When I was a little girl, I would sleep in the pink room at Elmwood. It's not actually pink, but white with 1940s wallpaper that has trailing pink and white morning glories. There are two matching twin beds, a truly unfortunate pink carpet and some lace curtains that would melt into a pile of plastic if ignited.
That's one of my favorite things about Elmwood. It's a beautiful place, so gorgeous you could and will weep when I finally invite you there in real life, but it isn't painfully art directed. There are some ugly curtains. Moldy wallpaper. The world's most miserable mattresses. A FUTON FROM THE 1990s. It's a real place, not perfect. And everyone who knows what's what knows that makes it all the more charming.
When I was up last weekend, the flowers in the garden made my knees buckle. There has been a lot of talk about lilac season being a letdown this year but our trees were basically rioting. Apple blossoms, too. Plus some bleeding heart from the front yard, the tiniest snipping I could take.
Going into the garden and making a little bouquet from what's fresh and free will lots of times beat overworked, over-thought, overly pricey flowers in my book. A humble bouquet, one that still has beetles and bees, cuts right to the heart of why people love flowers.