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DSCN5973Shall I tell you a story of linen and ink, gardens and waterfalls, sunshine and splendor?

It occurs at the Chicago Botanic Garden in Glencoe, Illinois.

Our garden club’s adventure started with a private tour of the Lenhardt Library; a treasure trove of horticultural books, journals, periodicals, reproduction prints and more. There was an amazing display of noteworthy bookplates, including those of Charles Dickens and Eugene Field.  Several of us were particularly interested in Field’s bookplate as we first met long before joining the garden club, when our children attended Field School, named for the poet. (you know him – Wynken, Blynken and Nod).

After our introduction to the wonders Lenhardt has to offer, we were taken into the June Price Reeder Rare Book Room. It was as if a hush fell on my soul, so enthralled was I in the presence of four centuries of bound and conserved horticultural wisdom, some of which became the template of remedies for modern medicine.  To touch the linen pages that predate the anniversary of Columbus’s discoveries, the day before Columbus Day is commemorated here, is rather awesome, indeed. The library is in the painstaking process of digitizing  these books and journals, some truly tomes, for all to access. You can see some of them by clicking the link to the rare book room above.

No garden club event seems complete without food, so, we stopped for lunch at the Cafe. We commiserated over sandwiches, soups, salads and sunshine, then separated, some taking a tram tour of the grounds, others walking the paths.  I suspect most of us also ended up in the bountiful gift shop before heading home.

The groundskeepers were busy, hauling this and that, flowers and soil, pumpkins and gourds, readying the Botanic for this weekend’s fall festivities. It was a pristine day; the best kind for visiting such an expansive garden. The Chicago Botanic Gardens is a destination for grade school field trips as well as an international destination to world travelers.  It pleased me to no end to hear the many languages that were being uttered and the universal joy of horticulture.

Here are a few photos taken in the Rare Book Room.  Our guide was Leora Siegel, the library’s director. It is an understatement to say that she was exemplary as she guided us through the centuries of books. I felt a tinge of regret when the tour concluded as I longed to hear and see more.

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Finally, a few photos of the grounds, which include the Japanese garden, the vast vistas, waterfall, and stunning chrysanthemums dripping from the main arbor leading out to the Botanic’s grounds.

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Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold . . . 

from The Pumpkin by John Greenleaf Whittier

Pumpkin lattes.

Pumpkin pancakes with maple syrup.

Always – pumpkin pie.

Jack-o-Lanterns. and Jack-o-Lantern Tea Loaf (aka pumpkin bread).

Pumpkin scarecrows atop pumpkin towers in pumpkin patches.

Fields and fields, acres and acres of wilting vines with ripe orange gourds of goodness.

Robert Newton Peck’s hilarious children’s story, Havoc on Halloween,  from the book “Soup and Me.” 

It’s pumpkin season in the middle of fall, here in Illinois:  the biggest pumpkin producer in the country.

Addendum to today’s post – I just saw a notification from WordPress that today is my 5th anniversary in blogging. :)  Wow! Thanks to each and every one of you for traveling along the Cutoff with me; reading, commenting, encouraging, laughing, crying . . . You make it fun and meaningful for me.    Penny

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DSCN5701“Yia Yia. What is true love?”  . . .

. . .  so began our rainy-day morn as we watched Frozen together.

It was a thought-provoking conversation with a lass sixty years younger than I am.  Kezzie and I manage to enter in such conversations. I love her curiosity about life, and, in this case, about true love.

 We discussed our hearts’ amazing capacity for love. I was settled upon the couch. Kezzie was bouncing with barely contained enthusiasm around the living room; a princess in a pink dress. We discussed who we love and how we love new things while still loving those we already have a heart for –  all while she danced and gestured and stepped into the animation on the screen through her own lively imagination;  body and soul, my sweet little girl.

We talked about how she loved her Mommy and Daddy and how they loved her and when her little brother was born there was more love to go around. We talked about love of grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. Then, she pretended to be Elsa from the movie and burst into song, duplicating her actions on screen. Elsa and Kezzie, singing together the song “Let it Go“.

Suddenly, from the Pack ‘n Play, a newly emerging voice shouted out  “let go – let go!

I look forward to more interesting conversations, as time goes by.  For now, I’ll just let it go.

True love; it is found in many places; family, friends, pets. It is more, much more, than a kiss from a handsome prince.

 

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 This week was a week that was;  a toddling sort of week, in a Chicago big shoulders sort of way. A good week for a town often plagued with scandal, murders, and controversy.

It was a good week in Chicago. A week to forget for a bit the troubles that we have as we enjoyed the feel good moments of the National Little League winning team, locally referred to as JRW – Jackie Robinson West. In a town big enough to have two major league teams, the south side White Sox, and the north side Cubs, we finally have a team that has won a national series and became the National Little League champions.

On Tuesday, the “boys of summer”, as they are being called, were honored with a tribute at their home field, Morgan Park, with politicos of every ilk, media of every kind and accolades they rightfully earned. It was followed by a a parade through Chicago, a town that loves its parades, to an enormous rally at the lakefront in Millennium Park.

My dear readers, JRW is a team to be proud of. These young boys were humble in their achievements, and gracious in their loss as World Champions to Korea;  lessons to be learned by professional athletes, who scream, shout, and carry on.

Tom and I sat and watched the festivities, smiles and laughs and a tear or two. This little league team, it seems, has taught us all some big league lessons that have far more to do with life than about baseball.

We finished out this wondrous week that was by attending the last of the free summer concerts at the Burr Ridge Centre. For one reason or another, we only managed to get to one concert this summer; one that was just so-so. It was an ABBA tribute and should have been frolicking good fun, but, well, it just wasn’t.

Friday’s band was what we call a tribute band called the Chicago Experience – and oh, what an experience it was. A tribute band for a well known group of years bygone, Chicago. This band played, non-stop, for more than 90 minutes and would, I believe have gone on longer if the threat of thunderstorms had not been pressing.  They played Chicago songs without missing a note and took many of us back several decades; as far back as 1969.

Like their namesake, Chicago, the Chicago Experience consisted of more than most groups of the era. This was a 10 piece group of musicians, at least that was how many I could see and count, replete with a phenomenal horn section.

Yes, dear reader, it was a very good Chicago sort of week – and a grand way to officially end our summer.

This music video is Chicago, the original group, courtesy of YouTube, not the Chicago Experience, though it could easily have been. We had fun at the concert, even more so since our friend Rick, a trumpeter himself, was with us. His appreciation and reactions were priceless.

Does your town or region have a rock group that carries its name? Did you see a live summertime music performance this year?

 

Photo source http://www.sportsworldnews.com/articles/17076/20140823/jackie-robinson-west-stars-chicago-play-little-league-world-seris.htm.

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DSCN5599We sat in the cool of Chianti’s restaurant, munching on bread sticks and sumptuous salads, sipping iced tea, playing peek-a-boo with baby at the table nearby, and chatting about the vast venue of shiny vintage autos lined up in precision along the main drag at Sunday’s Geneva Concours d’Elegance.

Our table talk went from antique cars to wheels and rims, hood ornaments and horse power and all that comes along with a vintage car show, especially one of this caliber. Tom asked how my photos were and if I was going to do a post with them. Of course I was – and I even had a title brewing. Rimshot.

This led to a conversation about the term, which I thought was about basketball. You know, when the ball hits the rim, rolls around, and points are scored?

Not really. No. Uhuh. A rimshot, I was kindly informed by my handsome dining companion, aka Antler Man, is when something happens on stage.  A lame joke sort of thing where the drummer hits the rim with a drumstick

 Mr. Google helped me defend my own rimshot impression, however, for it also has a basketball reference, which made me feel better as I was beginning the think that the oppressively hot and humid day and the glare of the sun on all the shiny metal had melted my brain. Phew! So, dear reader, here are some rimshots of a vehicular sort, taken along the Geneva Concours d’Elegance. From a simple city gal who loves flowers and books and butterflies, a collection of vintage tires, rims and other memorable medal from our  motoring past.

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24Clippers in hand, I made my way down the drive to the patch of August Lily hostas. They had bloomed with heavenly fragrance for several weeks, the tall, white spikes attracting bees and showing off in their seasonal splendor.  Now, unattractive spindles of a past life remained. It was time, past time if truth be told, to trim them back, tidy them up, make the large, thick skirted leaves presentable again.

The neighbors were out, a vintage set of wheels emerging off of a trailer. A congregation of teenagers and eager adults reliving their own youth transported the muscle car onto their drive. Trying to be inconspicuous, I moseyed around to the front yard and started clipping the spent stalks from the hostas.

Intent on my work,  I pulled weeds and started tidying up the hostas. There I was, trying to favorably adjust my own vintage posterior in a pseudo plie′, snip snipping away, until I suddenly found myself in a clump.  There I was, indelicately on my moon shaped bottom with my cabbage-like face looking out from amongst the hosta leaves and giant ferns, an antique Cabbage Patch Kid, lost in a fern gully.

Yep. They saw me, I’m sure, for the giggles and snorts had nothing to do with the muscle car being revved up a few decibels louder than my own laughter.

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William Glackens The Soda Fountain1-2-324-25-ExplorePAHistory-a0b1n0-a_349The musical tunes of an ice cream truck coming down the street still gives me the urge to run inside for pocket change and the promise of a Good Humor Bar. Long lines at Dairy Queen bring back fond memories of my dad and our ice cream summer; the year he took us out every Saturday night, to a different place each week, for ice cream. The first of the Saturdays was my introduction to a chocolate dipped ice cream cone.

The other day, running errands and dosed with decongestants and antibiotics, I stopped at the local MacDonald’s for something to quench my thirst. A carbonated soda. I know. I know. They aren’t good for me, but, at $1, any size, a diet Coke was ordered at the drive-up window. Soda in hand, I pulled into a parking space to unleash the papered straw. As I backed out of the space, I glanced at the cherry red economy car parked next to me. The window was rolled down and there, inside, sat two very intense girls, neither a day younger than 80. Their perfectly coifed hair was as white as the ice cream cones they were eagerly licking. These were women on a mission. I watched them engaged in what looked like pure girlish bliss, not a word between them for all I could tell, as they tackled their 49 cent cones, and I’ll just bet they had a pact not to tell a soul what they had been up do.

I wonder what it is about ice cream that brings out the child in us?

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My Chicago Botanic Garden

A blog for visitors to the Chicago Botanic Garden.

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