Thursday, March 23, 2017


My friend Rachel overt Lawn Tea said she’d missed all a y’all so MUCH lately, and hopes so much that you’re doing better and better.  She’s told me so much about your wonderful family, with all those beautiful sweet Grand-children and all, and your lovely home that you keep so well.   She talks about your good cookin’ and how you sure do know your way around makin’ a good biscuit, and that you just do beat all when it comes to keepin’ house and arrangin’ things in such a nice way for all your family to enjoy.
BJ's Spring decor

And those gatherin’s!!  I do love to look at all those happy faces around all those tables in your dinin’ room!   Why, such good company would be sweetenin’ enough, even without that good ole iced tea to go around, and I marvel at your ease in the gettin’ ready.   Why, I been cookin’ nigh onto seventy years---bein’s I started out when I was about maybe six, and had to stand up on the lard can to mix that pan of biscuits, and I never saw such a hand at turnin’ out such good meals and dinners as y’all seem to just conjure up out of the air. 

bj breakfast

And those breakfasts!!!  My, Goodness ME, what a time you have makin those flapjacks all sorts a ways, just to try ‘em out.   I useta get so tired of pourin’ and flippin’ when I’d still be turnin’ em out when the schoolbus was near down the lane, and the boys would each grab a couple and fold ‘em like fried pies around a hunk a ham or a big ole sprinkle of sugar as they ran out the door.   Weren’t them some days, though?  I wouten take nothin’ for those early mornin’s when whoever had stovewood duty would be in there a-clangin’ and a-blowin’ as I caught up the water for the coffeepot, and we had the kitchen all to ourselves for a quiet little talk before the sun come up and the coffee boiled.   I think now they might call that “one-on-one time,” but back then, you just grabbed whatever minute you could get between school and work and the young-un’s studyin’ and chores---why, I bet I had more good talks with my brood as we shouted around a cow’s rump while we was each a-milkin, than anybody does sittin’ together having a stranger paint their toenails.  I’m just sayin’.

And, can’t you just SMELL that good boilin’ coffee?  I don’t think any a them new coffeeshops could ever equal that good eggshell coffee we useta make in that big ole blue enamel pot.   And bacon a-fryin’?  You and I have cooked our share of good breakfasts, I bet, and Rachel says you’re the only person she’s ever known who could write forty-nine articles on BISCUITS, and make them beautiful and mouth-waterin’, ever single one. 
Her pepper biscuits

She also showed me the hand you have for decoratin’, with all the flowers and pretty pitchers and jars, and all that smart checkedy cloth and plates to set ‘em off.  She and I love RED almost as much as you do, and we talk about your dab hand with red all the time.

ready for the Bunco Group

I just wanted to drop you a note and say how much I enjoy your writin’ and pictures and cookin’ and the way you LOVE and share your family times and all the love that’s bound y’all together for so long.   What a family, and what a pair you two are---strong and kind and just bustin’ with love for one another.  

I send you my good thoughts and prayers for strength and healing and good reports from your doctors, as well as good rest and peaceful sleep as you fight and win this battle so bravely together.  

We haven’t met yet, but I just love all a Y’all.

Your new friend and reader,

Marthy Tidwell 

ps  You said Borry anytime, and I couldn't reach you to ask, so I borried a few of your lovely pictures for my friends to see.  xoxo

Wednesday, March 22, 2017


I can think of a few Southern sayings for what I must have been doing all this while that I’ve been absent from writing or communicating.

Whiling away . . .

Well, things rocked on. . .
Killing Time . . .

Making Hay . . .

Sleeping in . . .

Rolling around Heaven . . .


I been kinda lapseful

I found them jotted in my little trove of stuff I dash down in WORD, copying and pasting and borrowing the GOOD STUFF from hither and yon.   I love the comfortable sayings, the ideas of being which give our lives happy moments, memorable days, and since I’ve been here but FAR for so long, here are a few little bits from others’ words and gleanings.  They're in all their own italics and personal print, just as I’ve returned to them time after time---I leave you with some Good Stuff to ponder:

It was a gentle jolt, a reminder that these inconspicuous, ordinary moments of nice— the cups of sugar, the genuine smiles, the held doors, the jumped batteries, the can I get that for yous— are what keep us fastened and snapped, what keep us gentle and sweet. Like milk and eggs, these unexpected twinklings of everyday grace are the staples of life. They are what measure us.
Mrs. G. Derfwad Manor 

I love the sunsets...

I especially love sharing them with family.

It is like the sun kisses us all goodnight..

and we have made it safely through

another day.
Nana Diana

Sometimes compassion has nothing to do with treating adults like children. Sometimes you carry the burden silently so those who are unable to do so don't have to try 

“All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
-J.R.R Tolkien

Home is not simply a mark upon a map any more than a river’s just water.
It is the place at the centre of the compass from which every arrow radiates,
and where the heart is fixed.
It is a force that forever draws us back or lures us on.
For where the home is, there lies hope.
And a future waits.
And everything is possible.


Second–hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world. Virginia Woolf, "Street Haunting: A London Adventure" (1930).

In our little corner of Paradise all is the same, which is the equivalent of "All is Well," I think. Yet, looking outside, it is NOT the same as I see the red bud blooming wildly and the Spring wheat now sprung nearly 15 inches tall in places, flat in silken obedience to the wind in others.  Oatmeal and Whimsy

And the whole section ended with my own explanation of why I like a SOFT house:

My admiration for a “modern” house is sound, based on the clean clear lines and absolutely neutral everything. But I could NOT wake up to such spare flat open air every day, for I used to look at the immovable concrete sofas and tables in the Wright houses and feel the chill in my bones. The marble and the iron, and the flat decks of cabinets in the kitchens---I'd NEVER find the fridge in all those anonymous doors, let alone the flour or spoons.

I quite understand the sparse, minimalist home, with gray and khaki and pale-washed blues; stark whites and bare walls bring an open beauty to the squared-off sitting areas and the one apple in a dish, like a deserted still-life, as if the artist grew weary of the subject, or perhaps just hungry too soon. No. Love the idea and honor anyone’s love for such strict decor, but so much bone and no softness, no colour, no curves---not for me.    It feels as if the people who live there must live spare lives---arid, almost, as if they might spend their days pinned on a clothesline, like laundry in the wind.

Those spare, echoing floors and stem-legged furniture with sunshine on the shining wood beneath give me a chill.   We are not spare people; we are all round and comfy and hospitable, with deep-cushioned chairs and big ottomans and pillows and throws.   Our windows are hazed with filmy sheers and lacy valances,  filtering in patterns of sun on the florals and leaves.  Pink and rose and ferny greens are the colours of my life, like the softest pastels in the paintbox.

My dear Mary will be here in a little while, and we’ll spread on the pale-green slip-covers, dust the dressers, plump the Spring pillows of birds and flowers, then settle for a moment upstairs with lemony tea to admire our handiwork, as once more the seasons turn.

  I wish you all a HAPPY SPRING!

Wednesday, March 8, 2017


I awoke today to the bright promise of a March Monday, and to the most charming note from a fellow blogger and friend---Debbi of the oh-so-inviting 
DEBBI’S FRONT PORCH in Charleston.   I’ve been a follower and avid fan of her sojourns around that beautiful city for quite some time now, with its graceful, colourful houses and the charm of centuries.   I’ve even marked “RESTORING CHARLESTON” on my TV schedule, and enjoy seeing the former beauty reclaimed through careful, nurturing restoration of  those proud, timeless homes and buildings.

From some of her many meanderings:


Her comment was in response to last week’s post on Nesting, and I always find it so rewarding and flattering to have someone find their own experiences and bits of their life history echoed in my own.   Hers was a sweet reminiscence of her family’s history, enjoyed every day through the collections of photos and albums and “bits and bobs” of the past saved and stored through the years by her own ancestors in their own hard-earned and carefully-kept nests.


From her comment on the Nesting Post:

"Oh I just love this post!

and I am definitely of this group---"THE PILES OF MAGPIE GLEANINGS" ha ha ha LOL

Trinkets, sparklies, junque, collections of many types and colors and sizes---pictures---so many pictures that tell of our family and our history and our own personal story. The old albums, the thick and heavy "scrapbooks" that became so popular back about twenty years ago and made "scrapbooking" a verb, LOL Even in a small space I just keep on, keeping on...collecting the things that speak to me and feathering our nest that way. I like the memories, and the stories that go with the memories, close by--the books, the photographs, the little dolls and bits of china and dabs of jewelry and maybe an old threadbare and thinning chenille bedspread--the kind our Ma-Maws had on their beds--or a soft patchwork quilt to wrap myself up in--something like that makes me feel safe and connected to the people who lived and loved before us. Isn't it so amazing how we can move about to and fro, hither and in a tiny cottage or a house that is grand in size, and still we "feather" our homes in a way that suits us best, no matter where we go--we bring our memories and ways of life with us, and like you said, we each have our own way, our own style. I am a magpie......"

Debbi’s taken me and all her readers on wonderful strolls and adventures and sight-seeing tours of so much of the beauty and fun and gracious welcome that Charleston has to offer.   I hope you’ll look in as well---you’ll be captivated by the warmth and the Lowcountry charm, and by her love of her roots and her city.  And the inviting array of sherbety rocking chairs on that porch, so sweet you can almost taste them, along with the promise of Sweet Tea---well, that's an invitation which can't be missed.   

"Following where my camera leads me!"

Tuesday, February 28, 2017


My first note this morning was an e-mail from Susan Branch, with all sorts of Spring happies and notes and sayings, and it’s just in TIME.  Because she sent me pictures of her little happy creatures and sayings and her perfectly wonderful art and attitude,  I’ve set this day, today on the cusp of March, the day-before-the-winds-come to cleanse the air and sweep away the leftover woolies of Winter---this day is to be the beginning of a whole new putting-together of our NEST.   I’ve got filmy curtains to drape on the windows, a lovely ferny-green cover for the sofa, wisps of pink tulle to festoon the wide treetop windows of Sweetpea’s room upstairs, and many, many lovely PINKS for the kitchen that I’ve been setting aside for When Things Are Just Right.   (And they haven’t been for so long and so severely that if you could see my house, you wouldn’t eat my cookin’, as my Mammaw used to say).

My Miss Mary will be here at 1:30, and she’s a whirlwind all on her own, up ladders and on her knees beneath furniture, swiffing and swirling away a season’s accumulation of grubbies in her few hours in the house.   And tomorrow's the day when the great beast of a "heavy garbage" truck growls and chews its way down the streets, gulping down all the throwaways and don't wants.   
The little hum of anticipation, that small quiver beneath the breastbone which says things are in the air, and change is coming---that’s been so elusive for so long, I’ve simply ignored and walked around and let lay things that should have been tended as a matter of course.   The bills stay paid, the bathroom shining and ready, the beds with fresh linens scented of lavender, and everybody’s laundry is daily fresh to hand, but I’ve let clutter and disorder and TOOMUCHSTUFF get the upper hand.   And today, I say NO MORE.

This day is the Turning, and for more inspiration I’m going back a whole seven years, to a day less than two years of blogging, when such order was a habit ingrained for a lifetime, when pressed linens and shining tables were the norm, when we didn’t soon-as-not grab paper plates and sit down before Netflix at the end of a where-did-the-time-go? fruitless day.   Back to when things were orderly and I GOT THINGS DONE, despite a little one in the house ten hours a day.  

From LAWN TEA, Spring, 2010,

I am the Keeper of a Nest. I just read that concept, in those four little words, on Dear Daisy Cottage, and it was just as if I saw our home and my role in it in a slightly different way. I’ve been pondering that new idea---an idea as old as old can be, from the first fur-huddled families coping with the dark and cold in whatever sheltering cave they could lay bloody claim to.

In the great ages since then, this nesting thing has grown and grown; wars have been fought, and territories seized; lives have been staked and lost; castles and hovels and sheds have all been refuges from the same dark and cold.

And we, the Keepers, have padded these nests with the comforts we could afford or find or make or, in earlier, bleaker times, wrest from weaker nesters. As long as the WE of us were taken care of, the driving, surviving force in us left others outside our own fold to fend for themselves. Cloth and feathers for easing our rest, and chink-mud to keep out the elements; a floor and walls and the thatching for the rain; pots to cook in, water to drink, water to bathe----everything encountered, I think, was looked at as a measure to improve the comfort and well-being of the family, to keep the WE of us warm and safe.

I try to think of the heart and mind of the first nester to pick a flower, take it into the abode, and place it in a vessel formerly used only for practical purposes. And when that first blossom went into that first humble cup, something in the world clicked into a different place. We saw that our hands could create and provide not only comfort and necessities, but something beautiful, no matter how small or hard-won. I think it's part of our nature to crave something pretty to enhance our worlds.

I think of my own forebears---especially those women of the Scottish Highlands. The centuries of deprivation and hunger and cold, the waiting for the men’s return from battle, the dread of loss, of starvation, of eking out that last scatter of oats or mutton-fat into a meager bowl for their families. That sharp, chilling wind and the sparse landscape, with nothing between it and their clan but their own courage and work. How they must have waited and wept, with hope fragile as life, and despair as their daily bread. And what WAS beautiful in their lives? Did they just stand looking at the sunrises and sunsets, or the hills with their fleeting purple haze?

We went to see; we rode and walked those hills of the Highlands, and the great spaces and crags and rust-hued rocky expanses are still there, looming and forbidding, their great beauty the blush of purplish heather in the Spring and perhaps the necklaces of stone fences and crofts, laced upon the hillsides to mark their territory, like pearls strung on a map.

And I thought deeply of those Grand-Dams of mine, those centuries-back female ancestors, whose lives were grim and sere---I could see them woad-smeared and wielding weapons, as easily as I could imagine their tending their smoky fires and nursing babies too soon gone. I hope they had the solace and uplift of something pretty---a polished stone, a braid of grass, a bird egg hand-cradled miles home, just for its curve of glorious color---and I hope they felt the great accomplishment of adding to the life of their family, not just their survival. 

The other side of me came from other parts of the British isles, told in the “Nutmegs” post last year. And Heaven knows, when my ancestor came over/was transported BECAUSE of those nutmegs, the things back in Ireland and England weren’t much to write home about, either, for folks of our working class.

So I suppose that yearning for a home, for a comfortable place to live and raise children, is so ingrained in my genes that I love being home, putting little touches, finding little additions, prinking with a curtain, a bit of lace, an old brooch which would look nice on a totted-up lampshade---those are certainly not talents, but needs, I think.

I NEED to make a nest, to feather it well for me and mine, to add and subtract (the subtracting part becomes more difficult with the addition of each year) and to make it comfortable and warm and welcoming. And whether our nests are the neat rounds of redbirds, with smooth straw and feathers for warmth, or the mud-daubed hammock-roosts of swallows, 
or the thatchy, gewgaw-frantic piles of magpie gleanings, the lost pull-tabs and gum wrappers arranged into their own wee versions of tatty yards with an old Maytag and a rusting Ford sprawled about---they are OURS, with our mark upon them.

So, we choose our own nests, and we build them to fit the fabric and the taste and the tenor of our own lives.   A bright-lit, topsy-turvy bursting-at-the-seams one, a little bit different from most, with its own windswept flair and all awhirl with people and activity and the bustle of daily life, or a serene sunlit spot, safely high, with a lovely view of the world, and the cool blue beckoning you home.

Or my own choice: A soft, comfy happy nest, with a lot of comfort, a little bit of something beautiful, and a lot of chicks to fill it.  That's my kind of nest.  And today's the day.

Thursday, February 16, 2017


All the moons and comets and stars have been great items of interest in the past little while, and we’ve stood out in the cold back yard, breaths wafting up into the darkness, as we took in these once-in-a-lifetime moments of astronomical significance.  All that cosmic display, going on for untellable time, just up there for the looking at---we seldom think of what grandeur just goes on without us, heedless of our little plans and designs.  

Caro just sent me a lovely video of an unimaginably-painted scene---Van Gogh’s STARRY NIGHT coming to life atop a bowl of dark water.    In a moment, the artist’s hands scatter-spatter, then splash-drip the paint in childish blobs.   Then he magically swirls and contours the masses of  quivering colour into the familiar beauty of Vincent’s nightscape with just a few dips and strokes of brush and fingers.  I cannot think how he ever thought to DO it, let alone honed such a technique into such a frangible art form, ephemeral and fleeting as smoke.  

A moment to take in the beauty of it, then a magnificent swirl of the heavens, like a cosmic interruption that shook galaxies in the creation of the Universe.   A few more drops of colour bring a magical transformation into another familiar painting---simply stunning in the making.

This is too beautiful not to share. Do make it into full screen and use your sound---Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata lends the perfect accompaniment.