Available for sale by clicking the images below.
Beatrice off to her first year of college and with her no-longer-wanted loft bed and a jig saw, Russell made a green house on the patio. Five years of caring for his lemon tree: misting, grow lights, spraying soapy water on bugs, in for the winter and out for the summer, re-potting, friendly advice around the barbecue, and special delivery of potash from Montana, produced no lemons. Considered and well-proportioned, the crafted hothouse was the last ditch effort for fruit production, finishing just before the first frost. Then Sandy and her accelerating winds, as on a ship in a storm, together we wrapped the brand new structure in tarps and ropes and hoped. Miraculously intact, heater installed and a new remote digital thermometer next to the bed, readings throughout the winter nights monitoring, keeping a constant 45-50 degrees, out of the house in spring, blossoms appeared. And as they dropped, small, pea size fruit remained. Green bulbs slowly growing all summer, fearing frost in mid-October, back in the house, yellow finally emerges. November lemons. Years ago on a motorcycle trip from Spain to Morocco, the only souvenir brought back in my backpack were skeins of wool yarn bought from a Berber man on the edge of the Sahara. Growing up in the New Hampshire winter weather, wool was the always the key to survival - it keeps you warm when wet. The history, traditions and qualities of this animal fiber has held my interest for decades. And then flowers, the motif on my bedroom wallpaper as a child, etched in my mind as some kind of primal visual language. Last year in a second hand shop, I picked up a copy of Paradisi in Sole, Paradisus Terrestris by John Parkinson, the first book written on English gardens, published in 1629. All winter I copied, traced, graphed, embroidered images from the musty smelling pages. Selecting colors of silver grey, pale blue, natural and black, knitting and embroidering, printing flowers, for grown ups.