If there is a heaven it must be early June

Every day, I walk outside and think, the the garden cannot become any more beautiful. Then, it defies me and becomes more beautiful.





How is this possible? I do not have a particularly grand garden... my house, while atmospheric in its late 19th-C.-farmhouse-ness...
is a tad shabby around the edges (although the dining room looked awfully nice the other evening for my annual strawberry shortcake fest... I baked up a whole lot of the richest shortcakes and dumped them on the table, and voila! Abundance....)


I honestly believe, though, I live in a palace -- at least I do when it's early June. I told a friend that one evening not long ago, I came home from a hard day at work, stepped out the back door, and glimpsed this sight... all the while inhaling the sharp, sweet fragrance of honeysuckle. I felt I was the richest woman in the world, although technically I am far from that: