My Last Show House

I parked my Jeep in the First Congregational Church parking lot in Kittery Point, Maine.  I walked across the road and took a picture to memorialize my visit.

Then I said to myself “this is the last BLEEP show house I’m going to visit.  Ever.”

There is a lot that goes on “behind the scenes” at decorator show houses and that’s probably one reason why I’m addicted to visiting them.  Watch me like a hawk in a show house because I’m that person who is looking very closely at the drapery detailing and turning over the edges of carpets to examine the knots.  Posting signs that say “do not touch” and “no photography” is a charming challenge to me; I must know how that window treatment is attached to the molding.  I may not “touch” the draperies, but I’ll get uncomfortably close to them.

If a volunteer is staffing a room, I’ll strike up a conversation with them until one of two things happens:

a)       The volunteer realizes they’ve neglected their staffing duties and they quickly excuse themselves from the room to attend to other visitors or,

b)      I tell them I’m a designer and “would you mind if I took a picture of that teeny tiny corner of the floor treatment?”

Not everyone likes show houses.  There is a subtle theatricality to them which reminds me that gallons of Farrow & Ball paint won’t cover up the dust and ugliness of living.  Stunning window treatments and piles of fluffy pillow don’t say much on lonely winter evenings, either.

Still, there is a lot that goes on at a decorator show house.  There is a lot that goes on “behind the scenes” at this blog, too.  One unseen feature is that I act as the “moderator” to the comments.  Some bloggers allow comments to post automatically.  This leads to spam showing up in the comments; some bloggers like spam comments because it creates an illusion of higher reader volume.  I prefer not to post faux comments from gel nail polish spam bots which say things like “highly energetic blog.  I enjoyed it a lot.  Will there be a part 2?”

Part 2?  La, this is part 22 of my show house habit.

After visiting the set of this summer’s Museums of Old York’s 24th Annual Decorator Show House, I’m once again inspired to examine my furniture, my window treatments, my wall hangings, and my show house addiction.  Can I kick the habit altogether or can I moderate my fascination with such inspirations of loveliness?  Will I finally make peace with my own shabby interiors?  Can some other type of house replace my voyeuristic desire to walk into a stage set for an hour or two once a summer?  If there is such a house, where is it and what does it look like?

I have a few thoughts.

The Museums of Old York’s Designer 24th Annual Show House runs from now until August 15, 2013 at 2 Lawrence Lane, Kittery Point, Maine.  The house is open every day except Tuesday from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. On Sundays, the hours are from 1:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. For more information, click here.  Tickets are (still) $20.

Posted in Talk of The Toile | Tagged , , , , , | 7 Comments

Beauty is Everywhere

Most people driving along Route 196 through Lisbon Falls probably don’t notice these.  They’re distracted by the cares of the world.

photo(2)Beauty is everywhere.  Slow down and find it.

Posted in Today We Rest | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

Trending into Prague

Sometimes, Reggie Black drives me crazy.

He doesn’t do it intentionally; he’s a polymath and a polyglot. He can’t help himself. If I told him he was driving me crazy, he’d say “Girl, I’m not responsible for what happens with the information I give you. We’re all responsible for our own thoughts and feelings.”

Reggie’s right. I should have paid more attention in college.

I just wish Reggie hadn’t sent me pictures of the clock tower in Prague and the stained glass windows at St. Barbara’s church in Kutná Hora. I wish he hadn’t introduced me to an early twentieth century illustrator and artist named Alphonse Mucha.

I wish he hadn’t sent it last night when I was ruminating about my Friday blog post.

The illustrator and artist I had planned to write about today was N.C. Wyeth. I was writing a long sketch in my mind about my introduction to the works of the Wyeths, my thoughts about famous rusticators, and the artistically unique light and scenery of Maine.

I was hoping to include some cathedral pines and a slight homage to the small, organic farmers who are making Maine more food-resilient than the rest of the nation. I wanted to end with a sweeping comment that went something like this:

“…and there is something you can’t buy and there is something you can’t build. There is something here that transcends money. It has to do with living and breathing and dying and generations of that happening, over and over. One may replace those rotting front porches with Azek trim boards, but it won’t replace the smell of time that remains from the things which can’t be bought and reconstructed.”

I was planning to make peace with the rusticators, but instead, I’m staring at the clock tower in Prague and looking at my watch. I’ve run out of time.

A bientôt j’espere, Reggie!

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Next Spring

My porch pansies are starting to look listless.  Next spring, I’ll go back to geraniums.

It must be this morning’s August in the air that has me thinking of next spring.

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The Joy Killers

Wednesdays are generally “Tiny Steps Gardening Days,” here on the blog.  It’s also “Five Islands Week.”  Fortunately, for the sake of thematic blog unity, there is a “Five Islands Farm.”  They were closed when I walked by on Saturday night, but I’m going to visit them some day.  Although it’s not a “working” farm, the owner brings together produce and food items from local producers and offers it to the permanent and summer residents of Five Islands.  It’s an attractive place, tidy, clean, and appealing.

It’s not a big box store.

If I were staying on Five Islands, I’d be happy to visit this local business.  According to their website, they’ve been serving the Five Islands community for twelve years.  It would be interesting to learn more about their beginnings and their early vision for their business.  When I visit, I plan to ask a lot of questions.

I wonder what friends said when the Five Island Farm owners mentioned they were going to open a store in a village which is part of a town of approximately 1,000 year-round residents.  Did they say “that’s a really dumb idea?”  If so, I’m sure it was difficult dealing with such “joy killers.”

It’s possible that some of their friends suggested they write a business plan, analyze the needs of their local community, and assess their resources.  It’s helpful when friends are rational and encouraging about joyful dreams.

30 years ago, a couple in Alabama had a dream of building an underground house to reduce the high costs of heating and cooling a home during the 1970’s oil embargo.  Home builder and owner Jim Mortenson said “We told our families, and they didn’t tell us we were crazy.”

People have a lot of crazy ideas.  Some of them are very good ideas, but for a variety of reasons they’re not possible.  There is a danger in believing the old maxim of “If you can imagine it, you can achieve it.  If you can dream it, you can become it.”  That’s a myth and it’s also bad theology.  Don’t believe it.

I used to think I could be a supermodel because I was tall.  I clipped this picture out of a magazine to inspire me.

I dreamed of looking like this woman.  It was never going to happen, no matter how thin I was or how I styled my hair.  That kind of fantasy only happens on Tee Vee.

I wish I had focused on more realistic dreams when I was young and foolish; things like growing my own food, learning how to drive a tractor, and writing about it.  I’m doing that now and most of the time, my friends cheer me along.  They also tell me not to quit my day job just yet.  My friends are reasonable and rational.

There’s nothing wrong with encouraging people to explore dreams and ideas.  There are realistic ways to embrace a friend’s excitement without being a joy killer.

Find them.

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Goodnight, Sweetheart

A group of men and women are waiting in line at a convenience store.  A man with a radio voice strikes up a conversation and says he’s “definitely not in step with most of today’s society and proud of it.”

I wonder what the men and women in the line would think?

That man is Bob Bittner.  I’ve never met him or seen him in a line at a convenience store.  When I’m at home, we listen to his radio station, WJTO.  He calls it the “Memory Station” and I have a lot of sweet and funny memories from listening to the music when I’m at home with my parents.  We listen to it in the house and we listen to it when we’re sitting in our lawn chairs underneath the beautiful trees in our backyard.  A rare tune will come on and my father might say “I haven’t heard that song in a long time.  Do you remember, Helen, dancing to it at Island Park?  Paul and Nancy drove up in that big Cadillac, and…”

I listen closely and then I excuse myself and run in the house to jot all these things down in my reporter’s notebook.

The past has a sound and sometimes, if I listen closely, I can hear it.

When I was walking around Five Islands in the dark on Saturday night, I heard it.  I came around a bend and I could see porch lights about a hundred yards in from the road.  There was nothing unusual or nostalgic about the porch, but out of the darkness between the house and me came the sound of the McGuire Sisters singing “Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight.”

I pulled out my Tic Tac phone and typed the song title in my digital reporter’s notebook.  I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

It reminded me of many things, but mostly that Bob Bittner is having his annual WJTO fundraiser.  Once a year, he decides how much money he needs to run the station and he asks people to send donations.  When he raises enough money, he ends the fundraiser until the next year.  Running WJTO is a hobby for Bob; he doesn’t use any of the money for a salary.  He raises just enough to run the station, pay for the FCC licensing, and the electricity.  Bob doesn’t play commercials, so the fundraiser is what keeps WJTO running.

Every little bit helps to keep this beautiful and memorable music alive on terrestrial radio.

It’s sort of like buying a farm share.  Bob calls it “listener-supported radio” and I’ve sent in a donation in the past two years because I like the sentimental memories I’ve collected from listening with my parents.

I don’t know Bob Bittner personally.  I invited him to my brother’s Moxie book signing and even sent him a copy of the book.  He wasn’t able to attend.  I hope he didn’t think I was looking for some free advertising for my brother’s book.  What Bob says about himself is that he’s “not at all influenced by the big corporate machines that are trying to control all of us.”

I’m no big corporate machine.  Today, I’m going to give Bob some free advertising because I enjoy hearing WJTO streaming out of the pine darkness of the Old Schoolhouse Road on Five Islands.  Then, when I’m done posting my blog, I’m going to send him a check.  The crackly sounds of the station just started streaming into The Coop.  It’s Andy Williams singing “Moon River.”

I hate to leave you but I really must say “Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight.”       
If you’d like to make a donation to support the Memory Station, send your check to WJTO, P.O. Box 308, Bath, ME, 04530.  Contributions made to WJTO are NOT tax-deductible.

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Down the old Five Islands Road

There was a series of short shower bursts on Saturday night and as I headed out of Lisbon Falls, I saw a rainbow to the east of me.  In the geography of my mind, it was right over Baumer’s Field, so I turned my Jeep around and headed to The Farm to take what was sure to be a magnificent picture I would use for the photo header of this blog.

Chasing rainbows is tricky business; they’re random arrays of water drops, refracting sunlight, and geometry.  When I got to The Farm, there was no rainbow and I had made a fatal cut into the time available for driving to Reid State Park.

There was nothing to do but drive straight through the private road and up over Mosquito Hill.  I had done it once before in my 1994 Jeep Grand Cherokee and since two ATV’s had passed me earlier, I knew the rocky and steep road was dry enough for driving.

My heart was pounding all the way.  With each jolt and boulder, I knew I was getting deeper and deeper into trouble if I should fail to reach the top of the Hill and the town-maintained road.  The horse flies were thick and it would be a nasty walk back to town without a swatter if I should get stuck.

There was also the possibility that my father would find out and I’d never hear the end of it.  I started praying and I was sweating a little bit, too.

As Providence would have it, I made it.  The Jeep was muddy, but the brake line was still intact and nothing was leaking out of the engine or radiator.

It was a daredevil move, to be sure.

When I got to Reid State Park, I was confronted by the gate attendant who told me the park would be closing soon.  She didn’t say I couldn’t enter the park, though, so I asked if I could park outside of the gate and walk in.  She said, “The big boys and big girls in Augusta decide the rules here and no one is allowed on state property after dark.”

It was an odd response.  I’ve got a few stalling tactics in my corporate bag of tricks, too.  One of my favorites is “there are a few pieces of administrative work I’ll need to complete before our business is final.”  I’ve never considered saying “The big boys and big girls in our corporate office won’t let me complete this bit of bidness for you.”

Who were these “big boys” and “big girls” in Augusta who controlled the state park and its roads?  What would Walter Reid have thought of them?  Did they really know what was best for me?

Didn’t they know I had just rammed through the private road on The Farm and over Mosquito Hill with nary a loss of brakes?

I mumbled something about government excess in the world and turned around.  Maybe the gate attendant wrote down my license plate and noted my three bumper stickers.  Maybe she radioed the big boys and big girls in Augusta.

“We’ve got a Moxie drinker loose on the roads tonight.”

Ayuh, well I headed on down the old Five Islands Road and parked my muddy Jeep right next to a danged interesting sign.

I got out and did just that.  I walked out on the rocks, I dipped my feet in the ocean, I watched the moon rise over Sheepscot Bay.  I walked down the dark and deserted loop of the Old Schoolhouse Road.  I observed many things and the time for telling about them is drawing to a close.

I’ll return to Five Islands again tomorrow.

Until then, I’m steering clear of the big boys and big girls who want to tell me what to do after dark.

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I’m in Love!

I tried to take a sundown walk at Reid State Park last night; I met a road block.

“The Park closes at 8:15 p.m.”

I glanced at my watch and knew the park’s gate attendant wasn’t going to let me in.

There are other places to walk at sundown.

photoThere are other places to collect a week’s worth of stories.  Let “Five Islands Story Week” begin.

I need to rest today, though. 

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Staying up Late

I stayed up too late last night.  Talk, talk, talk and type, type, type.  Listen.

Listening is the important part.  I need to keep listening.

I’m wiping a little bit of sleep out of the corner of my eye this morning and contemplating words about the arrival of my 2013 Saturn Press catalogue.  I wrote some good words last year; click on the picture to read them!

The inside page of this year’s catalogue has a short message from the good people at Saturn Press:

“Wise Birds Don’t Tweet.  Send real mail today.”

I’m going to send a Saturn Press card right now.   Talk, talk, talk, type, type, type, write, write, write, listen, listen, listen.  Listen, listen, listen twice as much.

Reset.

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The All-Drama Network

There is a flowering plant called the Smoke Bush; according to one garden writer it flourishes in June and July.  My personal observation of the Smoke Bush is that it peaks for no more than a day and then it’s as ugly as a cloud of stale cigarette smoke after a long night of waiting for the telephone to ring.

Sometimes, I miss smoking cigarettes.

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