Royal Albert

As those of you determined enough to follow along despite my infrequent-of-late posts may know, I grew up in the South -- Nashville, Tennessee, to be exact -- where gorgeous, old, traditional homes abound; I was even lucky enough to grow up in one myself.

A few days ago I learned one of Nashville's most beautiful homes recently went up for sale, and I was finally able to peek inside. Built in 1931, the home is rumored to have been decorated by the legendary Albert Hadley of venerable interiors firm Parish-Hadley. (Full disclosure: said rumor comes from a family member, but I am unable to verify this in Hadley's work history.)

Despite my lack of written proof, the home smacks of Hadley's genius and could be straight out of a recent issue of Veranda or Architectural Digest.

I love the various furniture groupings -- the perfect way to make a large space more intimate.

The window treatments here, in what appears to be the Library, are stunning, as they are throughout the home.

Love the table stacked with books.

Probably my favorite room -- guessing this may be the lady of the house's office...? The black lacquered walls, the lucite table and the pops of green throughout = pure chic.

The apple-green walls are so fresh and vibrant, set off by the white furnishings and woodwork. Love the trim on the closet doors!

The pool house. The pool house! I could die a happy woman in this image.

What I can only assume is the pool house interior. Isn't it perfect? The coral and white are so cheerful, and I would arm wrestle someone for that coffee table.

Stripes!

Not sure what is happening on these walls, but I like it. And the curtains? Perfect.

Lucite luggage racks? Yes, please.

Can you imagine this as your driveway? I can.

In researching the home, I was thrilled to learn that Albert Hadley was also born in Nashville, which certainly strengthens my suspicion of his involvement in the project. Hadley has also designed interiors for other Nashville luminaries, former Vice President Al Gore and his (former?) wife, Tipper.

I find that the older I get, the more I am drawn to these traditional interiors that cry out to be filled with family and friends over drawn-out bridge games, swimming parties, and political discussions that go into the night. Scotch on the rocks, anyone?

Pillow Talk

Sometimes in life, we receive necessary messages from the universe in the most unusual of places. For me, the latest message came in the form of a pillow -- more specifically, the above pillow, referenced yesterday by one of my favorite blogs, Style Court.

Breezing through the post, of course the lovely embroidered pillow from Anthropologie caught my eye--I've developed a sort of thing for parrots lately, and have a long-standing weakness for embroidery--but what really got my attention was the reference to the pillow's designer, Shelley Hesse.

Shelley is a fabulous New Orleans artist, but more significantly for me, also an old friend and former roommate from my college days at the University of Georgia -- one of a group of girlfriends from all parts of the South except Georgia, where almost everyone else there seemed to hail from....maybe that's what brought us all together, but I'd like to think it was more than that.

The last time I spoke to Shelley was also the last time I saw her, and the last time I saw any of my old college friends: more than five years ago, at the Palm Beach home of one of the girls in our group. Over a wonderful sunny weekend we ate, drank, lounged on the beach, and gossiped about the old days as well as the new. Carrie, our hostess, was the first of us to get pregnant, and we threw her an impromptu baby shower at which we forced her to parade around, belly on full display, in the decidedly un-maternity-like lingerie we had given her to mark the occasion.

Since then, two of the girls have gotten married, four have had children, and at least one more is recently engaged. I've managed to stay in touch with a few of them courtesy of Facebook, but others (including Shelley) I haven't connected with since that weekend years ago.

Just as the recent sudden death of a cherished friend from my youth reminded me of how much I continue to love and value the connections I formed as a child and teenager, so did seeing Shelley's pillow remind me of how much I miss the connections I formed afterwards, as a college student trying to find my place in the world.

Between work, family, and all the responsibilities in between, I seem to get so caught up in the daily demands of life that I tend to forget to make time for the people who have helped make my life what it has been. So thank you, Style Court, for inspiring me to reconnect with Shelley and some of my other old friends. (Polly and Dana, you two are next!)

Check out some of the other lovely pieces from Shelley's collaboration with Anthropologie:

This is actually my favorite of the pillow offerings -- I love the contrast of the colorful embroidery against the black background.

I love the Lobster rug almost as much as I would if it came with a cup of melted butter on the side. If only real lobsters were so colorful, I might not have the heart to eat them. Oh, who am I kdding? Of course I would.

I love the idea of these dessert plates as a summertime hostess gift.

The collection even delves into bedding, which begs for a closer look. Beach house, anyone?

A peek at some of Shelley's artwork shows the inspiration behind the collection:

Green Parrot

22" x 30"

Large Shell Study

27-1/2" x 39-1/2"

Unsurprisingly, my own favorites of Shelley's work are her interiors:

Green Room

40" x 60"

(The fact that this is already sold causes me physical pain. Love. Love. Love.)

French Desk

40" x 60"

I've been a fan of Shelley's work for years, and I couldn't be happier that masses of Anthropologie shoppers will be joining me in the club.

Now if you'll excuse me, there is a fabulous parrot pillow waiting to meet its new mommy.

Nice Pants

I know I'm not digging deep with this one for most of you, but today's new edition from the much-loved purveyor of affordable art, 20x200, forced my hand.

I have come thiiiis close to buying prints for myself from 20x200 on numerous occasions (still mulling this over in a giant size), but today may be the day that I take action.

If this print from photographer Landon Nordeman doesn't take me back to the South, then nothing short of a tall glass of sweet tea will. (It doesn't hurt that the white "T" on the orange polo stands for "Tennessee," where I was born and raised.)

The funny thing about this image is that I wouldn't think twice about seeing this trio pass me on any southern street. But you'd be more likely to see a pack of donkeys fly past your shoulder than come anywhere close to this scene in Seattle. Lord knows we have our share of perks the South can't claim (mild weather, liberal politics, fresh salmon), but it's these uniquely southern quirks I get nostalgic for.

I may have to hang it adjacent to my husband's closet. Think he'll take the hint?

WASP Nesting

*image from the fabulous WASP tome A Privileged Life

It could be a cliche, but most southerners I know (including yours truly) love color. And we love monograms. And most of us love prints, too. Add together all of these beloved elements and you've got Lilly Pulitzer.

As a child growing up in Nashville, Tennessee, I don't know that I ever had any actual Lilly Pulitzer clothes--mine were probably just poor-man's versions--but much of what I did have was covered in things like embroidered pastel whales, pink umbrellas, and so on....surely Lilly-inspired, if not actually Lilly-branded themselves.

*image courtesy of gastrochic.com

Thirty years later, the clothes are a bit out of place for my rainy, multi-cultural Northwest lifestyle, but I confess that my two daughters have a few Lilly outfits, and her designs continue to put a smile on my face.

I think the appeal for me as an adult is more of the lifestyle Lilly Pulitzer clothes conjure: lounging by the country-club pool; outfitting my sun-kissed children in coordinating ensembles, with giant grosgrain hair bows for the girls; hosting luncheons in my toile-covered living room with gilded tchotchkes and embroidered pillows as far as the eye can see.... You know, the typical WASP-y stuff.

* image courtesy of Southern Accents (illustrating me in my fantasy life)

Though these fantastic images could not be more different from my actual lifestyle, there is something about them that stays with me....perhaps because they are reminiscent of a way of life I always envisioned as my future. But as we know, life often has other plans. And I couldn't be more thankful for that.

(Yes, those are tiny monkeys hidden in the swirls!)

I think again of Lilly today after previewing her fantastic new bedding and bath line, exclusive (unfortunately for the shop!) to catalog retailer Garnet Hill. I love the fantastic colors and patterns, especially in a young girl's room. And those towels? Well, you're never too old for pink monograms.

The best part of my discovery? Now I can indulge in a dose of Lilly without wearing a palm tree somewhere on my person. And that's, as the Northeast's version of Lilly, Martha Stewart, would say, a good thing.

Song of the South

Maybe it's because the holidays are drawing near, but lately I've found myself missing home. Not home as in where I reside with my husband and children, where I have settled in over the last six years or so, where I love to return to at the end of every day, but HOME. The place where I played on my first (and last!) softball team. The place where I had my first (definitely not last) kiss. The place where I stayed up late with my babysitter watching "Fantasy Island" and tried to figure out exactly what was going on in that bungalow.

For me, Home with a capital "H" is Nashville, Tennessee. The South. I love the South. I know it has a lot of baggage associated with it, some of it deserved, some of it exaggerated, and some of it just plain made up by people who have merely passed through or never even visited.

What do I love about the South? The obvious, of course: it's home to all of my family. When you leave a place as a single girl, you miss your family all the time, but you're building your own life, so it's easy to push those feelings aside in favor of the here and now. But when your life transitions to the next level, when you begin to create a family of your own, that's when you begin to miss your family in a way that hurts....and not just because you have to pay everyone who's not family to watch your children!

Then there are the little things: the insane food which, no matter how anyone above or west of the Mason-Dixon line tries, cannot be duplicated. (If I had a nickel for how many times I've said, "You call that 'cornbread?'" I would be lounging on a tropical island at the moment.) Sweet tea. Chick-fil-A. Need I say more?

The friendliness. Sure, some of it is phoney, but in the south, when you walk down the street, people--people you do not know--look you in the eye and say hello; they don't avert their gaze as they pass. People chat you up in line for no reason. Just because that's what you do.

The landscape. The rolling green hills and three-hundred-year-old trees. The beaches and seafod boils. The front-porch swings.

The driving. People drive fast there. People get in the left lane and actually pass the people next to them. Who knew this was something I was taking for granted the first half of my life?

The hospitality. The luncheons for the most insignificant of reasons. The food people cook for you when you have a baby, lose a parent, lose a job. The table settings. The deviled egg plates. The effort.

The decorating. Yes, I said "decorating." Southerners are not afraid of going all out where aesthetics are concerned. Of filling every vacant space with objects. Of passing down items from generation to generation, even if said items are worthless to the average person. If it's not tied down, we monogram it; it's not that we don't know they're our towels, we just like an excuse to throw curly script on something, especially if it's pink.

I know many (if not all) of these things exist in some form in all parts of the country, even in the world, but I miss my own special variety of it all, or at least the variety I have conjured for myself. Some of it surely has been romanticized, but isn't that the great thing about all that is far away, whether geographically or chronologically? We forget all that made us pull out our hair in favor of that which makes our eyes glisten with nostalgia. Thank heavens for that.

I was fortunate, growing up, to have an extra-special home/Home. We lived just outside the city on 18 acres, in a home built in 1808. As a 9-year-old child, moving from a duplex I shared with my single mother to what then seemed a palatial home with outbuildings, a barn, a pool and a guest house, I felt like Little Orphan Annie moving into Daddy Warbucks' estate.

As an adult, I now see my house of childhood in comparison with the McMansions that have sprung up all around, and I see that our house is not so grand. The edges are worn, things need replacing. But it has something those McMansions will never possess: soul. And that is a fine thing indeed.

My family has since gone through some changes over the last few years, and our family house is now for sale. My mother sent over a few of the listing photos, which inspired me to reflect on not only my childhood house, but my childhood Home, and why I miss it so.

Then I remind myself: home isn't a place but a state of mind--it's the people who make it home, and we carry those people with us wherever we go.