When my uncle lived here, he was married to a woman whose maiden name was Holley. So he planted holly trees. I have always hated those trees. Despite ongoing lamentations that their hideous spiky leaves never decompose and cheerfully lacerate hands, knees, and feet and can puncture heavy denim clothing; and despite the fact that, in rain and in winter, the branches threatened the utility wires that ran to the house from the street; and despite the fact that the density of the growth obscured the view of the front yard (not a good thing in this less-than-good neighborhood), my mother's near-Druidical reverence for all things green meant that The Trees Stayed. But Mom's not in charge anymore. heh. heh. heh.
So I called the fabulous Owens Brothers, tree experts extraordinaire, and they came on Saturday with a crew and serious equipment, and Took Care of It.
8:25 a.m. Saturday. The pall of hated, spiky green.
8:30 a.m. The convoy of trucks, some the size of small buildings.
with cute names
8:40 a.m. Down to business. Steve backs in the cherry-picker and makes quick work of the Most Hated One. Yes, that awful tree was as tall as the house.
Meanwhile, Dennis got the guys working on the side yard -- grossly deciduous and overgrown Rose of Sharon bushes and, what else,
more holly trees.
whee ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
9:10 (or so). Dennis pruned the dogwood tree. I do like the dogwood tree. I hope that now that it doesn't have to compete with the hulking holly for air, water, and light, that it will relax into its more natural, beautifully graceful form.
Steve (and Vermeer) ground out the stumps
10:00 a.m. They drove off, leaving behind light, air, and not the least wisp of debris. So there it is -- the house my grandfather started building 1931 and added to and added to as needed until he was done.
If she were alive to see this, my mother would kill me. heh. heh. heh. . .
Although, it looks a little bare . . . I will need to investigate full-sun planting, new territory, for sure.
Curious side note: back in the early 1960s, when they were young and in love and first married, Dennis and Steve's parents lived in the first-floor apartment of the house. Their Dad, Bobby Owens, was one of the original
Owens Brothers and started the business with his brothers when they were barely out of their teens. (One brother, I think, may still have been in his teens.)
It's almost a shame the house itself isn't a writer . . . it has stories.
Even the cat is afraid to go in there.
But one must persevere, despite the skeptics.
By the end of Saturday evening. I'd achieved this:
And by the end of Sunday, this:
Describing one client's do-over, Hallock says that the client and her friends spent 200 hours folding fabric. I believe it. Beau remains skeptical.
^I don't think this is his "Darling, I just love what you've done with this room" face. But it's a beginning -- the room, not the face -- and I'm encouraged.
But as the thing evolved, I liked it better vertical.
That long strip of black in white at the bottom was something I stuck in as a place holder because I was (already) getting tired and we were running out of time. It is also, of course, the one thing Nancy remarked on: "I'm not sure about this piece." she said. Me neither.
Wednesday into Thursday, we were to do another 14 or so assortments of "bold graphic prints", plaids, and stripes. I HATE plaid and refused to get any even for the purpose of the class. I made do with some batik and brights. I may have added 4 or so fabrics to the 12 from the first exercise.
Adding and subtracting and shifting things up, down, across, and around on the design wall, by midnight or so I had this:
A somewhat coherent something with a big hole in the middle. I could not resolve the void, so I gave up and went to bed. First, for levity's sake, I filled the hole with one possibility:
(That's a scrap paper label stating: "Your Name Here." My mind was not the only thing that wouldn't come into focus . . .)
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