You say pee-oh-nee, I say pee-uh-nee...

One of the things I love about living in an older house is uncovering its history. The previous owner of our home was the original owner--she and her husband bought the house when it was newly built in 1965 and raised their three children here. She was a nurse. She was from Utah. She loved gardening. Her daughters still hold a swimming record for the neighborhood swim team. She really loved her house, and let her children know that she wanted a family with children to buy it when she died.

For the first few weeks in the house I felt like I was getting to know Sally and her family. I apologized as I peeled off her wallpaper and took down her valances. I filed her organized stack of owner's manuals that had the purchase date and location written neatly on each one. I laughed when we liberated the pocket door that was accidently or intentionally nailed shut with the installation of shelves on the adjoining wall years ago. I wonder how many times she grumbled about her husband nailing that thing shut? And I heard stories from every neighbor about Sally and her peonies.

The peonies I inherited with our first house in Portland were my some of my favorite flowers in the garden. And this yard has TONS of them. According to the neighbors, Sally would divide them in the Fall and bring the divisions to various neighbors with the same instructions: "Just bury them in the ground with their tits sticking out."

For the last week or so I've had a steady supply of pale yellow peonies with pink ruffled edges on my table and counter. The white ones in the front yard will probably start opening tomorrow. When we bought the house Sally's son called me to tell me how happy his mom would be that we were moving into her home. And he had one request from his sisters: that I send them a start to their mom's peonies in the fall when I divide them. I will. And will absolutely tell them to bury them with their tits sticking out.