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 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
Cindy on May 4th, 2009
“The mother’s heart is the child’s schoolroom.” — Henry Ward Beecher
With Mother’s Day approaching, I’ve been thinking about how my mother shaped my views on career, homemaking, and motherhood.
Like most children in the 1950s and ’60s, I took for granted that Mom would be waiting at home each afternoon when I returned from school. In those days, day-care providers were called baby-sitters, and their employment was limited to occasional Saturday evenings. The “average housewife” role, now a remnant of that mythical past, was as indigenous to middle-class suburbia as The Donna Reed Show.
Combining what she often dubbed âthe best of both worlds,â my mother earned a respectable paycheck while working at home. She didn’t realize it at the time, but she paved the way for the free-lance writing career I would begin years later after my son was born.
Trained as a commercial artist, Mom applied transparent oil tints to photographic portraits of brides and high school graduates. (This was long before portraiture was changed by the introduction of direct-color film and, ultimately, digital photography.) I remember coming home from school to find Mom working in her portable “studio,” which was a table pulled next to a window overlooking our backyard. Perched next to her in a small chair, I watched as she squeezed oil paints onto a glass palette and applied delicate washes of color to each sepia-toned portrait.
I chattered while she painted, occasionally cleaning her brushes in spirits of turpentine. With an ear tilted toward our conversation, Mom would follow my rambling grade-school chitchat — a daily litany of kids who had misbehaved on the playground, or the impossible words I’d misspelled on a test. During these intimate girl talks, problems were solved, opinions formed, hurts consoled.
I was always proud of her — proud to say, “My mom is an artist.” But until I started my own family, I never fully realized how hard she worked, or how much sleep she lost in order to meet her deadlines while keeping a home. Around the clock she painted her portraits and delivered them in bright yellow Kodak boxes to local photography studios, made meals for my father and me, decorated our home, volunteered at my school, and even found time to help lead a Girl Scout troop.
Somehow — from my childish perspective — she created the illusion that her time stretched infinitely and that she was always accessible. Like a good portrait, my relationship with her was never rushed, but rendered lovingly over time, layer upon layer.
Watching my mother today, I’ve learned that the art of living well has a lot to do with improvisation. You must continually find new ways to use the materials and circumstances at hand — and the process is rarely simple.
Shortly after my father’s sudden death 17 years ago, Mom had to sell our family home and move to a smaller place. Adjusting to her new identity as a widow was difficult, and I know she missed the home she and my dad had built together. Everyone we knew grieved the changes in our small family.
But surprisingly, even to me, Mom began transforming the new, blank walls of her condominium into a welcoming place of warmth and beauty. Once again, I saw the artist filling her rooms with silk flowers, family antiques, and photographs of favorite people. Working alone, she reinvented “home” for herself. Art critic John Ruskin once wrote, “When love and skill work together, expect a masterpiece.” Reading this maxim, I always think of my mother. — Cindy La Ferle
– A slightly different version of this piece originally appeared in The Christian Science Monitor; it is reprinted in my essay collection, Writing Home. Both paintings are by Mary Cassatt –
Writing Home is currently featured in Urbane Life’s “10 Last-minute Gifts for Mother’s Day.” Click here to read the full review and article on Urbane Life.
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.
