Strawberry Blonde

This morning, found myself staring at the art of Carl Larsson and thinking that his rendering of linens, bedclothes, garments, and thus and such was magnificent, as well as timely and--that old chestnut--classic. (The above version doesn't do justice to the color. Will hunt for better.)

Wouldn't you love to have the stripey curtains tucked behind those Swedish beds, or draped in that domino-esque way on the ceiling? Those little red wool tufts hanging at perfect intervals above it all? Is this not magic?

And, below, there's a strawberry blonde on a sled that makes me miss my sister...but not those long northern nights that we knew in Germany.

Do you remember the smell of melted ice on wool, mittens with a slight crust of snow from the lunky snowman we tried to roll together in the yard? Pinecones worked pretty well for eyes, and there was always a sprig of cedar for a lame little arm or two. Carrots for noses were not so easy, so a rock often sufficed. And, since they were there again, more pinecones for the smile. By the time we got to putting him all together, it was sort of done already...wasn't there a cup of hot chocolate waiting for us, maybe? Shouldn't we just plop his head on, stick those pinecones well in, and go somewhere warm?

I love the pale sun working it's way through the frostridden sky. And I miss that strawberry blonde, and her parents.

Love to all in Virginia, New York, Germany and elsewhere.

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