I dream of fire escapes.

The beautiful novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn instilled in me a romantic attachment to fire escapes. I long to contemplate the world about me from the sturdy protected embrace of emboldened iron. 



"Yes, when I get big and have my own home, no plush chairs and lace curtains for me. And no rubber plants. I'll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Saturday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books... books... books"

Betty Smith.

summer = breakfast at leisure

101. let the countdown begin.

Sadly my bridesmaids will not be wearing hats as gorgeous and flattering as these.  

madison park. the next chapter.

A new home. A quaint one-bedroom in one of Seattle's loveliest spots. White-washed brick cottages, roses and daisies lining the walkway.  Perfect for the girl who always wished her life resembled a story-book. 

a romp around eatonville.

fourth of july.

a reunion of family.

to celebrate 80 years of a wonderful woman. 


mother. grandmother. great-grandmother.