Cedar shakes, tin roofs and a secret sale

I was in my element last Friday afternoon, exploring the grounds of a 19th century farm getting ready to hold a sale the following day. Wagons were piled high with old textiles and furniture, antique tools and kitchenware, and truly unique pieces that I will likely never see again. (Of course, I forgot to take a picture of the wagons)!

Everything was so well cared for -- oil-polished tools that were no doubt used unfailingly; cut dress patterns folded back inside of envelopes as though they'd never been opened. Some of the items were initialed, inscribed. Mary’s winter boots written neatly on the shoebox of a vintage pair of Clarks. (Yes, they fit me perfectly). 

There was a real sense of purpose and pride of place no matter where you turned. You could see it in the eaves of the settling but sturdy barn, the broom-swept concrete floors of the original farmhouse, the fence posts that had never been left to rot. 

In a large way, I was sorry to see a family's belongings taken out of rooms and buildings because I know that it requires a special kind of person to love each item again as much as they were loved before. I hope that I can be such a person. I hope that I can take as good of care of Mary's winter boots as she did. 

Barefoot beauty

You are your mother's daughter, my dad likes to tell me. Growing up, I used to roll my eyes when he'd say it. I could even anticipate when he was about to say it, and cast him a threatening glare. Now, I'm the one who says it. I beam when people make remarks about how similar we are, even though I know that I will never bake as good of pies, sew as seamless of dresses, or care for others with as boundlessness of heart. 

Last Sunday afternoon my mom and I wandered through the yard in our bare feet, which is still a novelty at this time of year (for this part of Canada, anyhow)! We ended up in the clover field across from the house, and along the way I took a thousand pictures of my beautiful mother. Each of them is true to who she is and yet not one of them will be enough to show you.

Interstate 87

Appalachians, antiques, and a full tank of gas. These are the things we stopped for on last week's drive to New York.  

My fearless driver outside of Strand Bookstore.

If I lived here, I'd pick up flowers from the bodega along with every carton of milk.

Photos of me by Jon Paul Fiorentino.

Fancy-free

A few photos from the backyard and a few from the road.

Lucy

Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,

And all the flowers that in the springtime grow;

And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow

Rising of the full moon; all throats that sing

The summer through, and each departing wing,

And all the nests that the barred branches show; 

And all the winds that in any weather blow,

And all the storms that the four seasons bring. 

You go no more on your exultant feet

Up paths that only mist and morning knew;

Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat

Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,—

But you were something more than young and sweet

And fair,—and the long year remembers you. 

                                           Edna St. Vincent Millay

Always underfoot, climbing fence rails or disappearing into tall grasses, you liked to spend your days sunning and tucked into the smallest cranny. We remember the day you were born; little mews sounding from underneath the jam cupboard. It was love at first sight, Lucy. You grew to be a huntress, full of mischief and grace. You grew to be clever and silly and, on your own terms, affectionate. You knew yourself and every acre of the farm. You even knew when you were about to say goodbye, and let us hold you for as long as we could. 

All of our love.