Saturday Blessings

On Saturday I got up and ran five miles and then went to choir practice.

After choir practice, the rest of Saturday ensued: Costco, grocery store, making the mortgage payment, stopping at the orchard.

Back home, I began the process of putting everything away and dumping some things in my fridge, but not before putting these lovelies in a vase and making a home for them on my table.

The sun was shining and it was warm (for February) out.  I opened my back door and the French doors in the living room, some Civil Wars playing as background music through my phone.

I kept looking around me at the golden light filtering in through the windows, and those tulips.

Those tulips!

I've always loved fresh flowers.

Always.

But at this time of year, tulips remind me of my dad.

He often brought tulips in the springtime, for no reason at all, and they graced our table.

The snow was (basically) melted off the deck and my heart felt light.

And then, I filled my fruit bowl: with clementines, orchard apples, avocados, kiwi, lemons, pears, and mangoes.  

The bananas wouldn't even fit in the bowl.

And the word that came to mind was abundance.

Oh, wait.  

Two.

Abundance and beautiful.

And then?

Gratitude.

But these tulips?

I've been looking at them all week, every time I turn around, savoring.

I'm grateful for their bright, simple, elegant gorgeousness.

(!!!!!)

In fact, it's reminding me of a scriptural phrase we read this morning around this same table, that even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these.

But it was talking about lilies of the field.

But whatever.  Same diff.

And, for the record, I totes agree.

Late August

It's late August, and that means these.  

I wait for them every year, and they stay cheery for the next few months.

And seriously, when I see them every day, they lift my heart for just a sec.

Things seem right in the world when they're out there---bright, happy, awake.

This afternoon the Little Miss and I went outside and clipped some to put on the table.

I filled the blue vase with water, we stuck blooms in.

As I recall, the conversation went something like she was telling me how she wasn't very good at it (picking the blooms or something).  I don't know...she's always on to something and she's smart as a whip.

I watch her run around these days and communicate with ease and offer up interesting observations.

I see myself in her in some ways---she's headstrong and sure of her opinion.  She isn't shy.  That little woman knows what she wants.  It kind of makes me envy her surety.  And, as I watch her, I can hardly believe that my baby is such a big person at this point in time.

She's a veritable (I love that word) walking, talking, laughing, funny, loud, almost-three-year-old.

It still surprises me.

In any case, I digress.

Late August also means back to school, which we began last week.

I got balloons and a bottle of sparkling bubbly and tic tacs for their plates.  

I made food.

We sat around the table and talked about something that has been on my mind, something I wanted to focus on with my children this year.

It's funny...contemplating school for the year can at once be exhilarating and exhausting.

I feel both, almost daily.

And yeah, that's a confession.  But it's true.

However, any time we can make it an occasion and have bubbly and balloons and feel a bit festive is fun for all of us, I think.

I love this time of year.

Just tonight, I went up to a store that I love twenty minutes from my house.

I always go there when the fall stuff is put out, which is funny because I'm not what you would call a big shopper.  I didn't buy anything---just wanted to peruse: smell the fall candles, admire crackle glass, and I found a dinnerware set that I super loved.

I find myself grateful for simple traditions, for ways that the year becomes measured.  There is a sense of comfort in the little things that add some continuity amid the crazy.

Visiting the Greenhouse

I grew up going to the greenhouses with my dad to buy flowers.

And again, to buy vegetables.

I loved going: rows and rows of flowers, trees and shrubs.  Pulling a little red wagon down the skinny aisle between greenhouses lined with peonies and poppies and other perennials.  I loved peeping in each one to find flowers, vegetables, green plants -- and still do.  It brings with it the warm feeling of familiarity.  I loved working with my dad: mowing the lawn, planting the garden, working in the earth. Sometimes after a morning's work on a Saturday, we'd head down the street to the local drive-in where my mom got her daily refills of Diet Pepsi and he'd buy us a cheeseburger, fry and shake.  Or a grape soda.

Whatever my fancy was.

It's funny how you turn around and you have the little people running around.  I find myself wondering when it all happened, when those mornings with my father slipped away and I grew up and got my own yard.

Yesterday the children and I went with my dad to shop for flowers.

We go every year.

It's something I link so strongly with my father, time with him, tending and planting and looking for beauty.

I heart my dad.

He bought flowers for my birthday and let me choose out what I wanted.  

The children each wanted flowers of their favorite colors, too, and he let them each pick something out to go in the yard.

Isaiah walked with me, pushing my cart.

Dad had the other two.

He bought stuff for his yard; I had a cart for mine.

We admired their huge tomato plants and he got some to put in at his house so he'd have some early harvesting.

We talked about buying red, yellow, orange and green pepper plants soon and splitting the packs up between us so we could have some of each.

We came home and planted the purchases, trying to beat the storm that was coming, dark clouds overhead.

Tending earth links me to lovely memories.

I hope my children will have these same associations, and remember time with me there.

That they'll love the earth, and making their homes beautiful with signs of growth and green and color.

And that they'll know it's a link to their mother and grandfather and great-grandmother and on and on.

I hope they see the witness of God and His creations in this quiet work.

It was windy and wet out last night and this morning there are blossoms and elm seedlings strewn everywhere outside.

But I stood inside, looking out the windows, admiring each newly planted pot, each bloom of color, the bright green and white stripe of a new hosta.

Bursting to Bloom

Yesterday morning was beautiful.

We jogged out in the 10:00 a.m. sunshine.

I love the way you can feel the world awakening, beginning to stretch, enlivened by sunlight rays.

Before lunch I walked outside to take pictures of spring coming to our yard.

Dwarf Day Lilies

My personal fave: Peonies

Forget-me-nots

Beautiful iris

Cherry tree blossoming

Green ground cover with white little blossoms to come

Bleeding hearts

Hydrangea

Crocus

Budding on trees

Daffodils ready to burst open

Such happy flowers.

I wanted to go out and sit in a chair on the deck and soak some sun myself.

That is therapy!

But Wednesdays are busy, busy days around these parts and it wasn't to be.

Had to shower after the exercise and get off to the activities of the afternoon.

But yesterday morning, and every morning for several days coming now, I will notice blossoms and color begin to paint the landscape, proudly boasting the riches of earth, dark, lush soil, the smell of life and leaping joy.

What We're Waiting For

We hung this out a few weeks back.  Last year when we put it out, we didn't have any visitors for such a long time.  Just about the time I felt all hope was lost, they began to come.  We watched them through breakfast, at lunch, in the afternoon.  One at a time, two at a time, three and four...huddled around, pecking quickly, bumping each other.  It was so fun and magical, really.

They got so used to us being on the other side of the glass that they'd go on feeding without flying off at the first movement from inside.

We're in the waiting game again.

It had only been up six days or so when the first visitor noticed it and my heart leaped.

I thought we'd have plenty of chaps coming from that moment onward, after the announcement was made to feathered friends far and wide in our neighborhood trees.

It has been sparse, though.  I think they're still scared of us.

But we are oh so eager.

I am oh so eager.

It is one of the sweet joys of winter (mild though it has been) to watch them.

Different colors, bigger, smallish, brown or bright.

Chirping, gathering, watching wings in flight.

I hope they come soon.

And these.

My heart jumps at the thought that within a few weeks time, these beauties will stretch up through the dark, moistened soil, and brighten the world with their brilliance.  

It shan't be long, friends, til the daffodils.

This Week's Two Loves

I have been working outside all week. I'm sure that's where you'll be able to find me for the next few weeks straight.

Actually, probably all summer and fall.

I love our yard. We actually were pretty much sold on the house because we loved the yard so much. It was the first thing we saw of the house and fell in love.

I have big, big plans.

This week has been full of digging out this prolific plant/ground cover that has taken over everywhere. A pretty plant, but kind of like ivy with vines that weave in and around everything around them. Maybe they originally planted one or two, and left untouched, they have gone crazy.

But my vision includes black-eyed susans and purple coneflower. Maybe some bee balm. Maybe some aster. I want country-wildflower flower beds that call the butterflies.

So this week I have been taking out all that crazy stuff and making room for these blooms. I need to call the garden center I like to go to and see if those plants are there yet so I can put them in the ground.

I'm going to go to Costco later today and buy solar lights and a hose.

The green on my thumb is getting more and more green from all this honest-to-goodness practical application I've just begun in my honest-to-goodness own yard.

And here's the other love: I'm pretty much addicted to homemade bread.

But really, who isn't?

I made some to take to dinner last night. Whole wheat with flaxseed, raw sunflower seeds, wheat bran and oatmeal in it.

Ate some before dinner. And then, at about 11:00ish last night, I was breaking off chunks of it in the kitchen, dolloping peanut butter on top and was in soul satisfaction.

I intended to make green smoothie for breakfast, but that dang bread was staring me in the face on the counter.

So I did what I wanted to do: grabbed the peanut butter, a glass of milk, and went to town.

And I found myself thinking about the pioneers.

I have this notion that they ate homemade bread with almost every meal. And I totally know why. I would feel 100% at home amongst them in this regard. It's addicting. You start and you just can't stop.

Seriously.

Homemade bread.

Plain.

With peanut butter.

Toasted with butter and honey.

There's not much better in life.

Recent Pics

I Wanted To Tell You The Story

...of how I came to love red geraniums. (It IS my blog name and all.)

I'll take you back to when I was a little girl. Ice cream with my little sister on the back porch, our wet hair hanging nicely brushed after our bath. Peanut butter and jelly and the beloved Ramen (with margarine and parmesan cheese). Concentration. Playing house like no other little girl I've ever known (examples of this given in a previous post). Night games. Banana splits. Playing in the treehouse at the neighbors. Gas station in our backyard, and stopping at the bank teller along the lilac bushes in the driveway. Building "amusement" water parks. Sounds Easy Pizza with Bradley. Macaroni salad after a good swim at Veterans Pool. Licorice ropes. Friday treats. Playing card games at Baskin Robbins with two of my sisters (S&C). And waking up on Saturday mornings to the familiar hum of the lawnmower outside, rushing to get into my clothes, down the stairs, and out to help my dad with the yardwork.


I always loved working with my dad in the yard. I remember him letting me mow the lawn -- even when I couldn't make a straight row. He'd let me mow along with him, and then he'd let me go on my own -- lovingly correcting my crooked lines when he took over again.


Last fall we were outside raking leaves together in the dark, and I forgot how much I love working side by side with my dad. And working. Whether it be canning or planting or raking or cooking or gardening or whatever.

In the summertime, when the smell of fresh cut grass tickles you with its deliciousness, my dad always planted geraniums. I always thought they weren't very pretty flowers. He was very fond of them though, and still, every year without fail, they line the boxes on his front porch, fill the back flowerbeds, the barrell by the back steps, flower boxes on the back deck and hanging baskets on both porches. My dad's house in the summertime is synonymous with geraniums.


Years ago on a summer morning, my love affair started. I was staying with my Great Aunt Earlene, and after getting out of bed, I found her outside along her front flowerbeds planting geraniums. As she worked in the dirt, we talked about generations gone. She told me about her mother who loved these gorgeous blooms and always planted them at her house. To this day, she still plants 100 geraniums in honor of her mother for Mother's Day. Then, she told me about my grandma. My dad's mom died the year before I was born, but she was in love with these flowers, too. As I sat and listened to her talk of these women, I thought of all the times I had gone to the garden shop with my dad to purchase geraniums, and all the hours I'd spent planting with him. He also had told me about my grandma's love for geraniums, but it seemed uniquely beautiful to be in the morning sunlight, with her sister, hearing these same sentiments, and realizing how much this one bloom tied a whole string of people together.

As she dug in the soil and lovingly placed each flower, packing it snug with fresh, cool, dark dirt, I felt as if she were pulling at my heart. She symbolically was digging into the past, showing the beauty and love and growth that had existed there, resurrecting their lives anew. With these fresh blooms, they lived again, and I felt strangely connected to them, to her, and to my father. She was pulling at my roots, gently assuring me of the love there.

I've never been able to look at a geranium in the same way again. They tie me to where I come from, to the people that molded my life and to the women that preceded my birth. And they provide a connection to my father and all those days together that hold a special place in my heart.

And as far as the red...well, they're my favorite.

Snow and Ice, Go Away, I want my flowers to bloom today.

Is anybody else wish wish wishing for spring????

2 small thoughts on lunch

1. Washing my hands at the sink today, I was looking at the bar of soap and thinking about how, when I use the bathroom in a public place, I disdain from using bar soap (if that's what they have). Something about the millions of hands that have touched/used that soap (which is bizarre...it's soap, for crying out loud!). I prefer to be able to just push down on a dispenser and get nice liquid soap. So, I'm wondering, do people think that when they use the bathroom at my house? (It's kind of like Georgia's post when she talked about the handles on the grocery store carts and not being able to think about what germs exist on them. I have the same phobia.)

2. Pulling in the driveway, I noticed that my flowerbox of geraniums had fallen to the soil yesterday from the wind. Funny thought: Even though we've had an official frost now a few times, and I know the geraniums are pretty much on their way out, I still felt like I needed to resurrect the dignity of the little fellow. I had to put the flowerbox back, upright, ready to greet the world.