Lifestyle – Page 3 – Cynthia Reyes

A Good Home, Firenze, Florence, FRa Angelico, Italy, La Primavera, Life Challenges, Lifestyle, Michelangelo's David, S. Africa, Travel Abroad

Days Off in Florence

June 1, 2014June 6, 2017 Cynthia Reyes

At certain times of the year, my thoughts turn to Florence. Firenze, one of Italy’s most interesting cities.

In early June, the Florentine sunlight is clear gold, intoxicatingly warm on the skin.

One wants to stay outdoors forever.

The first time I visited Florence in early June, I was shocked by the crowds on the streets, in the piazzas, in the galleries.

I’d repeatedly worked in Florence, but always in winter or autumn. Without the crowds of tourists, I got to know the city in a more intimate way.

Days off in Florence were special, every errand an adventure. Picking up supplies, posting letters, buying gifts for family at the open-air market, sitting in a cafe, having a cappucino, or — depending on the hour — a Caprese salad at a favorite trattoria. All seemed to involve a conversation.

I loved visiting Florence’s galleries. The Academmia, where I’d stop and say hello to Michelangelo’s David again, and trying — again — to not stare at his …. hand.

I’d go to see Fra Angelico’s exquisite paintings. Every time I visited Florence, I spent time with the paintings of this Renaissance artist-friar (once described as “a rare and perfect talent”) and visited the San Marco priory where he’d lived.

Fra Angelico's "Annunciation" — Fra Angelico’s *“Annunciation”* – image via wiki paintings

I also loved sitting quietly in the Uffizi gallery…

…getting lost in La Primavera. And marveling at Boticelli’s talent and skill. His beautifully imagined rendition of Spring, the wealth of detail, and — unusual for the era — the way he managed to create the look of transparent clothing.

Boticelli's "La Primavera" — Boticelli’s “La Primavera” at the Uffizi

And always, I’d stroll over to my favorite dress shop, a short walk from Florence’s famous Il Duomo cathedral.

Going into that shop was a bit like coming home. The proprietor would recognize me immediately with warm kisses on both cheeks and loud cries of welcome.

“Come stai?“ she’d ask.

“Bene, grazie.” I’d reply, smiling. “Come stai?”

A smile, a “bene, bene”. Then an elegant shrug, and remarks about doing business in Italy these days, what with the state of the government.

And then came the really important stuff: swapping news about our families.

“And – you remember my niece?” I’d nod yes, though I’d only heard about this beloved niece, never met her.

“Did I tell you what happened to her? No? Well….” As if we had seen each other just yesterday, instead of months earlier.

Between my trying on different outfits, her serving other customers, my looking at myself in the mirror and frowning, her saying: “No, no, that’s too big! Try this one instead!”

Or: “There, there... Bella! Molto bella….”

Around and between all that, the latest chapter of her family saga would unfold.

An hour later, I’d leave with my purchases and — always — a head full of family gossip.

And sometimes, the thought:

“Home” is also where they know you, where they’re glad to see you.

Dedicated to my favorite shopkeeper in Florence, with thanks for making me feel at home in a city not my own. Years later, I wonder if you’re still there, and I wonder how you and your family are doing.

A Good Home, Birdfeeders, Birdhouses, Birds, Life in canada, Lifestyle, Renovating, Restoration, Restoring old houses

Men Who Build Stuff

May 18, 2014May 18, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

I promised to follow up with two different men who both work on houses.

One – John – has been working on a BIG house, restoring it by himself.

The other – Jean – creates tiny houses – for birds. When last we heard from Jean, he was working on his Xtreme Birdhouse. While I was impatiently waiting for the photos of the finished product, Jean sent me these other ones, made from the corks of wine bottles and said:

“I can assure you that I was totally sober when I worked on those…. lol…..”

Jean Long's Wine cork Birdhouse — Jean Long’s Wine cork Birdhouse

I promised to believe him. Which doesn’t mean YOU have to.

Jean Long's Creation — Jean Long’s Creation

As for his Xtreme Birdhouse, it’s complete, and it’s even larger than it looks in these photos:

Which may explain why Jean calls it “The Bird Cathedral”. Congrats, Jean, on one heck of a birdhouse! Here’s another view:

Jean Long's Bird Cathedral — Jean Long’s Bird Cathedral

So let’s go over now to Prince Edward County and check in with John, our intrepid house-restorer, and his wife Ann. When last we heard, they were about to move into the beautiful old house. Here are some photos, starting with Ann sitting on the step waiting for the truck:

John says: “The Move went as smooth as SILK!! No surprises, no grief, and very good weather!”

The couple had spent the days prior cleaning the house, and now it was time to roll out the rugs and put things in their places:

Within a day or two, the dining room, living room, master bedroom and third floor den were partially set up.

John’s office, meanwhile, looks like it’s always been there….

Of course, there’s a lot of work left to do. They’re also keeping an eye on the garden, to determine how much work it will require. But one thing you and I know about John: he has a plan for getting it all done perfectly, and on time.

Ann and John, congratulations.

Top 4 photos by Jean Long, remainder by John Garside.

A Good Home, Home Decor, Homes, Life in canada, Lifestyle

The Porch – by Guest Writer Heather Beveridge

May 17, 2014May 20, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

Dark green paint was the colour of almost every two-story house in Toronto’s east end.

If you were very bold, the house was painted deep red with an ecru trim. My mother didn’t want to stand out in a crowd or cause a row in the neighborhood, so she insisted that our house exterior be painted the standard dark green trim with a white porch. The porch floor was painted grey.

Painting the outside of the house was always a big job. First, the extension ladder was borrowed from my grandfather’s garage. Extension ladders in those days were not light aluminum ones; nevertheless, my father would walk to my grandparents’ home at the top of the street and come home carrying the wooden ladder while I sat on the porch and waited.

No one ever painted over the old paint. Perhaps there were too many layers. A blow torch was used to soften up the old paint. The torch had a brass barrel, never as shiny as the ones that I see at auctions.

Next came the lighting of the gas. This wouldn’t have stuck in my memory if my mother hadn’t been such a worrier. My mother expected an explosion whenever there was fire, gas, or even matches. My father would quietly ignore my mother’s admonitions, light the torch and begin peeling the paint. It gave off a beautiful smell like burning leaves on a fall day.

Peeling the paint was right up there with helping my grandfather shave wood. Over and over, my Dad and I would clean off the old paint from the porch. Twisting off those silky strips of glistening paint and pulling ever so gently and slowly to try to get the biggest curl of paint yet.

Our porch served many duties. The huge baby pram with its great big belly like a whale was always on the porch. My baby brother always slept outside during the daytime – even on the coldest winter days – buried beneath piles of blankets with an old coat thrown over the top of the pram. It was Nana’s idea of child-rearing: she insisted that children must sleep outside even in winter, and my mother had no choice but to follow her determined mother’s ideas.

The porch was also where I was put on house-cleaning day: “Here – take your toys and play on the porch. No, you can’t come in until the floors are dry.”

There was no furniture on our porch. At the time, I never questioned why – but I remember the Duncans’ house down the street had a glider on their porch with striped cushions.

Ours was a ‘playing porch’ – an open porch with steel-grey painted wood floor and bars of white cut-out shapes with a smooth enamel green railing on top. The railing was just the right height for me at five years old to imagine that I was standing on board my pirate ship and waving goodbye to all those scalliwag friends of mine.

Out I would go into my land of adventure, sticking my head in every so often for more toys. Especially on rainy spring days, my friends and I would gather on the porch.

Blankets dragged from the house and kitchen chairs became Indian tepees or, more often, a pirate ship. The enemy was hiding just around the corner in the alleyway and the tepee or ship had to be put in just the right place so the baby carriage wasn’t bumped, setting off wails. Occasionally, we ventured off onto the lawn to retrieve weapons tossed overboard in the excitement of the moment.

That porch served us well as children. I couldn’t imagine a house without one.

It wasn’t until our own home was built that a glider was installed on the porch. It wasn’t quite the same with railings that were laminate and no paint to peel. And a cement floor would never be as fine as the shiny warm planks that served double duty as a pirate ship.

THANKS TO HEATHER FOR THIS STORY.

A Good Home, Family, Family Matriarch, Gardening, Gratitude, Home, Inspiration, Life in canada, Lifestyle, Mothering, Mothers, Non-fiction writing, Parents, Raising Children, Relationships, Spring Bulbs, Thanks, Tulips

Mother’s Day in the Garden

May 11, 2014May 12, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

One garden here at the old farmhouse is extra-special.

Partly shaded by a large red maple, it has two dogwood trees, two purple lilacs, a Japanese maple and a forsythia shrub. The Japanese maple was stuck there “temporarily” but was somehow forgotten and has outgrown its spot.

“One of these days, I’ll have to move it,” my husband says. But that tree is so big now that I suspect it’s not going anywhere.

Hydrangea shrubs and tree peonies also flourish here.

In front of them are smaller plants: Solomon’s seal; ferns; the intriguingly shaped “Jack-in the Pulpit”; the occasional trillium (Ontario’s official flower); may apples and another woodland plant whose name I never learned.

Pink tulips come up every spring, as do daffodils, astilbe, and hosta. It’s the only garden bed that’s home to such a variety of characters: woodland, shade, and sun-loving plants.

No wonder it’s called “Mama’s Garden”. The children she mothered are a variety of characters too.

Throughout the spring, pink lamium borders one side of Mama’s Garden, while blue forget-me-nots border the other. Recently, though, they’ve both strayed into the path.

“Your garden would look better if I could weed the path regularly”, I apologize to Mama.

And I can hear her voice saying: “Ah, m’dear. It’ll get done. Right now, there are more important things on your plate.”

My husband named the garden in tribute to Mama’s great love of gardening.

My mother died several years ago.

On every Mother’s Day since, I head out to Mama’s Garden, no matter what the weather, no matter what condition I’m in. I bring a sturdy mug of coffee, walk through the entrance arbour and down the short pathway, looking at the growing things around me.

I sit on the stone bench at the back of the garden.

“Thank you, Mama,” I say.

There are so many things to thank her for.

So I thank her and I thank God for her, and sometimes the talk with Mama gets mixed in with the prayer and it feels like the beings I am talking to are one and the same, but I don’t think either Mama or God would mind.

I give thanks.

For a mother who loved and tended her family. For a mother who taught us the importance of growing things. And for a mother whose love and faith live on in our hearts.

Garden photos by Hamlin Grange. Photos of Cynthia by Dale Ratcliffe.

This post is dedicated to my mother and mother-in-law, who mothered not just their own children, but all our cousins and friends when they needed mothering too.

Happy Mother’s day, and happy belated Mothering Sunday, to all women who tend and care for children.