All Gussied Up

I called my dog and she came running.

Jumping down from her spot among the spent raspberry canes where she'd been napping while I worked, Gracie trotted briskly around to the back patio to see exactly what t was that I might want. 

"Come here, girl. Sit. Good dog."

Grabbing her rarely-worn collar and guiding her into place, I convinced an incredibly cooperative Gracie to pose exactly as I'd envisioned. 

Right in front of my newly freshened director's chairs. 

They've been my chairs for several years now, but in my mind, they will always belong to my mom. She kept four other director's chairs with solid green covers around the table on her deck at the lake house, but this striped pair was her special pride and joy. And Mom looked after them with meticulous care, pulling them inside at the first sign of inclement weather and protecting them from grandchildren with ketchup-laden hot dogs. 

I must confess, I've not been quite as diligent. 

My cats love to curl up on them, which is adorable but leaves behind a goodly trace of dark fur. 

 

Dark grit has accumulated in the cracks and crevices.

 

And despite all my good intentions and any number of midnight runs outdoors as the pitter patter begins, my chairs have been left out in the rain more times than I can count. 

The bottom line is that my mom's director's chairs have not been looking their finest. 

This weekend, I quite spontaneously decided to put some effort into bringing them back up to speed.

I pulled off the covers, soaked them in Simple Green, then scrubbed them down with a bar of Fels-Naptha and my bare hands. That's a pair of pages taken straight out of my mom's book for serious cleaning.

Once the freshly laundered covers were hanging in the sun to dry, I turned my attention to the wooden frames. 

To be completely honest, they were a fright. 

Not only had much of the color bleached from the wood finish, the arms in particular were distressed from standing water. The right thing to do, I heard my mother's voice in my ears, would be to sand them all down to bare wood and start over. 

Hmm. Right. No doubt that would be the gold standard approach. But here's the thing: one of the chair's legs has long ago begun to split, and while my mom did a straightforward fix with a pair of metal clips, it's a flaw that will not go away. So I decided that I was justified in taking a less than Herculean strategy of my own. 

And I had just the one-two punch to bring some life back to my mom's chairs.

Howard's Restor-A-Finish in Golden Oak, followed up with the Feed-N-Wax Wood Polish and Conditioner.

Boom, boom.

I've used these two products for many years to keep my well-worn wood cabinetry and trim looking lustrous and rich, and I'm still amazed every time I see the results.

The wooden frames of my mom's director's chairs look better than ever, the rain damage is not an eyesore but a source of character and charm, and the wax promises to block out any raindrops that might fall upon them, if I am ever to neglect these beauties again. 

I was beyond thrilled when I put the chairs back together this afternoon. They're all gussied up for a new season of life, and I think my mom would approve. 

As for Gracie - who is my mother's namesake, by the way - once she finished posing with the chairs, she ran back to her spot among the raspberries, and continued her nap. 

* * * * *

Here's another story about my mom's director's chairs that captures their arrival here at my house.

Director's Cut

Make Yourself At Home

"My guiding principles in life are to be honest, genuine, thoughtful and caring." -Prince William

A powder room is an odd little place.

Even the name is a little goofy. Powder room.  I sincerely doubt that much actual powdering goes on in there. 

What I mean, of course, is our first-floor bathroom. Rather distant from our bedrooms upstairs and sporting a sink and toilet but no bath or shower, it belongs to none of us, per se, but presents itself for the convenience of our guests. 

Certainly we use this bathroom when we are not in the frame of mind to run upstairs, but for a long time, I never thought much about storing necessities down here. 

Until I started teaching math at the Braggs' house. 

Stopping by their powder room from time to time, I was greeted with what I've come to think of as a full-service power room.

All the necessities were at my finger tips: soap, towel, air freshener, and a box of Kleenex.

I also discovered some lovely extras:

Hand cream.

Body lotion.

Extra towels.

Extra soaps.

Whenever I stepped into that powder room, I felt as if my friend had anticipated my visit, and laid out just what I might be needing. I felt cared for, cozy, and very much at home. 

This hospitality and thoughtfulness made a powerful impression on me. 

Since then, I've been hard at work on my own powder room.

Though the space is tiny, I found room to squeeze in a set of small shelves and that has made all the difference. By setting the smaller necessities out in plain sight, I hope that serves as ain invitation for guests to help themselves. 

Top shelf: two tins of hand salve; a tiny painting, brass owl, and flowers.

Middle shelf: marble jar with Carmex, Tiger Balm, and a pair of nail trimmers; extra towels.

Bottom shelf: air freshener, hand creams galore, and a vase of eucalyptus.

Inside the vanity (not shown): extra toilet paper and Kleenex, hand gel, travel size Kleenex and hand gel, cough drops, Band Aids, first aid gauze, Bayer, Advil, Tylenol, Tums, Benadryl, and a few extra bars of soap. My go-to is Sexy Peel from LUSH

It is my heart's desire that any guest in my house who finds themselves in need will root around in my powder room until they come across just what they're looking for.

And when they find whatever it is they may need, I hope that my guests too will feel cared for, cozy, and very much at home. 

Girl Gone Wild

We'd just come home from a properly leashed and well-behaved walk. 

Can't really say I blame the girl for wanting to run a bit wild. 

"Gracie! C'mon, girl!" My voice rang out across the lawns as my eyes scanned the street for a glimpse of red motion.

My dog was on the loose, running wild through the neighborhood.

Unlike my previous setters, Gracie does not often give me the slip. And 95% of the times she does get out, she doesn't go far. Over to the next door neighbors' house and into their garage, most likely. The previous family had a dog and she figured out that they kept an entirely accessible bag of dog food handy so she'd stop in to help herself to a little snack. Poor dog hasn't quite figured out that a new family has moved in, and they have no dog and thus no dog food. Still, she makes a beeline to their open garage and then quickly heads home when she realizes the treats are much better at our house. 

But today, my dog was apparently overcome by a greater sense of adventure. She shot past the neighbors' garage and headed off down the hill to explore the great beyond. 

As soon as I realized she was off on a run, I turned on my heel, marched into the house, and totally ignored her misdeed. 

* * * * *

Those previous dogs of mine, Casey and Ranger, were classic bolters, as are many Irish setters, and they schooled me well in the fine art of coaxing a wild dog to come home. 

Step Number One: DO NOT GIVE CHASE! 

Though we humans know that we pursue our wild beasts only with the intent to rein them in and haul their naughty selves back home, the dogs see it something like this. "Oh, look! My favorite human has decided to join me on my Grand Adventure. How wonderful! Let's keep running!" This works out quite well for the dogs but ends poorly for the humans who an hour later find themselves a mile and half from home, chasing their dog over hill and vale.  

Step Number Two: Don't Say "Come" 

Over the years, I've come to agree with a Golden Rule of obedience training: I only give a command to my dog if I'm sure I can enforce it. Otherwise, I create the risk of teaching my dog that obeying my commands is an option, rather than an imperative. So even though my dogs have been quite obedient to a crisply delivered "Come" command on leash or around the house, I avoid using that word when they're enmjoying an uncontrolled rampage, and go instead with the distinctively different and generally joyful "C'mon!"

Step Number Three: Play A Little Hard To Get. 

I've learned the hard way, a zillion times over, that the only way to get a runaway dog to come home is to trick them into wanting to come home. Let's face it, there's a lot to be said for running at breakneck speeds through a neighborhood full of delicious sights and scents, so this is no easy task. But here's the secret - I do what I can to make them think of me. And the way I do that is to disappear. Back into the house I go, where my absence will eventually register on the freedom-drunk brain of my escapee, and they will certainly think to look for me. I leave the front door wide open.

So even in the 4% of cases when Gracie romps off beyond the neighbors' yard, she's usually back within two minutes, chuffed with her escapade but also very curious to see where I've gotten off to. It's a marvelous solution and it almost always works. 

* * * * *

Today, however, was a rare case indeed. A one percenter in which I ignored my naughty girl and busied myself inside the house, but after oh, 7 to 10 minutes, I realized that my dog still had not come back.

Dang it.

Now I must break the sad news that there is no reliable Step Number Four. At this point, I just wing it. And today, that looked like me standing in the middle of my front yard, calling my dog's name with forced gaiety, listening for sounds of other dogs barking (a highly reliable way to locate a dog on the loose - the others rat her out), and thinking what to do. 

And then I heard it.

The subtle but unmistakable sound of a big dog galloping up the hill.

I smiled. 

I listened to that happy commotion, growing louder all the while, for several long seconds before I actually saw her. 

Finally, from the far edge of the next-door neighbors' rhododendrons, my big red dog came sprinting up the sidewalk at top speed, burned a hard right across their driveway and tore across their lawn, all wagging tail and thrilled to see me. 

* * * * *

And though this last step always kills me, it is crucially important. 

Final Step. Reward Your Fugitive For Coming Home.

Gracie knows the ropes. Her trajectory continued into the house as she skidded across the entry rug, slammed on her brakes as she veered into the kitchen, and slid into a perfect sit right in front of the pantry door. Ceremoniously, I opened the door, reached into her treat bowl and removed one delicious morsel. 

As I handed it to her, I told her just what she wanted to hear.

"Good dog."

A Lake Lady Makes Do

I am a Lake Lady.

My daughters coined that term to describe my passion for craving water in the summer sun.

Undoubtedly, these are the marks left on my soul from a childhood lived on a lake: I find any form of water-related activity to be irresistible, and I'm drawn to running hoses, wading pools, bubbling streams, lazy rivers, and of course, any sort of lake, like a pig to mud.

For that matter, I don't mind a nice mud puddle either. 

I consider it perfectly normal to wake up on a warm summer morning and put on a swim suit. Even if I have no other plans than meandering around my backyard, this has been deeply ingrained in me: hot days are for swim suits. And I wear it all day long. 

This is Lake Culture life, and even though I'm decades deep into this non-lake suburban lifestyle, I can't stop, won't stop.

Because it's true. I am indeed a Lake Lady.

* * * * *

Now it bears mentioning that my husband holds a different opinion. He is what I would call a Terra Firma Gent because he has zero interest in water-related activities. 

Sigh.

No one's perfect. At least he does our taxes.

So the idea of settling down in a lakeside cottage somewhere, or navigating a sailboat through local waters, is not really in the cards for me. But there's one dream that still burns within me.

A backyard pool.

Now there are reasons good and bad to invest, oh, upwards of fifteen grand into a big blue hole in my backyard, and while I've pondered every angle of this dilemma for years, I'm currently stuck on one key issue:

Here in the Pacific Northwest, swimming weather lasts maybe two months. For the cost of constructing and maintaining a pool year round, that's not a lot of bang for the buck. Yes, I could heat it and extend the swimming season, but there will still be many months of the year in which I'd be staring at my money pit, unable to put it to good use. 

On the other hand, two months of swimming in my own back yard sounds like pure heaven.

* * * * *

As spring has crawled toward summer in this season of quarantine, I've been particularly itchy to get to some water. I know a lot of people are carefully venturing out to the mountains, the beaches, even the local lakes, to partake of summer fun but that is just not for me. Until Covid is wrestled into submission, I'm planning to recreate entirely on my own property.

Which would have made this an ideal time to pull the trigger on that pool.

But alas, the timing slipped away from me and I've found myself smack dab in the middle of a glorious summer with nowhere to swim.

Until a few weeks ago, when a glorious plan began to take shape in my head:

Kiddie wading pools just don't cut it for me, but this year, more than ever, there seem to be a bevy of generously proportioned inflatable pools floating around on the internet. 

And while even an massive blow-up pool does not allow for proper swimming, it could allow me to float. 

Ah, what could be more lifegiving that drifting around a pool on an air mattress, 

cool water below as the sun warms from above, 

safe and secure on a bubble of bobbing comfort, 

adrift on a sea of sensory satisfaction.

And so, with a few flicks of my finger, I ordered myself my own personal sized backyard pool complete with floating mattress. And today, I got it all set up and climbed in. 

^ The air mattress fits perfectly into the pool. With great ceremony, I laid first the inflated mattress on the floor of the empty pool, then climbed in to lie down on top of it, and pulled the running hose in after me. I was hoping that if I was patient enough, the water would eventually fill the pool to to the point where I would suddenly begin to float. My experiment worked like a charm, and my first half hour of soak time was  pure delight 

^ Serendipitously, the pattern on my new air mattress matches exactly to a floatie ring I bought three years ago in Mexico. 

Here's a quick glimpse of it that year, popping up in the background of a photo of fish tacos. 

And here's an even tinier peek of those same bright flowers, in a story about my second trip to Cabo, in which I wax poetic about my passion for swimming. Ha. Lake Lady strikes again. 

The fact that this same tropical print of flamboyant flowers and lush green leaves has popped back into my life tells me that I'm on the right track. 

^ So in a spirit of fellowship and good fun, I brought my ring out for some sunshine too. 

^ After much deliberation, I decided to put the pool on the patio rather than in the yard so I could leave it set up for days at a time without any fear of destroying the grass underneath.And while that location means that I'll have to put up with a bit of midday shade, I'll still have long hours for lounging in full sun.

 ^ Gracie took the new blue beast in stride. Standing at the side of the pool, gently licking off the stray drops of water, she looked a bit wistfully at me bobbing about. But Gracie has her own pool and I suggested to her that she might want to climb in and swim with me.

I even offered to lend her my matching float ring which I think she would enjoy. Because I'm pretty sure that Gracie is a Lake Lady too. 

Home Sweet Home

Something's been niggling at me for the past few days. 

That feeling of forgetting something important.

But what?

A birthday? An anniversary? 

I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but day after day, there it was, a persistent mental tickle that just wouldn't quit.

Until day before yesterday, when my fourth-born was looking through a stack of old photos and turned one around to show me. "Mom, look."

In a heartbeat, I remembered what I'd forgotten.

July 18. It's the anniversary of the day we closed on our house. 

July 18, 1986, to be exact.

Which means we've lived here at Casa Streicher for thirty-four happy years.

My father-in law took this photo when he and my mother-in-law drove out from Ohio to see this new place we'd made for ourselves in the west. Though he loved the American West and had championed a lifetime of family vacations criss-crossing the states beyond the Mississippi, my father-in-law chose to live his life close to his roots in the heartland, I think he found great fulfillment in knowing that his son had decided to settle in the Seattle area. His unspoken dreams of moving to the west came true through us, and that has always made me happy. 

Of course, the trees have grown in three decades.

The landscape has evolved considerably.

But surprisingly, comfortingly, our house looks exactly the same. 

Even though so much life has happened inside. 

* * * * *

Our four daughters were born and raised here, as two decades of wild childhood unfolded under this roof. 

From handmade "It's A Girl" banners painted in pink on old school computer paper with the little holes on each side of the connected pages and hung in the front window, 

to endless weekly deliveries from the big white Baby Diaper Service truck and daily Cheerios and apple juice tea parties on the front lawn, 

to dozens of Girl Scouts descending for weekly meetings and the breathless excitement of Halloween trick-or treating, 

to teenage friends hanging out till all hours of the night, and prom photos. 

to packing up the car and heading off to college,

our grown-up girls eventually moved out into the world. 

And I do mean the whole world - besides semesters abroad during college, our daughters have lived in Arizona, Nova Scotia, Vietnam, South Korea, and now Ohio. The younger pair are living with us at the moment, and while I know they will soon be off again on new adventures, I treasure their company for now.

Three Irish Setters have lived here with us. The first one arrived a month after we did, and the others came in their turn. Five cats - four of them black cats, all strays - have joined our family as well and often grace the ridge line of our roof during their daily meanderings. All these sweet souls have done much to make our house a happy home, and I can't imagine our lives without them.   

* * * * *

As for my husband and me, well, the years may have changed us a bit.

See? Here we are, captured at my husband's family dinner table just a few months before our big cross-country move, all those years ago.

If you drive by our house on any given weekend, spring, summer or fall, you'll probably catch us out in the front yard with our green bin and pruning shears, shovels and wheelbarrow (which also dates to 1986, by the way), forever working in our gardens.

And though you may notice some outward changes in our appearances, on the inside, in our hearts and minds, we are still young and full of promise, eager to see what the next thirty-four years of life may bring to us. 

Just like our home sweet home. 

Worth The Wait

Twenty-one years is a long time to wait for a patio. But I have no regrets. 

Last weekend was spent laboriously hacking back my enthusiastically overgrown hedge of rhododendron bushes. As I worked, alternating between standard clippers, long-handled pruning shears, and a no-nonsense hand saw, I considered the garden around me. 

I wasn't satisfied.

The basic design was okay - a pair of perpendicular paths ran along the hedges and then out to the driveway, and a couple nice beds of blooming flowers. But something was off.

It was the area in the middle of the largest bed. Originally this space was supposed to fill with small flowering ground covers that would make a poetic spot to spend a late summer afternoon, presumably in a floral sundress and a straw hat with a book of verse and a glass of lemonade. But the ground cover was under constant assault from tenacious dandelions, evil Columbine, and other unfriendlies, and the soil was cratered by my furious attempts to dig them out. 

This was not a pretty place.

I did not like to work here.

And I most definitely did not entertain any readings with e.e.cummings. 

Why? I wondered to myself as I hacked back another rhodie branch and admired the rising blister on my thumb. Why did this space go so horribly wrong and what can I do to fix it?

And I realized I already knew the answers to both of my questions.

It was back in 1999 that I first designed this space. And I'd seen it right from the beginning - a small flagstone patio, perfect for slim volumes of Emily Dickinson, etc. etc.

You've heard all that before. 

But at that time, we were supposed to be working on a different patio project. I'd convinced my husband to jackhammer up our old aggregate rectangle of a backyard patio and help me rebuild it in a bigger footprint, using classic red bricks instead. And to be fair, he held up his part of the bargain. I was the one who went completely off the rails, dreaming up not one additional patio - the one in the far corner of the back yard - but a second add-on here in the front. 

Even though I had this marvelous vision of  a precious flagstone seating area in the middle of this flower bed by the rhododendron hedge, my husband heaved enough of his patented heavy sighs that I knew I best throttle back my enthusiasm and offer up a compromise. 

Forget the flagstone, I told him. I would make do with ground cover.

And for twenty one years, I did. But then last weekend happened and my patience officially wore out. 

So as I hacked and chopped and pruned away at those rhodies, this original vision for a flagstone patio came floating back into my head, like a helium balloon launched decades ago that suddenly floats right back into your hands, and I knew the time was ripe for change.

Do it this week, I dared myself. Don't waste another day. 

And so last week, I built myself my long-awaited flagstone patio. I finished on Friday afternoon. 

^ Before starting in on the patio proper, I forced myself to rebuild the little rock wall that holds the slope under the rhodies in place. The old wall, built from smaller, fist-sized rocks stacked three high, was sadly tumbling down and in a precarious state of disrepair. Once I got the new wall built and happily resettled with fresh soil, it was ready for new lodgers. I salvaged much of the ground cover fighting to survive over in the main garden, and relocated it here. 

^ ^ Here's one of my favorite pro tips for building a patio: create a flood. Once I cleaned the ground cover and yes, more weeds, from the center of the bed, I cranked the hose and used hydropower to even out the soil and carve out the possible edges of my patio's future shape. It's a great way to visualize the arcs and curves, and for my money, a fabulous excuse to play in the mud. 

^ A casual observer strolling up my driveway or along the sidewalk may not notice my new creation...

^^ ...but step up closer and look over the taller mounds of flowers, and there she is, my new flagstone patio, for all the world to see. 

^ This side of the yard slopes gently from the uphill rhodies down toward the driveway In order to keep my creation from descending into tilting chaos, I built the patio level with the driveway, and created a step up to the main path which sits about ten inches higher. 

^ Which gave me just the excuse I was looking for to buy a big stone to use as a step. I could not be happier with the slightly wonky shape of this big boy and his next-door neighbor stone, and I plan to plant a little spring of ground cover into that little round opening between the two. 

^ I tucked more mounds of ground cover and a few wayward foxglove children into the spaces along the edge of the new patio stones. They are happy for their rescue.

^ As per usual, Gracie was my constant companion and second-in-command. Which means she mostly laid on top of my hostas and napped. Good dog. 

^^Maybe it's just me, but the flowers around my new patio seem to be thriving in their newfound glory. Apparently they appreciate the upgrade as much as I do. 

^ Ahh, so satisfied. Now pardon me as I finally delve into some Dylan Thomas. 

Twenty-one years is a long time to wait for a project to finally bear fruit. But I must say, this little patio was well worth the wait. 

Big Red Balls Redux

At different times of year, the plants here wax and wane. Right now, things are looking a little rough. But my big red balls are killing it. 

Well, all I can say is that it was about darn time. 

My big red balls had been looking mighty shabby. 

And considering their only purpose in life is to look good, this was not an acceptable situation. 

The foxglove has just about ended its 2020 run. But imagine the glory of a half-dozen tall lush spires of these delicate purple trumpets, waving over my big red balls like guardian angels. 

My big red balls are actually white acrylic globes, intended to live their lives as ordinary light covers. But years ago, I envisioned them painted in shades of pink and red, living their best life as overgrown inorganic berries, forever brightening a stubborn patch of garden with their whimsical fruit.

And you know, by and large, they have lived up to my hype. 

The neighbors ask me, from time to time, polite perplexity written all over their faces, if there is a particular meaning or purpose to my big red balls. 

They are Art, is my only explanation. Because really, that says it all.

* * * * *

Anyway, the other day I noticed that the art was looking pretty shabby. Five of the eleven balls had mysteriously rolled away - the winter winds will do that - and the paint on the six who'd stayed behind was faded, chipped, and definitely the worse for wear.

As always, love is the best answer. After a quick trip to the Depot to replace the MIA, and a few hours of TLC, mostly scrubbing off the dirt and spraying on some fresh color, my big red balls are back in full display. 

Someday soon I will rake up the fallen leaves, lay down a fresh layer of bark, maybe even plant more of the lush ground cover that has grown here in the past. But for now, my big red balls are the main attraction. 

While the overall effect may be a bit scruffy, what with the random scraggly foxglove plants  and the  yellowing rhododendron leaves littering the installation, my big red balls arrest the eyeballs and captivate the imagination of all who pass by. And that is exactly what they are meant to do. 

* * * * *

More stories about my big red balls.

Home Depot Art: Big Red Balls

Red Round Things

A Deal With The Devil

So Fresh And So Clean

Stopping In The Street

Tales From The Windstorm

* * * * *

I've experimented with other colors too:

Flowers, Candles, Ribbon

Forgiven

But I always go back to red.