notes for summer

I feel like snail mail is a thing of the past for some, but I still send cards- birthday, congratulations, just feel better in general cards. There are quite a few seasonal designs out there if something inspires you to drop a summer line... or a thank you ....or a get well.....

Images: tinyprints, etsy, etsy, etsy, etsy, felixdoolittle, riflepaperco, tinyprints

Date? Saved.

vintage Polish stamp via http://stampdesigns.tumblr.com/post/340299879/poland-postage-stamp-kitten-c-1966-designed-by

{lots more postal prettiness to be found on that tumblr too}

Slowly but surely I'm getting the hang of this wedding planning thing.

The reason is because I've learned to "delegate" as my mother would say, but I am not ashamed to admit that what I'm really doing is pawning things off on my loved ones.

Case and point: the Save the Date cards (which, thank goodness, we've finally sent off). My future Mister* designed the postcard, found an affordable printer, and patiently dealt with me when I gave him useful critiques like - But is it too orange? And then we have my lovely friend Ruby who addressed these beauties with her graceful handwriting and dealt with sending out all of the last minute ones I forgot about.

Anyway, thanks to my wedding team (and eBay for the stamps) I was so happy with our Save the Date cards that I couldn't help but photograph the crap out of them in all their bright and mismatched glory...

The photo shoot was, however, interrupted by my one true love (a certain green-eyed cat) as her jealousy sent the cards scattering before she then decided to take a nap on them. Little did she know that her actions just made the postcards more perfect... after all, who doesn't love to receive mail with little bits of cat hair stuck under vintage postage?

*Sorry to steal your blog's term of endearment for your man, Celia. It's pretty perfect, but I promise to come up with my own soon... unless, of course, you have any suggestions?? Hey now - that's an idea...

Dear readers,

Can I delegate that responsibility of nicknaming my husband-to-be for use in the blog - to you?

I've been referring to him as BF ("the boyfriend") thus far, but that's only going to work for so long (until November - to be exact). Plus, "BF" as a nickname technically doesn't even work anymore since we had to go and got all French and fiancéd....

Anyway, any and all suggestions to nickname my man would be appreciated and carefully considered.

Sincerely,
Vivi

Thursday, a "Save the Date" postcard, and Etsy

"Retro Vintage Inspired Balloon Save the Date Postcards" by FeliceDesign

Okay, so we've made a draft of a working guest list and have seen one potential place for the ceremony/reception so the "Save the Date" card is next, right? This looks to be a lot more fun than worrying about shelling out way too much money for a chain hotel ballroom with no windows... In terms of the "Save the Date" - we're thinking of going the postcard route and lucky for us that there are just so many unique and fun styles we could go with, don't you just love all of these? Now someone help me decide...

"Katie / Custom Save-the-Date Postcards" by paperjo

"Antique Save the Date Post Card" by jamiekonet

"Save the Date Vintage Beer Label Microbrewery Wedding" by shadowboxercrafts

"Save the date - York" by DIYpaperie

"Vintage Travel Postcard Save the Date (Rhode Island)" by beyonddesign

"Save the Date" by consideringlilies

"Claudia Save the Date Postcards" by greenquince

"So was I once myself a swinger of birches."

"Berkshire Birches, Berkshire Hills, Mass."

Don't fight me on this. I know you think Robert Frost is boring or too familiar or writes long poems that you can't figure out because you don't "get" poetry. But give him another chance, give the poem "Birches" another read even if you sort of remember it from high school or think it's way too popular. As you may have noticed, I'm a reader of poetry and I try to read new poets as much as possible, but sometimes I just need those comfort poems - those poems that continue to move me with each and every reading. (And don't the pretty vintage postcards of birch trees entice you at all?)

"Among the Birches, Green Island, Lake George, N. Y."

"Birches"

by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

"Tents under birches, Saranac Lake, Adirondacks, N. Y."