I returned home from my stay in the hospital, feeling much — MUCH — better. Imagine my surprise when I looked into the garden and saw all of the terra cotta pots lined up like the upstairs/downstairs servants on “Downton Abbey” greeting the arrival of the lord of the estate.
Actually, I had arranged them before the health hoopla for a post on my love of terracotta. My idea was to call it a family portrait with some smarmy comment about it beging so hard to get everyone together for a family photo. But with days and days spent in the hospital, as well as all of the doctors and tests, I had forgotten all about that photo shoot and that post. Oh, well. You know what they say about best laid plans.
In any event (and in my own warped mind), it was flattering to think that the terra cotta team thought as much about me as much as I do of them. I really don’t know where this affection for terra cotta began. I just know that I like the color, the feel, the texture, the variety, the warmth, the weathered age. When I see them in the garden, I am reminded of sun-splashed Meditteranean vacations, where whitewashed walls are the perfect backdrop for terra cotta pots overflowing with red geraniums.