When I was a little girl, my grandmother taught me how to steal. Not anything that actually might be missed by the owners. No, what I was after were blooms from the vacant homes of summer residents. And thus began my love of flowers.
Ironically, I’m now one of those summer residents. A few years ago I bought the cottage right across the street from my grandparents’ year-round home. In the summers when we come down, I enjoy nothing more than to pick and arrange flowers for my home, just as Gramma and I used to do. (Even in the winter I make sure to have something fresh inside, even if it’s just a sprig of spruce.) I love the transient nature of flowers. How they continue to bloom and change once picked, never looking the same as the day before. How they capture and play with the light. And the smell! The other night as I was writing about Jill Bent’s cottage from my own summer home, the aroma from the porch honeysuckle was intoxicating. It made me feel very lucky.
New Dawn in the bathroom.
Remember this picture? Same place, same kind of flowers, same vase. Different year.
It’s almost sculptural.