We took the train from Marseille to Paris- on the TGV (bullet train).

Golden countryside from the continuous heatwave – we feel like baked apples.

Villages drift past like forgotten postcards.

From one end of France to the other, the train speeds through a living tapestry.

Mist lifts from valleys, villages appear then vanish, vineyards surrender to forests, rivers flash like silver threads.

Every window frames another fleeting story, inviting wonder and leaving you chasing the horizon beyond the next bend.

Have you traveled on the TGV?

               

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What to do with French linen?

Other than wrapping it around my body while walking in the garden under a full moon, singing a happy tune about how much I love linen? (While my neighbors sigh in disbelief.)

Other than using antique linen for what it was meant to be used for—collecting grain, drying dishes, covering a mattress or a bread bowl, or even wrapping up a dead pig?

I decided to stack mine and store it under a dome.

First, I washed the old linen with a tad of mild soap in cold water over and over again, until the water is clear. Then lay it out to dry. Washing in a machine, and drying in a dryer breaks the natural thread.

                

Comments

• ❤️😍😍❤️ by Darlene Weathers-Gast

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At a book fair the other day I noticed that most people there were looking for books because of the author, or the title, and or the value of such titles first edition pieces. Several dealers asked me what I was looking for…

I replied, “I simply judge a book by its cover.”

Or lack of one.

Well, the ones I “stage” that is. The older, ruffled page, worn through… but a certain worn through that is. Beat up doesn’t always add up to the top of my “love it” list.

Of course, buying a book to read is an entirely different conversation and selection. Buying books for an arrangement means never moving it about.

Books for all reasons

                

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The chair that I couldn’t leave behind—even though it’s uncomfortable because the springs have sprung, and its oversized presence means it doesn’t fit around any table. I also don’t have a grand entrance where it truly belongs.

One might wonder, 

“What was she thinking? Why buy it?”

Well, first, the faded blue patina kept calling my name with such desperation. Then I couldn’t bear the thought of it being destined to become firewood. So, it came home with me, where it now holds my favorite textiles.

It found a new purpose, while hogging up so much room.

                

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Every room, each entry, stone, beam, ironwork, handle speaks of a generation no longer living yet alive.

What will we leave behind?

A future of beauty I hope.

                

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Our friends, Arnelle, and Roger, have gratefully generously offered these last several years to stay in their beautiful home in France- hidden on the back roads, a glorious old stone home with a pool centered in nature, which has saved us every August from heat. 

It started when Chelsea was pregnant with Gabriel. Arnelle called staying in their home a baby moon, taking from the word honeymoon.

 Gabriel calls their place. “The beautiful House”- and every summer crosses his fingers that we can return.

These last several years Chelsea and Co. have taken a photo on the terrace where in the Spring wisteria grows spreading purple confetti over the terrace. The wisteria vine grows thicker each year on the old pillar where Chelsea who is six months pregnant (another baby moon) and two little pickles in tow.

Thank you A&R

                

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