HAPPY DECADE

This Saturday is PINK-AND-YELLOW SATURDAY at Beverly’s How Sweet the Sound---for they’re her favorite colors, and this one is her “big” birthday celebration---she implied that it’s one of the “decade” ones (which is occurring for me soon, as well, but of course, I’m WAY older than she, and stick “big bad” onto mine, though I’m just REALLY glad to still be here).   Please click in to enjoy all the colorful charming Pinks, Yellows, and happy wishes to our gracious hostess.

I'm sending her fond wishes and two bits of serendipity I discovered this week:

A beautiful pink rose brought home by Chris more than a week ago had gently aged into the velvety-satin contours of one of the marvelous vintage silk flowers from a long-ago lady’s hat.

I looked at it every time I passed by the breakfast table, smelling it occasionally, burying my face in the fragrance of the cool petals, and just enjoyed its progress from opening bud to the lady-of-a-certain age maturity so beautifully attained by roses and fortunate  women.

And then one day, I looked at the droopy leaves and full-blown, about-to-drop petals, breathing that last, beautiful breath.    I took vase and all into the kitchen, where I pulled the long stem from the water and inserted it into a handy space, way down into the garbage can.

THEN, in a fresh light, I saw the marvel of some alchemy of house and breath and weather outside, of chill moments with the A/C running its heart out, of the variety of rose, the color, the certain amount of the little packet of preserving powder I’d sprinkled into the warm water when the rose came home to us.

 I couldn’t resist snapping a few pictures, but I was hesitant to pull the flower back out of the can, for fear it would shatter and the moment be lost.   So you see, there’s our early-morning garbage, from last-night’s-counter-wipe paper towels to other items of no import, save for their soft-focus background of that marvelous rose.

 

It resembles one which could have graced a stylish young woman’s thirties cloche, a snappy little felt, a sassy brim-turned straw with the rose pinned charmingly askew, or a dear maiden lady’s best church hat, re-styled afresh for another year, with a couple of stitch-holes from the former daisies beneath the new threads holding the rose.

It just looks like a vintage-collector’s Rachel Ashwell Dream of Heaven.   And now it’s gone, but fondly remembered, just like the faded silky ones in the linen-press drawers upstairs. 

Another happy surprise: Good-Luck eggs in the sizzly-butter pan, the only two double-yolks from the dozen Jumbos.   They’re bright as a crayola sun, and were extra delicious, with all that good-luck charm thrown in.

So, Dear Beverly, I wish you silky roses and pink dreams, yolk-sun bright mornings for all your days, and the hopeful shine of a yellow hat with your heroic pink cape.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY DECADE, HAPPY ALWAYS.