On Friday night we huffed and we puffed and we brought home our piano. Our living room is complete; I smile each and every time I walk through the room, still shocked to have realized this lifelong desire. We have a piano. No, none of us play. Officially. But it’s getting plenty of play time, even out of tune as
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It’s high time I told you about our band. It’s called Fiddle Dee Dee, in an unabashed reference to Gone With the Wind, and is comprised of two members – me and Isadora. Not fiddlers by trade, we began taking lessons together in September. And it’s been a bumpy ride, Folks. So bumpy. Learning something new is HARD and it
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The new Mumford and Sons album magically arrived in my inbox this morning, setting the tone for a stellar day. There was knitting. Reading. Puppy love. And an ever-growing awareness that we’ve not got enough chew toys to satisfy those puppy teeth. Yes, Leila, we all think Errol’s feet are delicious, but we mean it metaphorically.
I’ve spoken so many times of the Sugar Maple Music Festival, that summer event which we revere more than any other. We afford it sacred calendar protection normally reserved for holidays like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and now Solstice. Please don’t plan on getting married, birthing/baptizing your baby, or dying on the weekend of the Sugar Maple; we probably won’t attend. (your
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Something musical to chew on. Look for the hauntingly beautiful singing saw.
I met that little deadline set so flippantly last Wednesday. Somehow I managed to sew a new something for all four of us, or rather two sets of coordinating get-ups. It was fortunate that we did get in some dancing before we all melted into a big, handsewn puddle. It was so, so hot. Our night ended abruptly when
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Because then there would be absolutely NO WAY IN HELL I’d finish sewing each of us a new garment by this weekend’s annual Sugar Maple Music Fest. As it stands, the idea of finishing four sewn-from-scratch garments that are currently (on Wednesday) only 60% cut out is some kind of crazy crack-smokin’ talk. Yet I persist. It’s sounded like a
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Congratulations to you, Mr. Waits, on your recent induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It feels strange to call you Mr. – such a prominent presence you have in our carefully cultivated day to day reality – we sometimes forget that we’re actually not the mutually-held dear friends we imagine we could be. We first met you
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of people I wish were my next-door neighbors. Surely we’d be best friends. I’ve watched this about three times so far today. And it’s only 10:46 a.m. Skip to 8:40 to hear her sing the Chinese folk song if you’ve only time for one song. It gave me goosebumps.
Since about the time I graduated from Sassy magazine to Martha Stewart Living, I’ve held in my mind a fantasy of holding a dinner party outdoors. I fixated mostly on the requirement for mason jar votive candles, illuminating a beautifully-decorated dining table nestled beneath a canopy of branches. It would be a lie to say I did not consider backyard
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