I have a thing for flowers. Not the Technicolor, cellophane-wrapped bunches you find in the grocery store, although those certainly have their purpose and place. Not the extravagant, perfectly arranged masterpieces created by our Island florists, either – though I’d never turn down one of those.
To my mind, there’s nothing better than a loosely arranged, slightly wild bunch of Vineyard blooms: the type you find at a roadside stand or collect from a local farm or harvest from your own garden. I go for those every time.
I didn’t always feel this way. Once upon a time, I cared little for flowers, in fact. Then I visited the old Whippoorwill Farm CSA. Funny enough, it’s a story remarkably similar to that of my colleague Susie Middleton, who graces the cover of this magazine and offers a wonderful primer on how to grow bouquet-worthy blooms on page 36.
I was living in Boston at the time, enjoying the concrete and concert halls, when I was invited to tag along with a friend for her weekly CSA pickup. Out there in the fields, on the site of the current-day Island Grown Initiative headquarters, we collected our bag of vegetables, harvested a few peas, and made our way down the impossibly long and beautiful rows of flowers, where members were invited to pick their own. Bees and birds buzzing around me, I busily gathered cosmos and zinnias and celosia and cleome and became overwhelmed with a particular feeling – the sort of thing Oprah might refer to
as an “aha” moment.
“This right here?” I thought. “This is great. Give me more of this. More, more, more.”
Not long after, I moved to the Vineyard and made those fields part of my weekly routine. I learned the flowers’ Latin names, their vase life, drying potential, and sunlight and soil preferences. Eventually, I began to grow my own. That’s when my obsession really began.
These days, from the earliest signs of spring until the first killing frost, you’ll find me out in the yard, scissors in hand, collecting the bounty of my hard and joyful work.
I inexpertly but lovingly arrange the bunches of flowers, then display them on my dining room table, windowsills, mantle, nightstand, kitchen counter – pretty much whatever surface I can find. At any given time, I might have between five and ten small arrangements at once.
I’m well aware it would be easier (and probably less expensive) to buy a bunch of bouquets to decorate my home. But the sheer accumulation of flowers, while beautiful, isn’t really the point. Heading out into the fields is part meditation, part manual labor, part continuing education. It’s an act of nurturing, an ode and devotion to the beauty of the Island. It’s a simple pleasure, above all.
That’s what this issue of the magazine is all about.
How we choose to define such pleasures is different for everyone, as evidenced by the stories contained in these pages. For some, it means embracing clean lines and eschewing clutter. For others, it means digging their hands in the dirt. For another family, it’s about creating space for a new generation while keeping a house full of memories – not to mention a killer view – intact.
As for me? It’s about taking time to stop and smell (and grow) the roses – and the cosmos and dahlias and marigolds. Fortunately, I’ve found that’s not hard to do when they’re on display in every room of my home.
