The porch.

The back, screened-in porch, that is. We actually have two porches, the wide, welcoming front one, and the tucked-away back one. While I love the openness of the front porch --- nothing says "Come in!" in like a one-step-up, as-long-as-the-house kind of porch --- the Southern situation of 808 Bolling means we get a lot more use out of the screened-in porch off the kitchen.

Also, one cannot wear pajamas on a front porch for all of Belmont to see.

This is my favorite spot. I can curl up and take a nap here. Also good for latte-drinking.



Belle gave me this for my birthday. C'est charement, n'est pas?



I keep my watering can by the door, so I can easily pick it up on my way out to the garden. (By the way, I told my beau today, "I must get my seedlings grown up by the first frost." I felt very much like a pioneer prairie girl.)

Best friends.

Meet Foxy and Harold.



Foxy and Harold came to live with us about a week ago, right after the thunderstorm of the season hit Charlottesville. It knocked out power for 43,000 residents, totaled my friend Ben's car, and was Death with His Scythe for several hundred trees. It was upon one of many dead limbs that I tripped, face-planting into the sidewalk, and with scraped hands and knees and a gashed ankle limped into work.

My beau not only bandaged me up, but then later took me to my favorite Charlottesville store, O'Suz, for a cheer-up present.

There we were introduced to Harold by my friend Kate. Harold is a bit of an Eeyore. But what style sense he has, with his green, knitted sweater with a pocket and brown fedora! And then Foxy found us; he is rather fantastic. He also thinks he knows a lot more about the world than he really does. But Harold is so sweet, he goes along with what Foxy says to be true.

This is why they are best friends.



Bucket is not amused by the pair. He has informed us that they get into too much mischief for his liking.

Gorgeous.

Lush and red two months later than they have any right to be, these peonies were found by moi at the farmers market earlier this morning. I had gone expressly to find red flowers; I secretly was hoping for poppies. But then I spied these peonies, and I scolded myself for have ever wanting anything else.

The seller and her granddaughter proffered all sorts of wild and lovely flowers at their stand. A buyer smilingly asked the granddaughter if she were selling any fairies that morning. And a gentleman buyer, who evidently knew the family, asked of the child, "Why are you still you? Why haven't you changed into something else?" She had laughed at both.

But I won over the grandmother, asking for the red peonies. She smiled at me, a real smile, not a for-the-customer mechanism, and said the red ones were her favorite, too.

So now they reside upon our table.



I had feared putting my black-painted table and chairs in the very yellow dining room. Would they look like a giant bumblebee, and would Belle therefore refuse to ever sit and eat with us? But when I got the furniture all in, the combination reminded me of a French bistro, so that's what I'm going for with the blue-and-cream ticking and linen napkins.



I shan't use white bistro ware, but continue with my peacocks. I want to keep this slightly unexpected.