Cindy on November 4th, 2011
You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats.” — English proverb
According to the Feral Cat Coalition, wild (or “feral”) cats are the offspring of domestic cats. These feral kitties are the result of negligent pet owners who abandon their pets — and fail to spay or neuter them.
Feral cat colonies can be found behind local businesses or in alleys, parks, abandoned buildings, and rural areas. Or even in well-manicured subdivisions like my own Vinsetta Park in Royal Oak.
This week’s “No Place Like Home” column describes how we found our new kitten, Izzie — and what our neighborhood is doing to find homes for other orphaned kittens. Also includes are tips and reader comments on what to do if you find a feral cat or kitten you’re unable to keep. Click here to read it and to see more photos of the adorable, incomparable Izzie. –CL
–Photo above: Izzie relaxing at home, a week after she was rescued.–
Cindy on May 29th, 2011
The fellow that owns an old home is always just coming out of a hardware store. ~Frank McKinney Hubbard
My architect-husband, Doug, and I have owned five old houses throughout our 30-year marriage, including a Craftsman-bungalow duplex we’re renting out near downtown Royal Oak. We’ve lived in our circa 1926 Tudor for nearly 20 years, and just finished remodeling the upstairs bathroom last week.
When we were newlyweds, the two of us did most of the renovations ourselves, happily spending our free time tearing out carpeting or scouting the local flea markets for vintage light fixtures. After we became parents, we started hiring contractors to handle the heavy-duty projects — but we’ve always had a taste for plaster dust.
Older homes are a lot of work, of course. Yet there’s nothing like the sense of satisfaction we get when we’re renovating a building with its own history and character — a home that will be enjoyed by other families in years to come.
After we began remodeling the master bathroom this month, it hit me that home improvement is also a metaphor for self-improvement. With that in mind, I wrote “Life Lessons in Plaster Dust” for Royal Oak Patch. The column includes a few “before and after” photos of the project. Please click here to read it. — CL
– UPDATE: After reading “Life Lessons in Plaster Dust” on Patch, Tom Bramford, host of the KCMO 710 (Kansas City) Home Show invited me to be a guest on his radio program. To listen to the podcast, follow this link. –
Cindy on May 22nd, 2011
All fine architectural values are human values, else not valuable.” — Frank Lloyd Wright
If someone were to ask me what I think heaven looks like, my answer would have to be “Oak Park, Illinois.” Its peaceful tree-lined streets, lush gardens, and heirloom lilac stands are the perfect backdrop for dozens of beautifully preserved Victorian mansions and, of course, some of Frank Lloyd Wright’s best residential work.
Though Doug and I have visited Oak Park in the past, we experienced its famous “Wright Plus” house-walk tour for the first time this weekend. The Birmingham Community House offered an overnight tour package we couldn’t resist — and I highly recommend that you book it next spring if they offer it again. The tour was tightly organized, and despite the inevitable long lines to view the interiors of the selected homes, it was blissfully easy and stress free. I love it when other people handle the details, including hotel accommodations, admission fees, and lunch tickets.
According to the Frank Lloyd Wright Preservation Trust, which is responsible for organizing the “Wright Plus” walking tours, Oak Park experienced a construction boom in the years after Chicago’s tragic 1871 fire.
The railroad connecting Oak Park to bustling downtown Chicago made Oak Park the ideal Victorian suburb for the wealthy to raise their families and cultivate the good life. Arriving in Oak Park as a 22-year-old newlywed, Wright began his own career here — and the rest is architectural history.
Eventually, I think Chicago will be the most beautiful great city left in the world.” — Frank Lloyd Wright
While Wright’s residential gems and his Unity Temple make Oak Park famous, Doug and I were equally awed by the Victorian homes designed by Wright’s early contemporaries. Between visits to the homes, I took time out to admire the manicured gardens throughout in the neighborhood. Since we live in a 1926 Tudor on a shade-covered lot, I’m always looking for new gardening ideas — and Oak Park didn’t disappoint. I took just as many photos of gardens as I did of grand old homes. And I was, pardon the cliche, green with envy.
As nostalgic as a chapter from Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine — and boasting its fair share of generous wraparound porches — Oak Park evokes a gentler era we can only imagine. Three cheers to the dedicated homeowners who’ve renovated these homes and continue to welcome thousands of visitors to their neighborhood. –CL
– All photos by Cindy La Ferle. Please click on the images to view larger. –
Cindy on May 19th, 2011
It was then I discovered the secret known to all gardeners: Nature has the power to heal us when words cannot.”
While the nonstop rain is dampening spirits here in southeast Michigan, I have to admit the soggy soil has produced my best fern crop yet. Excerpted from Writing Home, the following essay was first published in Better Homes & Gardens’ County Gardens magazine in 1994. It was picked up by Reader’s Digest the following year, and is a tribute to one of the most influential people in my life ….
Grandpa’s Ferns
My grandfather was the proverbial Scottish curmudgeon, born and bred on a farm in the Orkney Islands. In his last years, his hearty soul hardened a little more; he often barked at the postman and guzzled whiskey from a bottle he insisted on hiding behind the dining room curtains.
But Grandpa had a soft spot or two. One was for me, and the other was for his garden, a veritable jungle of ferns, which, with a battalion of lilies-of-the-valley, hugged the side of his garage.
No other gardener in his west Detroit neighborhood could lay claim to such a crop. Green, tall, and primordial, the ferns had been growing in his backyard for decades. Too modest to call himself a gardener, my grandfather thought of himself simply as caretaker of his ferns. Like Grandpa, the plants were survivors.
I’ll always associate ferns or “fairrrns,” as he pronounced them, with that durable old Scot and the restorative process of grief we experienced together.
I was nine years old when his wife, my favorite grandmother, “passed on,” as Grandpa reluctantly explained to those who called for her on the phone. Her death broke our hearts that July, during one of the most humid summers I remember.
Grandpa couldn’t put his sorrow into words. He’d spend hours in his recliner, staring out at the living room in stony silence, listening for the echoes of a voice he’d never hear again. Still, young as I was, I knew the moment he began to retrieve his old spirit: I heard him thump out of his recliner, then hobble out to the screened-in porch and into the yard, where his neglected ferns waited.
The whoosh of the garden hose pierced the heavy stillness of the evening. And there my grandfather stood, as he had stood every summer since he had retired, watering his mighty kingdom of ferns. Slipping through the screen door, I ran barefooted across the lawn and joined him.
I inhaled the scent of the fern bouquet, a fragrance like moss in the woods after a warm rain. “That’s what the word ‘green’ would smell like, if it had a smell,” I told Grandpa. He nodded in understanding, then retreated to another memory.
For what seemed like hours, Grandpa and I stood in silence, arm in arm, taking turns with the hose and watching the ferns bow and sway under the water’s spray. I know we both were thinking of my grandmother and how much we missed her, though neither of us could speak her name aloud. It was then I discovered the secret known to all gardeners: Nature has the mysterious power to console us when words cannot.
Not long before my grandfather sold his house and moved into an apartment, my mother had the foresight to ask him for a few of his ferns. Treasuring them like heirloom silver, my parents and I planted and nurtured the ferns, and carefully took a few with us every time we moved. Over the years we watched them unfurl between rocks and next to porch steps. And we gave them to friends who appreciated them.
Ever since I married and left my parents’ home more than twelve years ago, my own little family and I have owned three houses. At each one, I’ve left behind the green legacy of my grandfather’s ferns.
If it’s possible to inherit an affinity for gardening and an appreciation of the natural world, then these were my gifts from Grandpa. I never mastered his business skills, and if he were alive today, I doubt he’d understand my poetry. But I think he would approve of the hours I spend with my hands in the soil, sorting out my life’s complications with pruning shears and a hand trowel.
Each summer, as the ferns in my yard multiply and flourish, I often slip away to my garden to spend an evening deep in quiet ritual. Waving my garden hose over the delicate fronds, I marvel at how well they have endured so much change and the passing of so many years.
And I always think of Grandpa.
–”Grandpas Ferns” is also included in At Home in the Garden (2009; Guideposts), an anthology of American gardening essays. Photos by Cindy La Ferle —
Cindy on April 10th, 2011
You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.” ~Franklin P. Jones
Conducting a home-based business with little ones underfoot is rarely easy, whether you’re designing jewelry or writing for the local paper. What happens when your child really needs you, but you’re trying to meet an impossible deadline? How do you stop worrying about your clients when you should be focusing on your family?
In this week’s “No Place Like Home” column on Royal Oak Patch, I share some of my early struggles to balance motherhood with freelance writing, plus some new and timely advice from parenting experts. Click here to read it.
According to the Feral Cat Coalition, wild (or “feral”) cats are the offspring of domestic cats. These feral kitties are the result of negligent pet owners who abandon their pets — and fail to spay or neuter them.
