My home is mostly invisible from the street – which is how I like it. Hiding from people is one of my favorite things to do, and living in the shadows of the pine trees makes this task much easier to accomplish.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t like to make my world a pretty place to be.
I’ve done a lot of sprucing up of my brown place this spring. You know what the sailors say – “If it moves, grease it; if if doesn’t, paint it.”
So I painted. First, the mailbox post. Then I draped this garland around it. I’m thinking the black mailbox needs some paint, too. But I shy away from bold colors, so I’ll have to give idea this some more thought.
The first thing you see as you come up the drive is our breezeway – sandwiched between the house and the garage. It gets very little sunlight, so I brightened up this dark space with light colors, hoping that visitors will feel welcome here when they arrive.
“I think we have enough frou-frou on the breezeway,” Norm says.
“Ok. I’m done with it.” He knows better than that.
If you continue past the breezeway to the “front” of the house, you’ll see my flag greeting you from the porch. I have dozens of these Toland flags, created in Mandeville, Louisiana. I love them not only their artistry but also their durability. They’re made from the same material as sails, so they don’t fade and they last forever.
Norm and I debate whether the porch faces the front or the back of the house. I say this is the front of the house, even though it faces away from the street and towards the bayou – the pretty side of the house. We now refer to the breezeway and the porch rather than the front and the back. Like starboard and port, it doesn’t matter which way you’re facing.
So whether you call this the front door or the back door, this is what hangs from it – a basket of flowers. A woman can never be surrounded by too many flowers.
And when you walk through the
front porch door, tah-dah! More flowers sitting on the table tray that I painted and decoupaged with scrapbook stickers to add a spring-like touch to the living room.
In the kitchen (off the breezeway door), I placed this card I’ve held onto since last year. Jillian gave it to me for Mother’s Day. She knows her mother well. “I saw this card and thought of you, Mom. Remember that summer in France when we couldn’t get enough of les macarons?” Yes, my heart. I remember that summer, too. Paris wasn’t the same after you left.
Frou-frou, yes, but sometimes there just needs to be more pretty in this dark world of ours.