Handmade, imported and recycled art is sold at this studio downtown, owned and operated locally. You can stop in to shop, and there's a corner table for coffee or tea if you're looking to stay awhile. Come to think of it ... I think there's more to say about this place!
By the door a black and white towel hangs on a hook. I wipe my hands on it in between stirs as I hover over pots and pans in my sister-in-law's tastefully minimalistic kitchen. She washes lettuce at my side.
Children banter upstairs while uncles philosophize in the spacious, open-walled living room that looks out on an equally pastoral vista.
The church clock strikes the hour. Off in the distance, down further into the valley, is our house. Little bits of heaven do really exist on earth...
Don't be fooled - there are no blossoms in my yard as yet.
The Russian pruned the apple tree and asked me to haul branches to the curb, which I did using the new bona fide gardening gloves I bought after I confessed to my lack of agricultural medium. Armed with a pair of tight-fitting hand shoes, I approach the back yard with the ignorance of a private in training - watching furtively for the commander to bark out his orders.
Sorry, he never barks - he suggests.
After dutifully hauling for one hour (which came with the added benefit of watching Baberham wield his lopper with massive muscleage) I picked up some twigs and brought them inside, arranging them in a vase by the window.
There may not be leaves on our trees yet, but there are blossoms in our house.