Pink Parties

After a stressful and dark week I usually create a reason to play with flowers.  This week I didn't have to manufacture one - a dear friend needed some pretty for a fashion event she was hosting and one of my favorite little charges was celebrating a fourth birthday.

So, Saturday morning I bundled up and scuttled onto our snowy (new concept this winter in Chicago) roads to track down some grocery store flowers.  I then spent the next hour playing in the kitchen.  I could have quickly assembled the arrangements and gone back to the stack of papers that needed to be graded, which were sitting on the wooden table that might (definitely) have benefited from a nice dusting - but instead I took my time.  The differing shades of pink looked so nice in the morning light and Coltrane was shuffling through on the radio.  I had no good reason to hurry when taking my time would restore the little pieces of me that had drifted away during the week.  

I have posted a few of the pictures I took during building time.  Happy little flowers dancing along to Coltrane's saxophone.  

And if you are curious about the finished products...

This morning I freshened up one of the littles and carried it down the road to Ingrid's party.   "Bunny, I knew you would bring me flowers!  I love them and they will sleep with me in my bed tonight."

My festivities for the weekend have concluded.  My sequined sweater (Ingrid's choice) has been replaced by an ancient and holey Michigan sweatshirt that once belonged to Mom.  I am sitting in the lotus position on the floor - two stacks of reading on either side of me.  The last one I read scored a resounding F.  But, whenever I look up I see the yellow balloon Ingrid demanded I take ("Yellow, Bunny - because that is the color of the sun, and I am your sun") and my pink posies. 


I am reminded of the good in my little world.  

A Family Garden Wedding - Summer 2011

It is snowing and drizzling, at the same time, here in Chicago today.  A perfect time to look back at a fun wedding I did in a family garden last summer.

Over 50 years ago the Brown family and my Grandparents sailed on the Gull Lake together.  Their son, Cleve, and my mom grew up together, sailing and being young sprites in the summer.  As we tend to do when we grow up, they lost touch.  Several years ago Cleve and his family moved in next door to our place on Gull Lake.  They have three children, roughly the ages of me and TJ.  Hooray for neighbors my age - the lake has not been as fun since everyone grew up and stayed away during the summers.  Last summer, the oldest son, Whitney, and his amazing forever love, Ellen, planned an intimate garden wedding at the Brown's home in Indianapolis.

I was honored to spend their wedding weekend building arrangements on their patio.  This was one of the most creative weddings I have been part of.  Ellen had amazing ideas - vintage, gardeny, romantic.  And she also had enough trust in me to let me run wild with my own thoughts.  The result, in my opinion, led to some lovely creations.

 
A still-bare-B for Brown and a riot of flowers that do not yet have a home.

 Daisies are a perfect rehearsal dinner accent.

 The best way to transport centerpieces.  

Peonies, garden roses and stock - oh my! 

 Bouts.  Best built the day of - hence the sunrise glow that is happening.  

 White roses, mint leaves and vintage pins - perfect bridesmaid bouquets. 

Kissing balls for the wee girls and ribboned roses for Baby Stella.

 One of 20 centerpieces - each one a bit different from the next.

 A slightly embellished ceremony site.  

 Repurposed rehearsal dinner flowers make a lovely garland for the favor table.

B is for Brown. 

 No detail is too small - even the back yard gate. 

 The Brown Family. 

The Benefit of Snapshots

This has been a pretty craptastical week.  In the grand scale I know my world is quite perfect - but it has been difficult to remember that little truth over these past few days.  In an effort to stamp out this pity party that is threatening to make me run to the super market and (re)stock my freezer with Haagen-Dazs Coffee Ice Cream, I did what I do when I need a swift kick of perspective.  I opened my photo album. 

Random.  Any picture will do.

Tonight iPhoto opened to pictures of a rose and double tulip.  They were purchased this December at the Whole Foods in Chicago and transported to Michigan for Christmas with Mom and Dad, Aunt Suzy and Nana and Grandpa.

The flowers alone are quite lovely - slips of pink and white in the middle of the winter.  But, tonight they represent a little moment of happiness that I can pull myself back to.  A reminder that Nana blushed a little bit when I told her she looked beautiful in her Christmas sweater and ribboned french braid.  That Grandpa moved my gift of potted bulbs until his good little vision spot could see what types were nestled in the dirt.  A reminder that the next day Aunt Suzy traveled to see her daughter, and we went West to see my brother.  An extended family not quite together on Christmas, but the core units all touching base.  

So, yes - the last four days have been challenging.  But this too, as Dad says, shall pass.  These days will not be photographed.  They will not be posted on my refrigerator, placed behind glass frames, or added to the ridiculous amount of pictures that I store digitally.  These days will pass and I will not be able to pull up a captured moment to remind me of the hurt and disappointment that I feel right now.

Instead, just like tonight, I will be able to find another image, another snapshot, that reminds me of family, friendship, and so much joy.  Technicolor inches of frozen joy.                  

My Argument for Flowers. Or Happy Anniversary, Nana and Grandpa.

I once dated a manchild who refused to bring me flowers.  He claimed he loved me deeply, but flowers were cliche and silly and died quickly.  I maintained that they were vital to the endurance of our relationship, but I was unable to explain why flowers were so important to me.  It wasn't the cost - I enjoy a plucked park daisy as much as an arranged bouquet.  It was something so much more that I couldn't quite explain.

And that is where our story begins - my quest for figuring out why I love flowers so very much.  

I grew up with a woodsy trail connecting my house with my Grandparent's house.  Some of my earliest memories involve walking this little trail, past begonia blooms and forget-me-knots, pulling apart the pods of milkweed.  As I walked, I would pluck white and orange tipped daffodils, deep pink bleeding hearts and yellow wild roses.  Nana had a collection of tiny vases for her Bunny Bouquets, her picked posies.  

From a very early age I knew that if I could not find them in the main parts of the house I had to look outside.  Nana in her tiered gardens, tending her lilies and peonies.  Grandpa looking after his roses, his tomatoes, his pear trees.  Checking the water levels of their African violets in the little greenhouse they had created in the back corner of Grandpa's basement wood shop.  

I have always associated flowers with Nana and Grandpa, but that does not explain how deep my love goes.

Today marks the 70th wedding anniversary of Nana and Grandpa.  This, in itself, is a pretty remarkable feat.  But what has actually gone into that number is what makes it truly wonderful.

Grandpa, Francis Southon, was born in 1918.  Muriel Aurilla Hess, my Nana, was born the next year.  Grandpa loved Nana the moment he saw her in the halls of Kalamazoo Central High School. He loved her enough to get cast opposite of her in their senior musical (which, incidentally, was one of Howard Chenery's first directing moments).  According to him, he knew immediately she was the one he would marry and he was determined to win her love, even if they hadn't yet spoken.  

When Nana decided to travel to Ann Arbor for her undergraduate education, Grandpa followed.  He was on their pre-med track before he decided that K College would be better suited to his academic goals.  Nana finished at the University of Michigan and was one of the first female students there to receive her Phi Beta Kappa key.  

During this time the song "Peg of My Heart" was popular.  I always knew it would be you since I heard your lilting laughter.  Peg o' my heart.  Oh, your glances make my heart say...come make your home in my heart.  Peg o' my heart, I'll love you, we'll never part.  Grandpa has been calling Nana Peg since high school; It was years before I realized that the Muriel on government mail was Nana.  

Nana moved to Chicago and worked towards a masters degree in Social Work from the University of Chicago.  Grandpa joined the army and went to Officer Candidate School.  World War II was in full swing and Grandpa wanted to do his part.  He was one of the 90 Day Wonders - a college education and a high level of intelligence sped things up in the war.  

Nana and Grandpa knew they would get married, but the war made it difficult to nail down a location or date.  Nana's mom planned three different weddings - Kalamazoo, Chicago, and Kalamazoo again.  The original wedding date was February 14, but Grandpa had orders to be in Wrightsville Beach on that day.  They had to move the day up.  

So, they got married 70 years ago today, in Michigan.  Nana wore a Balenciaga suit and carried green orchids.  

The next years were not always perfect and easy.  They moved around the country; Grandpa turned out to be an amazing Training Officer and was incredibly useful in preparing new privates for battle.   During the first years of their marriage they only saw each other on Sunday nights when Grandpa could come home for dinner.  Nana knew that if Grandpa missed two Sundays in a row, she would have to go home to Michigan.  At one point, she did have to go home, but not because Grandpa left.  While they were living in Wrightsville Beach, Nana caught pneumonia.  Grandpa was not able to  take care of her (delivering oxygen over ice was a bit time consuming), so Nana went North to her parents.  Nana said that the sight of Grandpa waiting for her on the Carolina train platform the day she traveled back to him is still one of her favorite moments of their marriage.

That is what most of their marriage has been - beautiful moments filled with love, respect and true appreciation for time spent together.  

I asked Grandpa today how he views his life.  He answered simply.  I think we’ve had a wonderful life.  It just happened.  In the first place, there has to be an awful lot of respect for each other.   There has never been a moment when I didn’t respect my wife, and I think she would say the same about me.  You have to have a basis for it, a foundation.  To build a family on.  Actually be with each other, not just share the same space.  Then you can handle anything that comes along.  Cope with problems that come along; if you have a mutual respect you can fix anything.  During the war we lived in some pretty bad places, and we lived in some pretty ok ones – but the reason they were all home was because Peg and I were there together.  We got through life together. 

Nana echos that sentiment.  I’m always proud of Frank; he does things that make me proud everyday.  Thank goodness I fell in love with the right person. 

Much of what I value is because of my Nana and Grandpa.  Mutual respect.  Human equality.  Perseverance and commitment.  Ice cream.  Books and writing and art.  Christmas.  Voicing a strong opinion.  Family.  Creative entrepreneurship.  The lake.  

And flowers.  As I look through their photograph books there are so many flowers.  Flowers on Grandpa's lapel.  Flowers pinned to Nana's dresses.  Flowers in cut glass vases and bordering houses.  There are hundreds of faded flower enclosures, embossed with the names of florists in Ann Arbor, Kalamazoo, Texas, Carolina, Chicago.  

Notes that say I am fool - forgive me.  

I cannot wait to see you soon, my darling.  

Every day I love you more.

Simply written, one-lined love notes that once accompanied a magnolia corsage or a red Radio Flyer wagon filled with gardenias.  

Nana and Grandpa have had fresh flowers in their house every day of my life.  Sometimes they were formal arrangements sent by the florist.  Or a sun-smelling collection of roses from Grandpa's garden.  He has not been able to get into his garden and pick Nana roses in recent years.  He doesn't make it to the florist, either.  But, somehow, there are always fresh flowers for Nana.  Always.

I ask him why.  Why have you filled Nana's world with flowers?   Because, he told me. I love her.  

That's my reason.  The answer to my quest.  I have flowers in my bones; Nana and Grandpa's marriage has been built on respect, love and flowers.  A representation of what they stand for.  So yes, flowers may be cliche, and silly, and they die quickly.  But what they stand for, to me and my Grandparents, is so much more than that.  

When I think of that movie story kinda love I think of my Nana and Grandpa.  A simple flower in a vase makes their life and commitment tangible.  

This year's anniversary dinner will not be as elaborate as one that was hosted by Grandpa's company in the first years of their marriage - it will not have a pink table cloth and a full ham.   But, both of their daughters will be there.  Nana and Grandpa will be together in the home that they built and filled with wonderful artifacts of their world travels.  There will be pictures of their four grandchildren, and drawings on the refrigerator from their four great-grandbabies.  And there will be flowers.  

So many flowers. 

Nana and Grandpa at the University of Michigan.  Circa 1935.

Nana and Grandpa at Gull Lake.  Circa 1955.

Nana and Grandpa.  Circa 1985. 

Nana, Grandpa and their Family.  2011.

Nana and Grandpa.  2012.

When You Come Home...

I was standing, quite squashed and uncomfortable, on the Red Line several hours ago.

Today has been a long day.  And a bit challenging.  I had to utilize a great deal of will power to refrain from referring to some of my students as fucking morons with an oddly misplaced set of priorities.

So, I was glad to be four train stops away from my apartment and sweatpants.

But, if you had been on this train and noticed me you would not have realized that my feet hurt and my bag was pulling on my shoulder incision in an uncool way, and that I was frustrated with half of my students.  You would have seen me smile.  And this is why: I was thinking about the fact that everyone can be greeted by love when they come home.

For many people this is a person.  My parents have each other.  My cousins and close friends have their spouses and ridiculously beautiful children (seriously, these children are all ridiculously beautiful).

Or this greeting of love may come from a critter.  My brother has his noble dog, Frank.  My parents have two dogs, a regal gentlehound and a real-live muppet.  Every time these humans open the door they are attacked by puppy kisses and excited thumps.  A two hour absence is just as significant as two weeks.

But what about those of us who come home to an empty house.  No lights are turned on.  No one notices if the space stays empty and cold.  There is no greeting, especially not one filled with love.

I come home to an empty apartment.  I have been doing this for eight months.

But.

Every time I walk through the door I am greeted by love.  It is the wedding and birth announcements that hang on my refrigerator, sharing a magnet with Lily's art.  It is the mahogany table that holds my keys, and has held the keys of five generations of Hartridges.  It is the red framed carousel print that hung in my Aunt Marie's house and is now propped against my wall.  It is a Venetian mask from Italy, tea cups from Mexico, a vase from Connecticut, an Aspen leaf from Colorado - all selected for me when my loved ones traveled.  It is the Mardi Gras beads woven in a fig tree.  It is books.  Shelf after shelf of words that traveled the country with me.  It is, and I do not exaggerate, framed pictures of each person I love so dearly - frames fighting tattered books for coveted shelf space.

Perhaps, you argue, that the greeting of love must come from a living entity - well, I have that, too.  It is the flower budding on my shamrock that has died four times and somehow finds motivation to resurrect itself.  It is the pretties that I always keep in bloom on my coffee table.  It is the new little buds on a branch used for Elle's birthday party and sparkly ornaments that hang on the tree that has stuck by my side for eleven years, far outlasting any romantic relationship I have known.

We become so focused on what we are missing.  What we think should be in our lives.  We compare to others.  Want what they have.  Pity ourselves a bit when we don't have it.  And this is silly.  All of us have so much love that is greeting us - we just have to remember to notice.

    

Elle's First Birthday Party

One of my favorite girls celebrated her first birthday last weekend.  Her mom and I had to make sure her birthday party was just as pretty as she is.  We came pretty close with our quince branches, baby roses, snaps, hyacinth and tulips. 

It has been one year since her daddy hung the mobile I made for her - it still looks great!