It is likely that very few of you will relate to what I will say in this post. Most will not. And to my closest dear ones who know me best- thanks for putting up with what I will describe here.

Several years ago a friend was hosting a 4th of July gathering and wanted to decorate her home accordingly. She asked for my suggestions, and my first question was “what do you have for props?” 

She looked at me as if I had asked her if she had live ammo under her bed. PROPS? I said, “yeah, you know, stuff in your basement you could scatter around to decorate with?” Again, THE LOOK. She did not have props. What she had was a big empty hutch in her dining room, with nothing on it. I mean NOTHING. It took my breath away that anyone could be quite that sparse. I told her to hold on – I would be back. A quick trip home, and the once around yielded several boxes of Americana – enough for the hutch and more. Within an hour the house looked like a patriotic paradise. It was her turn to be amazed. “Where did all that stuff come from?”  “The basement, the shed, the garage – these are props.” She still didn’t get it, but her house looked great. 

This goes for any occasion, any time. If I get invited unexpectedly somewhere and need a quick gift – I just shop the props for something I can put together. Need a seasonal change? Props. No need to go to the store when resources abound at home. And if you ever find yourself in a decorating fix, give me a call.  I’ve got plenty of props.

For whatever reason, I have always loved getting mail. Even growing up, I would anxiously wait for Charlie the mailman to deliver letters, magazines, and especially the stuff I ordered on an actual order form from Sears and Roebuck  or Montgomery Ward. People wrote letters back then, as there was no social media, no email or any quick way to send a message. Although I rarely receive a letter or invitation in the mail these days, my mail obsession continues. On our street the mail jeep drives down the opposite side of the road first, then circles back to my side. As soon as I hear the thwack of my mailbox closing I’m out the door like a shot, as though my mail might ignite if I leave it there for 10 minutes. Such was the scenario on the day of Alex and Abbeys wedding. It was a beautiful Saturday in May, and we were preparing to leave for a late afternoon wedding. I had been so careful in my preparation for the wedding. My dress was encased in plastic until early afternoon, lest I spill something or otherwise mutilate it. I had a friend help me with my hair and makeup, and wore my best jewelry and actual panty hose. All of this is so NOT me. My downfall was the shoes. Clutz that I was, I didn’t own shoes with even a tiny heel, so I borrowed some from my sister.  There I was, all dolled up, with my heels on, when I heard the thwack of the mailbox. Out the door I went, wobbling down the driveway in those shoes, when the unthinkable happened. My heel turned, and next thing I knew I was going down like a felled tree. Even as I was falling, my mind was screaming “save the dress!” I braced for impact, both wrists out to break the fall. Luckily I landed on the edge of the drive where there was some dry grass, and not all pavement. After a few tears, I got up, dusted myself off, and checked for damage. Except for a tiny almost unnoticeable smudge, the dress was intact. Not even a run in the panty hose. Good thing, as I only had the one pair. Off we went to the wedding – Steve looking dapper, me with one sprained wrist, and the other all scrapes. He just looked at me and shook his head. “You just HAD to get the mail” It was a wonderful wedding!

Early morning mist over the meadow June 21 2017