Black Skies, White Linen

So there we sat in the conservatory, Howard and I,

enjoying a second cup of coffee on a sunny, breezy morning.

And then, this:

 I grabbed my camera and went outside.  In my slippers.

 Just stood on our patio outside the sunroom door, and snapped away.

 Didn't look too threatening right behind the driveway.

 Mr. Scarecrow didn't look concerned,

despite being impaled in a sensitive part of his scarecrow anatomy by a bamboo pole.

 I was going to take more pictures,

but the sky suddenly went to this:

 And I decided the smart thing to do was to retreat to the house, settle down at my desk,

and look out the window at the rain that was just beginning to start.

My mama didn't raise no fool.

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

And where does White Linen come into all this?

It doesn't.  It comes into the kitchen.

Now don't go hide.  I promise no ba-zillion kitchen painting pictures, but a couple of weeks ago I got a very old linen and lace runner from eBay, and I've been toying with turning it into curtains for the kitchen window.  This morning I just popped up a tension rod and flung the runner over to see if it has possibilities.

Whatcha think?

 Should I dust off the sewing machine and get to work on kitchen curtains?

The crochet work is perfect; the linen is failing.

The definition of "white" needs to be loosened up for this very old linen,

which now we will kindly call "Gustavian Gray."

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

Another whatcha think:

are my black toe kicks a win, or a bust?

 I think I like them, but my personal jury is not yet unanimous.

I like the touch of black, though.  Ties in with the new wallpaper . . .

. . . as do the roses in the crocheted lace at the window.

Join Susan at A Southern Daydreamer for Outdoor Wednesday.  Visit here!

And at Faded Charm Blog, Kathleen hosts White Wednesday.  Visit here!

Rain over, and it's mostly sunny once more.
It's my sister Peggy's birthday today, so I'm heading for her house this afternoon to play with
her new knitting machine, eat a dinner she cooked, sing Happy Birthday to her in a quavering mezzo,
and tell her how good she looks for being 137 years old. -- Cass