In a hole in the ground…

I was wondering to myself what my perfect house might look like. I went through many images before I realized that when I imagined a house, I was actually imagining a garden. And many more images before I realized that the house and garden were really the same to me. In short, I kind of want to grow up and live in a Hobbit hole.

Who doesn’t, though?

Gardening is in my blood. My mother’s family all has green thumbs (my aunt ran a plant nursery for years), and my father’s family are all farmers from a country that is the spitting image of The Shire. So far I haven’t been able to keep a house plant alive for more than a few months, but my child seems to be surviving ok, so maybe I have a chance with the plants. (I think it’s the plants’ fault. They aren’t nearly as vocal when they’re hungry.)

It’s taken me my whole life to get to a place where I could even consider investing in a garden. I mean, house. I grew up in tiny apartments, and the closest I came to a house was my mother’s townhouse in New Jersey. That didn’t have much of a garden, although my Grandma Renee did use the back patio to grow a few potted things — tomatoes, basil. I remember her complaining about the damned rabbits chewing up her lettuce, the rural invading the urban. I’ve never really thought about nailing my feet down before. Buying a house implies growing roots instead of wings. But I really want a garden…

I mean, house.

Ok, I suppose I should care about the INSIDE of the house too. As long as all the doors and windows are round, I think I’ll be happy.

Today’s music is Dondante by My Morning Jacket (such a pretty guitar solo), and today’s lunchtime websurfing is from Yolo Color House.  The top image is a painting by Alan Lee, and the bottom image came from hunting around the internet.

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