Hangin' 'Em High

Week before last, in this post, I wrote about the
ferns we hang each summer on our front porch.
Sometimes asparagus ferns.  Sometimes Boston.  

Most of you liked the Boston's leafy, beefy good looks,
but also understood the lure of the asparagus' airy, easygoing ways.

Visits to my usual garden center haunts yielded no Boston ferns at all,

and my no-fail source for big healthy asparagus-es yielded only dinky little ones.  

But from that grower, I got her last Balcony Geranium.  

She doesn't look like much, yet.  Come back in July!

Have you ever marveled at the enormous cascading geraniums

you see in Germany and Switzerland?  

Picture from The Christian Science Monitor

This is one of those.  I've never grown one,

so I've hung her up with the Boston boys, and will hope for the best.

Please ignore the raggedy old wreath, and Howard's collection of coiled-up extension cords.
Yes, we live like hillbillies.

So where did I get those Boston ferns,

if they were not at the garden centers?

Same place we buy our hummus and our haloumi.

Trader Joe's!

Three gorgeous big bad Boston boys,

waiting right inside the door of our local Trader Joe's.

Come to mama!

And they did.  Anne took an extra shopping cart, and we piled

3 big hanging ferns and our groceries all in together.  Serendipity!

The town we used to live in has a few wholesale growers who sell to the public. 

My favorite grower had the Balcony Geranium, and she also had absolutely gorgeous

Fuchsia plants, those wacky, over-the-top wonders of nature.

Yes, fuchsia are finicky but Anne fell in love with them, and she's promised

to either keep up with the care herself, or nag me till I do it.

Madame Fuchsia is on the front porch, on a suitably shabby pedestal

that I got at our church's yard sale eons ago.

Anne took a batch of fuchsia pictures this afternoon.

 I mean, really . . . how amazing are these flowers?

Ain't they purty?

I'm not sure how long they'll last, but my grower friend only charged me

$7 for the basket, so if Madame Fuchsia kicks the bucket after a few weeks,

I'll think of her as cut flowers - beautiful while she lasted.

Ooops.  At the top of the steps, we parked an empty iced tea jug that we use as a watering can.
See?  Hillbillies.  I told you.

Almost in bloom: the irises behind the house.  Finally!

And so many plants being tucked into the dirt here at

That Old House.

Stop by next Wednesday for some garden and patio pictures. -- Cass

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Visit A Southern Daydreamer for Outdoor Wednesday.

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Still Crazed-y After All These Years

No rest for the weary at That Old House,
not if you are a piece of aged, crazed,
possibly cracked, ironstone.

Yes, we put old crackpots to good use.

*******************************

I am bowled over by old ironstone bowls.

I love their shapes, their heft, their creamy color.  

These 19th century bowls belonged to my mother.

They lived in her everyday dishes cupboard, and were used.

Almost every day.

One is quite crazed at the bottom.

Not crazy. . That's reserved for me.

From what I have read, using crazed china is safe if you follow some basic rules.  

Don't cook in it.  Don't store foods in it.  You don't want food taking up squatters' rights in crazed crockery.

But to use a beautiful but crazed old dinner plate?  As long as it's soap-and-hot-water clean, go for it.

Two of these bowls are similarly shaped.  

The larger one is marked Homer Laughlin.  The other is unmarked.

The smallest bowl, which is wide and low, has a significant crack.

I don't use it for food.  I use it for soap.

For a really big bar of soap at the kitchen sink.

  I put this bar of soap in the kitchen at Christmastime.  I love it; it's huge and locally made,
and it makes me feel like a French housewife in a rustic farmhouse.
Yes, I have a strange fantasy life.  

This soap was bigger 5 months ago.
It barely fit in the bowl back then, but now there's plenty of room.

What delights you in your own home?
Is it something small or otherwise insignificant?

I get joy from seeing this hefty century-old bowl at my sink,
and joy from the feel of the smooth soap in my hands.
Simple things.  Like me.  :-)

*********************************
And now, it's leftovers for lunch.
Spaghetti squash, with a "pasta" sauce of ground turkey, roasted garlic, onions,
and New Jersey-grown-and-canned tomatoes.

In an old ironstone bowl.
Sorry.  Only enough for one.

Enjoy the weekend!  We're planning more yard work.
Ah, Howard's favorite hobby . . . .   -- Cass

P.S.  Ironstone was first patented in 1813 by the Mason company in the U.K.  It was quite heavily decorated, as it competed with the Asian wares that were so popular.  White ironstone didn't become a thing until the English manufacturers discovered that U.S. housewives preferred their dishes white, and unadorned . . . and Presto! white ironstone was born.  That was about 1840.  Shortly after that, the first white ironstone was produced in the United States . . . in Trenton, New Jersey.  Of course.

Link Parties!

At My Romantic Home, it's Show And Tell Friday.  Click here!

Feathered Nest Friday makes its home at French Country Cottage.  Click here!

The Charm of Home features Home Sweet Home on Fridays.  Click here!

It's Vintage Inspiration Friday at Common Ground.  Click here!

Say, Who's In Charge Here Anyway?

There's been a subtle shift in the
balance of power here at That Old (Dog)House.

See this sweet, vintage Ruby Cavalier, our Miss Gilda?

Picture from Gilda's April vacation at our niece's home.

The soft and gentle dog, who came to us through Cavalier Rescue in January . . . .

This sweet ol' gal, who loves a nice cozy nap on Dad's tummy?

When Gilda joined our gang, we already had a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.

Who was pretty sure that he was IT.  The Big Kahuna.  The Crown Prince.

And he pretty much was.

Our Dylan DiPoochy is very fond of his toys.

He keeps a close eye on them, and never let Gilda play with one.

Last month, Gilda decided that enough was enough,

and she adopted a small stuffed bunny as her own.

And turns out, there was nothing Dylan could do about it but

complain to the management.  Which did nothing either, the management

believing that dogs work these things out best, unmolested by humans.

Much to our surprise, Gilda then went on to snatch

a prized chew stick right out of Dylan's jaws. 

And if you think Dylan loves his toys, he loves his chewies more.

Our mellow lady is turning into 

Gilda, Warrior Princess!

Dylan may still be the Prince,

but our Gilda is showing us that deep in her heart,

she knows she is the Queen.
And really, shouldn't every woman, in her heart,
believe she is Queen?  Works for me.

Meanwhile, in the garden,

we are running weeks behind schedule for blooming plants.

A year ago, the Iris were in full cry.

 Now?  Nada.  Just the leaves.

Bummer.

Even the lilacs are behind, but that's okay.

If lilacs are blooming at all, I'm a happy lady.

Enjoy your Tuesday!  -- Cass

Happy (Fill In The Blank) Day

Like most children, I fabricated my own Mother's Day cards.
Pastel, cheap construction paper, crayons, bits of cut up paper doily, 
and a heartfelt and probably misspelled message to Mommy.

One of my Mother's Day cards passed into family legend.

Outside, the usual pastiche of hearts and flowers.

Inside, this message:

Dear Mommy,

Happy Mother's Day.

You won't have many more.

Love, Catherine

Neither I nor anyone else knows what I meant by this.

I'm pretty sure I didn't think my Mom was going to keel over

and check out anytime soon.  Kids.  Their brains are truly different.

**********************************

Luckily for me and my three siblings,

Mom had a good understanding of children and their wee odd brains.

She thought my card was hilarious.

Also luckily for us, we were able to celebrate Mother's Day

with her for many years to come; she passed away in January 2010, at 88.

Mom at Thanksgiving 2005, in our former house, with 6 of her granddaughters. 

 If Mom were still with us, she'd enjoy Mother's Day, 

but be slightly miffed that she had to share it with this guy: 

My Dad, at his 90th birthday party at That Old House.

(Cousins Alice and Alida used to squabble over PopPop when they were toddlers.

He loved it.)

May 12th is my Dad's birthday.  He'd be 93 today.  

But he followed Mom 13 months after she passed.

**********************************

We never stop missing them, do we?

Thank you, Mom, for being the best.

For, well, everything.

I am who I am because of you.

I can hear you now, saying, "I'm not taking responsibility for that!"

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

And as for me, a mother twice over, I got to sleep in this morning,

as Anne took the dogs out and gave them breakfast.

When I awoke and stumbled down the stairs,

my darling daughter had been busily tidying and cooking;

I had an outstanding avocado and feta omelette with a fruit salad for breakfast!

Plus she'd already given me a gorgeous orchid plant, and measuring cups shaped like owls!

Daughter Alida, in self-imposed exile in California, knows how I love chickens,
so in my name she sent baby chicks to Africa.

Ah, Mother's Day.  It's a beautiful thing.

Thanks, girls, for making me a Mommy.

Happy Mother's Day to all!
Because if you are not yourself a mother,
I'm pretty darned sure you had one. -- Cass

Visit The Tablescaper for Seasonal Sundays!  Click here.  

Seriously, Ralph Lauren? Also Chairs, and A Good Son

It's Saturday morning.
Outside, the grass cutting guys are cutting our soaking wet grass, which is never a good idea.
We are philosophical about this now; these guys show up every week, 
so the occasional bad haircut is something we just live with.

Inside, I've got hot coffee and my computer.

You can find some great stuff on the Internet.

This is not one of those stuffs:

What is going on here?

Why is this man wearing the madras blazer that his grandmother 

bought him as a "good boy" present when he got his braces off?

Who thinks this is a good look?

Look at the model's face.  Clearly he is in pain, emotionally and physically.

Blazer as corset.  Not A Good Thing.  In fact, pretty much just plain silly.

And the rich wonder why we laugh at them . . . .

********************************

And that, ladies and germs, is the end of my rant.

I will not embark on my rant regarding too-small men's suits with too-short tight pants,

and other atrocities. Why do grown people try to look like 8-year olds in a growth spurt?

You're welcome.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . .

after 5 years in this house, Howard and I have decided it's time to actually have

matching chairs at the old oak table in our conservatory.  Yes, matching.  I know!

The table, 2010, in the Fall.
3 of those chairs match, but we gave them away.

I don't want chairs that match the table, just one another.  They can't be pricey.

They can't be big, because a big chair won't push under the table.

I'd have to be in passionate plight-my-troth love with a big chair to choose it.

And I want them to be casual, in keeping with a sunroom feel.

Okay. . . some contenders,

all from Pottery Barn, Pier One, and ... umm ... someplace else.

 We know what's going to happen here, don't we?

I'll check out these babies in person, and think, Hey!

I bet I can find something on Craigslist that I like just as well!

Because when was the last time I bought new furniture?

 *******************************

Mother's Day is tomorrow!

Anne has plans for me, which include some cooking and some puttering

in the garden.  Bliss.  It's just the two of us this weekend.

Hubby Howard is in Florida, because that's where his Mama is!

Howard and his mother Irene, at Alida
and Josh's wedding June 2011.

Irene, or Bobi as we all call her, is a remarkable lady.

I admire her tremendously; she's one of the bravest people I know.

Plus, she raised one heck of a son.

Who would never squeeze into a blazer that was 4 sizes too small.

***********************************

And now, just because it's pretty,

an old table setting on the round oak table:

And there you have it; a Saturday morning post,

full of pretty much nothing.  Just as Saturdays should be!

Enjoy the weekend!  -- Cass