wherefigsfly

What do you get when you mix an old classic desk, German lapboard, genuine leather, Annie Sloan duck egg blue and coco chalk paint, heaps of hand sanding, wax, a great metal chair, fabric, and a little pride and prejudice and sense and sensibility?  Voila…

SOLD

Whether with pen or paper, or something with software…

Write on,

june

While our thing is rethinking a piece or thinking up a piece, sometimes we just happen upon a very interesting dojigger that doesn’t require us to use our noggins.  Such was the case with this antique German shrunk.

Supposedly, a betrothed gal would pack up her dreams in this. 

The shrunk is beautiful and functional where it has landed in a historic home that is high with its ceilings and low with its closets.  Beauty and function…the stuff of an amazing, stand-the-test-of-time marriage in furniture world.  Bliss.

Far too often, caring thoughts and good intentions simply stay stuck in my head.  They never get out and become thoughtfulness.

A month ago, we had a visit from a Georgia gent who really knows his woodworking.  He shared his expertise and excitement with us…which was a gift within itself.  And then later, we received a surprise package in the mail.  Inside was a handmade push guide and a scribbled note. Now here’s a guy who knows how to major on the majors.

A push guide to keep you safe while planing & sawing   -Major\

Best wishes for the 4th of July,

june

Available

Now why did we get this piece?  Frankie and I asked this nearly every time we walked around it in the barn.  This piece was in ridiculous shape, not to mention d-i-r-t-y, when we purchased it.  From the beginning we knew it would be yellow…thus, the yellow-to-be-fellow was dubbed Colonel Mustard. 

He’s definitely yellow now…and handsome…and definitely not stodgy as his name might suggest.  In fact, the story around the barn is that he marched into some sun-drenched port, met a gal named Contessa Marcelina, and he will never be the same.

Aye, aye Captain…I mean,Colonel,

june

Often inspiration comes from subtle and strange places…but occasionally it is blatant. 

                     Tone on Tone                                                                 The Flying Fig

                                 March 29, 2012

This photo and paint chips and chest-on-chest in the shop…galvanizing!

Once upon a time, around The Flying Fig barn, there were a few cows and and a few horses and pigs. Lots and lots of pigs. Landrace pigs, to be exact. Sows and boars and adorable piglets.  They rooted and snorted and wallowed, but never flew.

Today, the only remnants of the pig houses are old cement troughs.  We drilled some holes in the cement bottoms, poured in some rich soil, and voila, The Flying Fig has flower vessels. 

If a year ago, you had asked anyone (including me) if anything like The Flying Fig was probable, the answer would have been when pigs fly.  And with flowers and rosemary growing in the old pig troughs, the improbable seems more possible.  Maybe, just maybe, pigs can fly.  And maybe, just maybe, figs can fly too.

The Flying Fig…where did you get that name?  That is one of our most-oft asked questions.   

There’s a two-part answer.

Part 1:  Over a year ago, I lost my biggest fan…my dad.  Some dear friends gave me condolences in the form of generous words and homemade fig cake and a gift certificate for fig trees from  Wildcat Ridge Farm near Asheville.  In the wake of loss, this was not a gift I received lightly.  Special, I tell ya. 

Part 2:  Fast forward a few months…I’m at home, by myself, and frustrated.  Aloud, the words came… I don’t give a flying fig.  I laughed out loud.  I had never used that phrase before, but the alliterative turn of expression made me laugh.  For the life of me, I don’t remember why I was frustrated…but I do remember laughing out loud.

So, what’s in the name?  Some big and weighty stuff.  Some small and light stuff.  The stuff of life.

What’s in a name? Juliet asked this while making sense of the senseless Montague/Capulet drama.  Though out of context, maybe Shakespeare’s words can also address The Flying Fig…such stuff as dreams are made on.

WARNING:  Do not take me to Whole Foods or The Meat House unless you want to see me pitch a fit at the checkout counter because I  must have a piece of expensive fig cake.