A yellow ceramic hurricane vase forms the perfect backdrop to this bold fuchsia bloom. The colors depend on one another for maximum pop, complementing and cajoling each to loftier heights of greater glory. It is my humble opinion that one can never have enough color. Our bleak world demands it.
When discussing possible landscape solutions with Suzie, she soon reached her exasperation limit and metaphorically threw her texting fingers up in defeat, saying something like “Why don’t we just plant hostas everywhere and call it a day?” At first I bristled at the intimation – then I realized it wasn’t such a bad idea. Despite its overuse in the mainstream garden, the hosta, when properly cared for and pampered, is one of the most handsome plants in existence, one whose beauty holds throughout the entire season. Most perennials have a month or two of glory, but very few can maintain their luster from spring all the way to fall. A hosta’s foliage doesn’t diminish at any point.
They send up bonus lavender stalks of lily-like fragrant blooms in the middle of summer, though these are mostly subtle afterthoughts – the main draw is their leaves.
Suzie’s cutting remark got me to thinking about my own hesitation in using them, and I realized it’s partly from her childhood home, where a large stand of hosta surrounded a sun-dial in the middle of a circular stone path. They grew cramped and unfertilized beneath the shade of an old elm, and despite their hardy return year after year, they never, to my knowledge, received any additional help. The leaves were variegated but on the small side – quantity giving preference of quality. It was the typical use of them – in difficult areas where they could easily survive but not thrive to their full potential.
I’d become accustomed to putting them in places that proved inhospitable to more delicate choices, but they always rewarded with displays that got larger and fuller and more beautiful with each passing year, particularly when I indulged them with ample manure in the spring, deadheading in the summer, and some simple foliage maintenance throughout the year (the leaves grow so big and broad, they become a catch-all for falling detritus).
This year, even after Suzie’s disparaging comment, I added four hosta plants to a tricky place beside our backyard patio. It’s partly shaded thanks to the canopy, and has, for some reason, proven reliably difficult to successfully curate. Shade loving annuals like coleus and caladium have failed to prosper, and it’s been ravaged by the pesky roots of a weeping cherry standard. We will see if the hosta can fill in and win the day. I’m confident they shall.
This was our first night game since we started making these trips a couple of years ago. I think I liked it better than the ones during the day. The sky and descending sun made for a beautiful beginning, and with a bit of time to spend before the game, we ducked into the Verb Hotel and its Asian-inspired bar area.
I’d also wanted to try a dinner here, and we’ll do one next time because it’s a great spot, but on this night it was just cocktails. On a screen near the back, ‘The Karate Kid’ was playing ~ a bit of 80’s nostalgia to open up the childhood memory bank. Back then, I think I was hungry for friendship. And adventure. Three decades later, I realized I had found a bit of both. Skip explained how his Mr. Miyagi healing moves always calmed his kids when they thought they were hurt, and he rubbed his hands together to illustrate. Silly and sweet at once.
Earlier that day, in an unguarded moment of fear and celebration of the future, I’d said to Skip, “I hope we still do this when we’re 80.”
As the sun began to go down, Fenway Park was resplendent in the golden hour. A brilliant sky, filled with non-threatening clouds, hung before us, and the Prudential Center rose in the distance. A home away from home away from home.
And once again, the unstoppable march of time, clicking away as the light in the sky dimmed and the lights in the park came up. It was surreal, and the beer added to the experience, as it tends to do. I’m not a big beer drinker, but when in Rome…
All that beer necessitates a bathroom run at some point, and I wound my way down the stairs and into the surprisingly efficient facilities. Back in the bright light of the park, I tried to find my way back to our seats, but overshot them by a few rows. Somehow I missed half of our row standing up for me when I got back. A number of them were laughing ~ most notably Skip and myself ~ and the nice woman to my right smiled as I brushed by her and found my seat. I had just taken a bug gulp of beer when I looked over and found her still smiling, which for some reason cracked me up. I immediately did the sort of spit-take that I’ve only ever seen in stupid movies and sitcoms, spewing beer all over the four people in the row in front of us. That didn’t do much to quell my laughter, but the two guys who got the brunt of it were NOT amused. I apologized as best as I could, but no one liked that sort of thing. (Having been on the receiving end of such bad behavior, I know.) The young lady in the sleeveless shirt to my lower right was a much better sport about it, saying that we now had a story to tell people. I was mortified, but couldn’t stop laughing. And she was right, because here it is for internet posterity.
(Don’t they look fun?)
The Red Sox worked wonders on the field, handily defeating the Tigers 11-3, so perhaps we’re a good luck charm for them. Something their manager might want to consider should they make it into the World Series. (I’d prefer to sit in one of those glass boxes at some point in my life.) As for the denouement of our game day, we walked back toward the condo, picked up a couple of pieces of pizza, and called it a night. It was just enough, and exactly what was needed at such a time. Thanks to Skip, and Sherri, for making it all happen.
Hot diggety dog.
My friend Skip and I made our third annual Boston Red Sox pilgrimage a couple of weekends ago, and before the memory fades let’s get some of it jotted down here. Time is funny in the way that it already feels so long ago, yet flashes of it ring as fresh as a pastry from Cafe Madeleine.
We made the wise decision to leave on a Friday, even if we hit a bit of weekend traffic. Last year we went wild on our first night, and it was a lesson learned. Skip was also a bit under the weather, so we kept things calm and quiet, with a return dinner to Boston Chops.
Yes, it’s rightly renowned for its steak, but the lobster isn’t bad either. Neither is the Negroni. It was enough to satiate our hunger and send us into dreamland. We had a big day of pride and baseball coming up…
The next morning dawned sunny and bright ~ we lucked out in the weather department ~ and after a quick stop at Cafe Madeleine for some croissants, we walked to Newbury Street for some shopping, then returned to the condo for some parade pre-gaming.
In the midst of one of my scintillating stories, Skip went silent. I thought he was simply enrapt with my words. More reverent silence. (I know how to tell a story.) I paused for some comment, some exhalation of ‘Wow’ or ‘Unrealâ’ ~ still nothing. I raced to the finish, but calmly – I didn’t want to give the guy a heart attack with the thrilling conclusion. I couldn’t see his face, since he was on the couch and I was in the front of the room, and as I waited for what would undoubtedly be a terrific reaction, I heard the slightest rumblings of a stunned response. Turns out he was just snoring. I walked over to the couch and this bitch was asleep.
Such is the deteriorating state of our wild Red Sox adventures. We’re getting older. Still, it was Pride weekend in Boston, and I woke Skip up to head out to his very first Pride Parade.
Hedwig was part of the festivities, a fitting throwback to the show we had just seen with Skip and Sherri a couple weeks ago. That too felt far away now, and part of me wanted to slow things down, to halt the spinning of the planet. I went quiet and tried to make a memory. Maybe that’s what I’m doing right now. Maybe that’s been the entire point of this blog. Maybe I just want to cling to these happy times because I know I’ll seek them out when the winter comes back.
We made it through a couple hours of the parade, then went back for a brief siesta before the game. In my younger years, I didn’t require such breaks, but these days they are mandatory. Besides, it’s always the in-between moments that matter. That’s where the charm of life resides. The big events are fun, and the impetus for so much of what we do, but it’s everything that happens before and after that makes them what they are.
Our mid-day respite done, we rallied ourselves for the night game against the Detroit Tigers. In retrospective honor of our opponents, we dined at Tiger Mama, just a couple of blocks from Fenway Park. As the restaurant filled, the excitement grew, and the buzz about the ballgame became an electric wave we would ride until the end of the evening…
Our recent stay at the Towers at Lotte New York Palace is worthy of another look. This may very well be the best view I ever get from a hotel in the city (though I do enjoy a look at the Empire State Building for nostalgia’s sake). This particular vista is what the 52nd floor allows you to behold on a sunny day (and clear night). It is even more striking in person, when those tiny dots representing people and cars are in motion, and the clouds scroll slowly across the sky.
Not pictured are the equally transfixing views when a storm has engulfed the city. We were unfortunate enough to have much of a day marred by rain and clouds, but it’s fascinating to see it unfold when you’re actually up in the clouds themselves. It’s like being close to gods fighting.
On the morning seen here, it was clear and bright – the view stretched all the way to the river. New York can be stunning when the light is right.
At night, the transformation is remarkable. A different kind of beauty is at hand then, and it carries the hand of God and the hand of humankind gloriously intertwined. The winking lights of a city that never sleeps keep company with the brave and restless souls who stay awake.
A simple sumer dinner on the grill can be had if you find a good piece of halibut and slice up some citrus. Here we have a grapefruit and orange salsa of sorts, with some cranberry-pear white balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and fresh basil. Slicing off the bitter peel and dividing membrane is what makes this extra sweet, balanced by the tart, savory edge of the vinegar.
As for the halibut, I’m told the trick is not to overcook it – four minutes on one side and three and a half on the other was ample, and the result was a delicate and juicy piece of fish. A simple quick marinade of grapefruit juice, olive oil, fresh basil and salt and pepper (too long and the citrus can wreak havoc with the halibut) was all that it took to make a perfect meal.
This interesting bloom is the Mountain Laurel, which happens to be my mother’s name. I planted it a few years ago on a whim, plopping it into the space outside our fence, which means I tend to forget about it. This year it caught my eye just as it came into bloom, so I quickly snapped a few photos to remind me to take a little better of it.
Given its shady nook and such negligence, it hasn’t thrived, but still it blooms. That’s the kind of determination I admire and reward. I’ll pamper it with a top-dressing of cow manure, the greatest gift I can give to such a recipient.
It’s been a rough summer, and it’s only a day old, so to lift our spirits I ordered tickets for the final performance of ‘Sunset Boulevard’ for Andy and myself, and booked a weekend at the Langham Place New York. Happiness will always be a hotel room for me, and this is my first time trying a Langham. I’ve marveled at their Boston property for years, with its celebrated chocolate buffet and one very chandelierious (and richly appointed) bar lounge ~ Bond. This time I’ll actually get to sample their hospitality, and it’s something we need right now.
As for the show, my history with ‘Sunset Boulevard’ runs wide and deep. The first time I saw it was with Glenn Close in 1995, and ever since then I’ve wanted to attend it with Andy. We’ve seen a few lackluster productions in the last two decades, and no one comes close to Ms. Close, so when a couple of third-row tickets showed up for the very last show, I jumped at the chance. The only final performance of a Broadway show I’ve seen was the last one of ‘Bullets Over Broadway’ and it was fascinating to see performers going through their parts for one last time – emotional and moving and thrilling all at once. I have a feeling this last one by Glenn Close will electrify and astound, and I will bring an extra tissue or two just in case.
On this, the summer solstice, we look to recharge from a somber spring, and according to the garden and lawn, things are right on schedule. Beauty has dotted the landscape with these striking accents of rose campion. I planted this solely for that wonderful color, but I’ve since com to appreciate its furry gray leaves and their rosette form, as well as the way the flowers float high above them like butterflies. I even enjoy their pepper-shaker-like seed dispersal containers, like mini poppy seed pods.
As for summer, I embrace it tentatively. Too much celebration is a sure path to disappointment, and we’ve had enough of that lately. For now, a hesitant smile at the sun. And hope.
Flowers and photographs may fade, but digital files, for the moment, seem to last a little longer.
That’s why I take so many photos and save them to a storage drive.
They can’t evoke the scents or the tactile features, and they can only approximate the feeling, but there will come a time when they are all we have. Memories fade too, sometimes quicker than photos.
Is healing just another kind of forgetting?
“We were once enwombed in the earth and the silence of the body remembers that dark, inner longing. Fashioned from clay, we carry the memory of the earth. Ancient, forgotten things stir within our hearts, memories from the time before the mind was born. Within us are depths that keep watch. These are depths that no words can trawl or light unriddle.” – John O’Donohue
“The beauty of the imagination is that it can discover such magnificent vastness inside a tiny space. Our culture is dominated by quantity. Even those who have plenty hunger for more and more. Everywhere around us, the reign of quantity extends and multiplies. Sadly the voyage of greed has all the urgency but no sense of destination. Desire becomes inflated and loses all sense of vision and proportion. When beauty becomes an acquisition it brings no delight.” – John O’Donohue
“In the light of beauty, the strategies of the ego melt like a web against a candle.” – John O’Donohue
“THE BEAUTY OF THE EARTH IS THE FIRST BEAUTY.
Millions of years before us the earth lived in wild elegance. Landscape is the first-born of creation. Sculpted with huge patience over millennia, landscape has enormous diversity of shape, presence and memory.” ~ John O’Donohue
“Our neon times have neglected and evaded the depth-kingdoms of interiority in favour of the ghost realms of cyberspace. Our world becomes reduced to intense but transient foreground. We have unlearned the patience and attention of lingering at the thresholds where the unknown awaits us. We have become haunted pilgrims addicted to distraction and driven by the speed and colour of images.” ~ John O’Donohue
“The human soul is hungry for beauty; we seek it everywhere – in landscape, music, art, clothes, furniture, gardening, companionship, love, religion and in ourselves. No-one would desire not to be beautiful. When we experience the Beautiful, there is a sense of homecoming. Some of our most wonderful memories are of beautiful places where we felt immediately at home. We feel most alive in the presence of the Beautiful for it meets the needs of our soul.” ~ John O’Donohue
“How can we ever know the difference we make to the soul of the earth? Where the infinite stillness of the earth meets the passion of the human eye, invisible depths strain towards the mirror of the name. In the word, the earth breaks silence.” ~ John O’Donohue
“When our eyes are graced with wonder, the world reveals its wonders to us. There are people who see only dullness in the world and that is because their eyes have already been dulled. So much depends on how we look at things. The quality of our looking determines what we come to see.” ~ John O’Donohue
There are some weeks you don’t really want to remember, weeks that are filled with sadness and strife, loss and suffering, or just thunder and rain. You don’t want to remember those weeks, but you know you must, if only to feel better about other ones. This past week we lost Andy’s Dad, so if postings have been a little slim, you’ll understand why. [Here is the online obituary from the Times Union.]
The peonies stole most of the show, and we were grateful for their beauty.
A shady nook.
The bashful and the beautiful.
On this Father’s Day I’m going to hug my Dad a little tighter, because I’m keenly aware of how dear our Dads are. My father has always been a strong and silent support system throughout my life, and I’ve often been too silent about how much he means to me. I’ll try to show that more than one day in the year. To all the Dads out there who do their thing in such unassuming yet loving fashion, Happy Father’s Day to you.
