Shortly after my very dear Nana died two and a half years ago, I indicated to my mother that if no one had their eyes set on her wing chair, I would love to have it.
I know what you are thinking. A rose floral wingchair. Why on earth would I want such a thing? It's about as old lady as you can get.
But, I really did want it.
First of all, I have grown up in an extended family of wingchairs. Or, rather, an extended family who has (and values) wingchairs. For me, they are a symbol of family and of comfort-- even though I would never have thought a wing chair was my style.
But, more importantly, my nana's wing chair symbolized her to me. At least in recent years, when she wasn't buzzing about, it's where she was. And, when she was sitting in that chair - whether reading, catching a nap, or talking with a visitor, she always looked as comfortable as can be.
I remember in the last few days of her life, her sitting in that chair, predicting that my baby was going to be born on her mother's birthday--she just knew it. It was funny, she was so connected to this pregnancy - maybe because I saw her so much during it. But, it definitely struck me. She was so interested in it - offering thoughts and predictions. Three months after my Nana died, my baby was born on HER birthday.
So, I got the chair. And, much to my husband's shagrin, I insisted that we put it in the antique bay window in our dining room. Odd, I know. But, it's this wonderful sun-filled nook where I knew I could sit and nurse one baby while watching the other frolick outside. That was my vision. After I re-upholstered it, of course. I can't stand rose floral patterns.
Two years later, Nana Chair (yup, that's what we call it) has become a very significant piece of our life. I have nursed a zillion times in that chair. We have all read many a book there. We have all snoozed there. We have all snuggled there. We all seek out THAT chair.
All along I have still intended to reupholster it. A zillion fabric swatches have come home and been rejected. I even purchased 7 yards of fabric that I thought was perfect only to cry when it arrived. Finally, I found a fabric that most of us liked -- and, to me, would bring this wing chair to modern life with a little spunk - just like Nana.
The day the chair was hauled away, my eldest would hardly speak to me. My two year old cried, "Nana chair no go." And for the weeks to follow that space seemed so empty. While I was so certain that I wanted to change that chair, I couldn't help but wonder each day as I stared at the empty space whether everyone's anguish about reupholstering it meant something. I wondered if I had, in fact, taken the magic out of the chair.
After much re-scheduling, we finally carved out time for our potato harvest. For those of you who know me - and where I live - you are probably laughing. I live on less than a quarter of an acre, much of which is shaded. But, I can assure you that we (And by "we" I mean primarily my husband, though I certainly help and give counsel.) take advantage of every square inch of garden-able space. Realistically, this translates into an herb garden, two self-built 8 foot by 4 foot raised beds, and a whole lot of empty pickle buckets that can be moved around as the sun shifts. (While we love many aspects of our in-town life, we do dream often of a farm. And, I'm guessing our neighbors might also wish we'd find one.)
This year, to stretch our gardening space a little further, I suggested we try growing potatoes in bags. Yes, bags. I'd heard you could do this - and, well, we have lots of those reusable Trader Joes and Whole Foods bags, so why not give it a whirl. (Besides, if it succeeded, it could quite possibly end our relationship-long argument about where the best potatoes come from - Maine or Idaho.).
So, we did it. We procured a couple of seed potatoes, two reusable bags, and organic soil. We poked some drainage holes in the bottom of the bags and filled with soil and the seed potatoes. And, we waited.
And, then there was some signs of hope.
And, further signs of hope.
But, only time would tell if there were actually any potatoes in the bag.
At last, it was harvest time. Nervously, we began to dig.
And, then we struck gold. Our first potato.
Honestly, we were like kids at Christmas with each potato found. The full harvest amounted to 15 of the most beautiful potatoes ever. Suffice it to say, they'll be more bags of potatoes scattered about our yard next year.
By the way, all though we can't say yet, I think the best potatoes are grown in Maine. :)
Okay, I just borrowed some inspiration from Soule Mama. (She always has good ideas.) As you might have noticed, my blogging posts have been few and far between. I'm not gone - I'm just out of sync - and catching up on many things. So, stopping and thinking and listing ten simple things I'm grateful for seems like just the thing I need.
Ten Simple Things
Carefree toddler singing
Unexpected professional opportunities
Sunshine after much rain
An awesome 9 year old friend who told me he wants to be a Senator
Puddle splashing that forces a change of clothes before 8 a.m.
Local honey from a friend's farm
The prospect of apple picking on my mind
The rediscovery of tea
Hard, but productive conversations
I'm a Maine-r. Or, at least I like to think I am. True locals will argue differently simply because I wasn't born in Maine -- I'm "from away" they say. Whatever. It is crystal clear to me that I was born to live in Maine. Here's the catch. I fell in love with someone who really is "from away". So, I spend big chunks of time in a place very far from where I call home. But, I'm trying to bloom where planted, as they say. I'm trying to foster a simple (or at least a little simpler than some), reasonably wholesome and creative life for my family whether we're here or there. And, well, since you stopped here at my blog, you get to explore this craziness with me.