My absolute favorite place upon this Earth is my home. An unanticipated bright side to this year was that I got to spend a lot more time there. My wife and I made an extra effort to document the year along the way.
This post will concern some of my other hobbies — gardening, carpentry, sky-gazing …
Nandina bushes and a patio bench on the 1st day of 2020.
Front of the house, 1/1/2020.
New “prep” table. All eggs laid by our industrious hens.
Unusual February snow in North Carolina.
The new “solarium” I was in the process of finishing. Began life as a simple deck, then a larger screened porch. Now glassed and heated/cooled.
Cherry tree blossoms.
Front corner of the lot. I have been an unlucky beekeeper. The hives are empty.
Signs for the garden, fashioned by my younger son & niece.
Called “the Wonderland,” Hobby Shack in the background.
My wife’s birthday feast.
Working to enclose the garden vs. varmints.
Sustenance in order to persevere.
The garden, complete.
Most prolific garden we have had in 20 years.
One of the aforementioned varmints, helping herself to my chickens’ feed.
The “solarium,” largely complete.
Marital collaboration: birdhouse and post by me, sign painted by my wife.
Summer flowers, and basil in the background. The counter is cherry, made by me.
Luminaries on our street, in honor of a beloved neighbor who died.
Bounty from the garden.
The “cutting garden,” source for the zinnias.
I believe these marigolds made a previous appearance on this blog.
The okra plants gave all summer.
Bought from an artist, years ago. A favorite.
Swamp sunflowers. A favorite — I am surprised every year when these open.
Red maple in its glory.
Morning in the kitchen.
Front porch on Veterans’ Day.
Reminiscent of Owl’s living room in the Arnold Lobel children’s book, Owl at Home.
The room was built to hold this tree.
Thanks for sharing this journey!
I do not say that John or Jonathan will realize all this; but such is the character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to dawn. The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.
Henry thoreau, Walden, 1854