Posts Tagged ‘house and garden’
Cindy on January 31st, 2010
I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. ~Henry David Thoreau
When I was a student at Michigan State University in the 1970s, three natural science courses were required of all liberal arts students.
An artsy kid, I’d nearly flunked math and biology in high school. So I was terrified, initially, by MSU’s rigid science requirement. But thanks to a very creative counselor who supervised my independent study track, I was allowed to replace the final natural science class with a graduate-level botany course in my senior year.
I was born with a green thumb, so this was both a thrill and a relief. The class required several field trips to outdoor nature centers, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Throughout the term, I learned to identify a wide variety of plant life, and even memorized the Latin names of species. I collected leaves, seed pods, and mushrooms. I sniffed berries and wildflowers. I learned that nature is an intelligent system; more than a thing of beauty in a controlled suburban landscape. Understanding and respecting that system — the miraculous cycle of decay and regeneration — has gotten me through some of the roughest times in my life.
But I digress. Botany was a blast — and guess what? I ended up with the top grade in the class — the first (and only) 4.0 I ever earned in a science curriculum. I’m still proud of that grade, and awed by the fact that so much of what I learned in a botany class serves me well to this day.
My love affair with plants is reflected in the Botanic Garden dish set my family uses now.
Produced by the Portmeirion Pottery company in Great Britain, the Botanic Garden pattern first caught my eye when I was outfitting my first apartment after college graduation. Durable and beautifully crafted, the designs were inspired by original 19th-century botanical drawings, replete with the Latin name of each plant. But the imported dishes were way out of my price range at the time. I was newly employed as a research assistant for a reference book publisher in Detroit, earning an annual income of $7,500.
Margaret, a favorite room mate from MSU who shared the post-grad apartment with me, bought my first Botanic Garden cup and saucer for my birthday in 1979. “If I know you as well as I think I do, then I’m sure you’ll find a way to get the whole set one day,” Margaret wrote on the card that came with the gift.
I didn’t have the nerve to register for the Botanic Garden pattern when I got engaged 30 years ago; Doug and I thought it was too much to ask of our wedding guests during an economic recession. But over the years, we managed to acquire a full set. Luckily, the price of the dishes started coming down in the last decade, and we found several pieces on sale at discount stores and Bed Bath & Beyond. We’ve also received a few of the serving pieces as holiday gifts.
Typing this, I realize it might seem silly or frivolous to romanticize plant science or a set of dishes. But at the end of a very difficult week, awaiting test results for my widowed mother’s worrisome health issues, I find comfort in these simple, ordinary pleasures. And Margaret was right. When you want something badly enough and your heart is in the right place, you’ll find a way to get it. That includes meeting academic challenges — and acquiring expensive dinnerware. — Cindy La Ferle
– Photos by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on January 6th, 2010
“Nature has undoubtedly mastered the art of winter gardening and even the most experienced gardener can learn from the unrestrained beauty around them.” — Vincent A. Simeone
Of course, I’d rather be gardening on my knees — on the soft green lawns of May and June. But being an optimist, I try to look for beauty in unexpected places, including my Royal Oak garden in the winter.
I love how the snow dresses the statuary in and around the beds. (Friends unload their garden treasures in my yard when they downsize, knowing how much fun I have with them.) I love the pure stillness of the winter-white air, and how the Zen garden looks more contemplative with less foliage.
The holiday lights are packed away now, but January brings its own subtle beauty to the landscape. It invites us to rest and reflect. Gardening, after all, demands back-breaking chores that start in April and don’t end until mid-November. As garden writer Ruth Stout observed, only in the winter “can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.” –CL
– Garden photos (copyrighted) by Cindy La Ferle. For more photos of my garden in winter and summer, visit my “Garden Magic” and “Winter Garden” albums on Facebook. –
Cindy on July 29th, 2009
“We’ve worked hard to exile ourselves from nature, yet we end up longing for what we’ve lost: a sense of connectedness.” – Diane Ackerman
Special Note: On break from blogging this month, I’m running favorite pieces from Writing Home. This one is a tribute to a backyard friend we made when my son was in high school …
As long as I’ve had a garden, I’ve done battle with squirrels and lost most of the skirmishes. Squirrels have pilfered my prettiest container gardens, ripping out impatiens and petunias and leaving them for dead on the patio. Not stopping there, the furry little pirates also like to bury acorns in my perennial beds and shoplift my daffodil bulbs.
Several years ago, I read in Country Living that squirrels have relatively large brains for such small rodents, which explains how they manage to outwit your best attempts to keep them out of the birdfeeder. So I was just about ready to strangle them all – until I met Willie.
My family’s relationship with Willie began this spring over a jar of honey roasted peanuts. Relaxing on our patio one weekend, Doug absentmindedly tossed a handful of nuts to some squirrels playing in the yard. Sniffing an opportunity, Willie was the smartest in the bunch and began returning daily for the next windfall.
In my initial ignorance of squirrel anatomy, I named Willie after a male hamster I owned as a child. By the time Doug got a closer look at Willie’s undercarriage, which proved beyond a doubt that Willie was capable of nursing a full litter baby squirrels, it was too late. To us, Willie was a “he” and we couldn’t quite shake the pronoun.
Doug was the first to train Willie to take peanuts from his hand, and soon the whole family was charmed. Word traveled quickly through the neighborhood, too, making Willie a local celebrity. He was even featured in a photo project for Nate’s high school French class.
Genius that he is, Willie also discovered where I write every morning. Leaping onto the Rose of Sharon bush next to my study window, he’ll show up routinely at 10:30. Once he makes eye contact through the window, he zips to a nearby garden bench and waits for me to meet him with a jar of nuts. And this little guy knows how to woo me. He’ll sit right next to me on the bench while he nibbles, holding his treat with monkey-like fingers and gazing back at me with bright black eyes.
I’ve asked myself why I find this so entertaining; why I’d bother befriending a nervy little rodent when I have bigger chores on my list. As naturalist Diane Ackerman suggests, I suppose it has something to do with a longing to reconnect with the natural world. Backyard animals like Willie are, in a way, a living link to that world.
Surfing the Web, I found a link to “The Squirrel Almanac,” which is maintained by a biologist and contains everything you’d ever want to know about squirrels, and then some. I learned that Willie is a fox squirrel, the largest of the arboreal (tree) squirrels. Since wildlife in the suburbs is fraught with peril, fox squirrels rarely live past seven years. (Who can predict when a random BMW might plow into one of the daredevils crossing the boulevard?)
Which is why I was so upset last week when I spotted a dead fox squirrel near the curb, just a few yards away from the silver maple that Willie calls home. Suddenly, road kill wasn’t just a term for anonymous casualties.
But thank heaven for small miracles. Willie returned promptly at 10:30 the next morning for his daily ration of nuts, reminding me once again that it doesn’t take much to make my day. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on July 1st, 2009
“No one really knows how you must change. Not even you. Not until you start.” — David Viscott, Risking
Working on our new/old house in St. Joseph last week, I spent a lot of time thinking about change, restoration, and reinvention. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1957 — just a few years after I was born — the house (like me) needs a little updating. And so, nearly every week, my husband and I head west on the highway, then roll up our sleeves and go to work on the place. We patch roof leaks, polish cupboards, weed gardens, clean carpets, scrub rust stains from vintage bathtubs….
There’s a wonderful view of the St. Joseph River from the house, too, and I like to admire it when I take breaks from my chores. Watching the parade of boats on their pleasure trips, I thought about how my middle-aged friends and I are all in some phase of transition.
Many are journalists or automotive workers who’ve lost jobs or are facing major career detours. Some of us have just gotten used to the freedom of the empty nest, yet suddenly find ourselves caring for our elderly parents. A few are convinced that the river of change will lead us to new and exciting adventures, while others aren’t quite sure where to steer next.
But this much I know for certain: It’s hard to slow the current when our culture keeps urging us on to the next big thing; when we’re valued more for what we achieve than for who we are.
I’ve also discovered that renovating an old house is a lot easier than reinventing yourself (or your career) midstream. But as the poet Rilke advised, sometimes we need to pull back from our busyness and “live the questions.” And so, as the river tells me, I’ll let myself drift awhile, and simply take in the view.
Cindy La Ferle is author of Writing Home, an essay collection on home and family topics. She blogs weekly at Cindy La Ferle’s Home Office.
– Photo of the St. Joseph River, by Doug La Ferle –
Cindy on May 30th, 2009
“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” — Maya Angelou
Home. It’s my favorite word in the English language. As much as I love to travel, after a long trip there’s nothing that warms my heart more than the sight of the path leading to our front door. If I’m happy at home, everything feels right. There’s nothing I can’t do if the walls around me are sturdy, secure, and beautiful. And when I’m feeling adrift or lonely or empty, home is the only place that can fill the nameless ache in my soul.
Looking back on an eventful Memorial Day weekend vacation, I see that “home” was also the theme for my time away. At the start of our holiday, my husband and I drove to the west side of the state to continue working on the Frank Lloyd Wright home we purchased last year for our future retirement. We spent a couple of days cleaning up the gardens and transplanting perennials before heading out to Chicago to help our 23-year-old son move into the urban condo he bought recently.
It’s hard to describe the feeling you get when you watch your kid create the first real home of his own. It’s not quite the same as watching him move into that first crowded room in a college dorm. I suppose you could call it a crazy mix of pride, awe, disbelief, and excitement.
And yet … as deeply satisfying as it is to know that your child can function and thrive independently, it’s something else to realize that his definition of “home” now extends miles beyond the cozy, tree-lined neighborhood where you raised him. He’s choosing his own furniture and installing his own light fixtures. He’s got cookware in the oven drawer and beer glasses in his own kitchen cupboards. He’s planting fresh roots.
Taking after his folks, our son chose a condo with character in an historic building that boasts a variety of gorgeous (and quirky) architectural details — bay windows, mosaic floors, wrought-iron stair rails. (Fun fact: Child’s Play, a cult-classic horror film, was shot in this awesome building.) My husband and I were impressed with the choice our son made — and we left feeling confident that he’ll be very happy there. Still, we felt a faint little tug on our hearts as we waved good-bye and headed back toward the highway.
After arriving home in Royal Oak, we faced yet another midlife turning point. My mother-in-law decided that she was finally ready to look into a home for my father-in-law, whose dementia has clearly worsened in recent months. And so, my husband and his sister drove out to tour the new place with their mother, agreeing that this decision is the right one for both Mom and Dad — though it’s hardly an easy one. “Home” will soon change for my husband’s father in more ways than we can predict right now.
So there you have it. A retirement home in the making for my husband and me. A first home for our only son. A different place for my father-in-law. Our roots are pushing past old boundaries, reaching beyond familiar fences, reshaping home and family for us all. — Cindy La Ferle
I was born with a green thumb, so this was both a thrill and a relief. The class required several field trips to outdoor nature centers, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Throughout the term, I learned to identify a wide variety of plant life, and even memorized the Latin names of species. I collected leaves, seed pods, and mushrooms. I sniffed berries and wildflowers. I learned that nature is an intelligent system; more than a thing of beauty in a controlled suburban landscape. Understanding and respecting that system — the miraculous cycle of decay and regeneration — has gotten me through some of the roughest times in my life.
Margaret, a favorite room mate from MSU who shared the post-grad apartment with me, bought my first Botanic Garden cup and saucer for my birthday in 1979. “If I know you as well as I think I do, then I’m sure you’ll find a way to get the whole set one day,” Margaret wrote on the card that came with the gift.
