirloom (read hand-me-down), tablecloth from Target, bird by God. He makes the best stuff.

"The first summer we were here, I found these miniature orchid like blooms all over the yard. I was certain there was an orchid tree hidden above me somewhere, sprinkling these blossoms down. As it turns out, it was only the catalpa tree. But just think of the possibility! A tree of orchid blossoms." She smiles to herself and you can begin to imagine the mystery...

Tulip? Sycamore? Nope, Catalpa. Aka Cigar tree, Lady Cigar tree, that freakingly tall tree that's going to get struck by lightening and crash through our roof someday in a tornado. The wood is sometimes used as 'tonewood' in acoustic guitars. So when the day comes...

"Now the yard is spotted with a multitude of wild strawberries. The remnants of my first attempt at growing things. A sort of herbaceous testament to my gardening schizophrenia." And the birds highly effective method of spreading seeds.

And indeed, if you look closely there are über-tiny berries, deep red against the verdant green of creeping charlie, dandelion and wild violet leaves which constitute the back lawn.

Mysterious 'orchid' blossoms. Actually the flower from the Catalpa tree near a rogue wild strawberry.

"Some would grab the Hüsqvarna and till up the entire area, replacing the nubby growth with a carpet of Kentucky Blue Grass." She chuckles under her breath. Takes another swig of coffee and returns to the latest edition of Vogue. 

Some.
But not here.

Because this is the Coast of Illinois.

And that's not how magic works.

Especially when you have been up since 6am, drank an entire pot of coffee and read three back issues of Anna Wintour's finest...

The author, sans shower or makeup but with double chin. Pajamas - Victoria by Victoria Secrets. Linen shirt by LizWear, a gift from a friend on a random trip to Mexico. and again with that hand blown coffee mug. Seriously Chris, start selling these.

 (It is Memorial Day. May it be a meaningful day to all.)

Let's just call it a Garden Party....

You know how there is always one house in the neighborhood with all sorts of weird crap in the yard? Well, I am well on the way to owning that yard.

For the most recent gift giving event, one in which most women receive flowers or a nice piece of jewelry, I received a nearly three foot replica of an Easter Island Head. Which lights up.

I can't really complain. I hinted around that this was the one thing I truly wanted. Just like the garden gnome (Basil), the pink flamingos (Jake and Elwood), the tree face (Wilford), and the three foot tall otter:

He goes by many names. Today he is Frank SinOtter.

(The three foot tall otters, who only smokes candy cigarettes and claims he can quit any time he wants, is actually an indoor dweller, along with the mini-Easter Island heads and the Hear/See/Speak No Evil Monkey candle holders). Oh wait, lets not forget the zombie finger puppets.

I would never have purchased any of these things myself. I may have mentioned some of them a time or two...and in the case of the otter over a couple of years...But I figure if they are gifts then my family has no one to blame but themselves.

I did buy a vintage dashboard hula girl at a flea market but come on, she was vintage and only five bucks. Oh, and Napoleon and Marc Antony. But they were Mardi Gras decorations. Napoleon sort of looks like his troops turned their bayonets on him when he mentioned Waterloo. And poor Marc Antony has a hole which sort of resembles a battlefield tracheostomy, which he coyly hides with his Mardi Gras beads. It has been suggested that I throw them out but I can't. They have eyes. And if they still have eyes, then they just might still be alive.

Its like when I use to sew for pleasure, before I made sails for a maniacal, boat-building...my husband's boat. I made rag dolls. I would dress them, give them hair but never, ever did I paint on their eyes until they were completely finished. Once they can see me I figure its every man, woman and doll for themselves. I still have a have completed Santa doll who looks pleadingly at me from embroidered brown eyes, asking forlornly, "Where is my red velvet suit? Its freakin' cold down here in the basement in nothing but my muslin skin."

And that's why I can't get rid of the tiny dictator and the Roman gigolo. At least we have a large backyard so everyone can maintain their space and there is no worry that the tiny Frenchman will organize an assault.

But I digress. Each and everyone of these inhabitants have a name. Except Easter Island Head. At present, he is going by Cabeza:

Cabeza is the one on the left.

So, I am opening it up to you. Help me name Cabeza. Comment here, on Twitter, on Facebook. Because face it, he has eyes. He is going to be hanging around for a very long time...

Seriously, don't even think about stealing him, even Napoleon is a little afraid...