While I know many parts of the country have been enjoying spring for some time now (in Louisiana and southern California it comes in February!), here in central Maine it's been slipping in just over the past couple of weeks, which is actually a little early. Temperatures in the upper 50s/lower 60s, a decent but not depressing amount of rain making the grass start to grow again (Oh, no! Now I have to start worrying about how to keep it cut again!), blossoming trees breaking out their white and pastel colors overnight, sunshine yellow forsythia and brilliant fuchsia-colored azalea bushes making such a stark contrast with what was still a basically winter-brown background. But fat green buds were beginning to appear on all the branches, and today, for the first time, many trees were sporting a faint green haze.
I suspect that for most Mainers autumn is their favorite season (it is mine), but spring has its own special delights, and thanks to our normally long and snowy winters (though not this year -- we had no real snow storms after the first week of February!), Mainers are always so delighted to see it. Today when I went out to do some errands I saw that the rail trail running through Gardiner/Farming-dale/Hallowell/Augusta was crowded with folks jogging, biking, pushing baby carriages, walking dogs, and just strolling. Out enjoying the beautiful day.
One of my errands was unusually domestic, for me. I had decided I needed a new bathroom window curtain. What I've been using as a curtain for the two years that I've been in this house is one panel of some curtains my stepmother made for me years ago, to match the multi-colored blanket she had knitted for me. Those curtains hung in the windows of several tiny efficiency apartments that I lived in during my 19-year sojourn in Boston. But because they are consider-ably longer than my small bathroom window, I had taken just one panel and draped it up over the curtain rod. I always liked those curtains, mainly because they're so colorful -- bright aqua and blue, hot pink and red, with a small amount of black/white/gold thrown in -- but the pattern is very modern. All those colors appear in stripes of different widths, making it look rather like a painting by Mondrian. Not really appropriate for my conventional little bathroom with the wallpaper of tiny green garlands with cranberry-colored berries.
No, I needed real curtains, that fit properly, of a color that would go with my towels, and the tiny green garlands. And the brown woodwork.
So I drove into downtown Augusta, which basically is one street -- Water Street -- running for several blocks along the river. Augusta, for all that it is the capital city of Maine, really is just an overgrown small town. The numerous empty storefronts along Water Street testify to the fact that the old downtown has been supplanted, as in small towns throughout the country, by a huge shopping center at the northern edge of the city. It isn't a mall, because the stores are not connected, but there's a Walmart (the only store in the area open 24 hours), a Kohl's, a Home Depot, a Pier 21, all the usual suspects. Around the corner from all of this is a Sam's, a Staples (office supplies), a Barnes & Noble bookstore, the local multi-screen movie theatre. All your shopping in one convenient spot.
But I went to one of the businesses still doing business on Augusta's "Main St." The woman who owns the Cozy Cottage Fabrics and Rustic Furniture (how's that for a combination?) relined one of my coats this winter, and did a beautiful job. Even went the extra mile by driving all the way to Portland to get a green satin-like fabric, as she could find none in Augusta (including in her own fabric shop), and still she charged me only $45. So I figured she might just be able to produce a suitable bathroom curtain. I had already looked at Bed, Bath and Beyond, and found that the standard-sized curtains available are too long; and the woman I spoke with there said she'd never seen 30-inch long curtains for sale, anywhere. So it really seemed like custom-made was the only way to go.
I was disappointed that none of the fabrics on display came close to what I'd envisioned, but I finally settled on something I thought was really pretty -- a pattern called Stonehenge, which looks absolutely nothing like the pre-historic site, demonstrating that the people who name fabric patterns are as determinedly creative as the ones who name colors, (e.g., Sea Foam for green) -- and I thought it should go with everything it has to go with. Since I got back home and took another look at the bathroom, I'm having second thoughts, but the die is cast. The very pleasant and helpful woman who waited on me said it should be a couple of weeks...
And my next spring-induced activity? I may just buy a lawn mower!
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Monday, December 21, 2009
Domestic arrangements
And then there's the matter of managing on other people's turf. No dixie cups in the bathroom, for taking pills or rinsing out the mouth purposes (I went out and bought some). No plastic wrap in the kitchen, although there are two rolls of waxed paper (I swear my mother and sister are the only people in the world who still use waxed paper), as well as a roll of some very strange stuff called Press'n Seal. The problem with it is that it's almost impossible to get it off what-ever you put it on. I mean sealed is the word.
What gets recycled where? How does the dishwasher work? (I've practically never in my life had or used a dishwasher.) Ditto, the washing machine. And my god, the television remote!
The hot water takes forever to "arrive," particularly at the bathroom sink, but even in the kitchen. I wait and wait.
I want to put a chair on the far side of Mother's bed, as that supplies the best angle for feeding her, but my sister objects to "too much stuff" between the bed and the couch, so I have to carry the chair around from the other side of the bed whenever I want to sit and feed Mother, then carry it back. And if J is already in that chair, I have to go out and fetch a chair (the one I'm wanting to leave in place all the time) from the breakfast room. This is known as keeping the peace.
But would you believe that the thing that drives me the craziest is that none of the plastic storage containers, of which there are a decent number, has a matching lid (of which there are even more). Maddening, getting the leftover food into a container, trying lid after lid, and none of them fits. How can this be? I've finally taken to using foil...but there's not much of that, so I need to get some more...
It all makes you miss home, where your preferred products are in place, you can put the furniture wherever it makes the most sense, and the hot water instantly appears.
What gets recycled where? How does the dishwasher work? (I've practically never in my life had or used a dishwasher.) Ditto, the washing machine. And my god, the television remote!
The hot water takes forever to "arrive," particularly at the bathroom sink, but even in the kitchen. I wait and wait.
I want to put a chair on the far side of Mother's bed, as that supplies the best angle for feeding her, but my sister objects to "too much stuff" between the bed and the couch, so I have to carry the chair around from the other side of the bed whenever I want to sit and feed Mother, then carry it back. And if J is already in that chair, I have to go out and fetch a chair (the one I'm wanting to leave in place all the time) from the breakfast room. This is known as keeping the peace.
But would you believe that the thing that drives me the craziest is that none of the plastic storage containers, of which there are a decent number, has a matching lid (of which there are even more). Maddening, getting the leftover food into a container, trying lid after lid, and none of them fits. How can this be? I've finally taken to using foil...but there's not much of that, so I need to get some more...
It all makes you miss home, where your preferred products are in place, you can put the furniture wherever it makes the most sense, and the hot water instantly appears.
Friday, November 13, 2009
But they would have been a bitch to heat
One thing that most Americans do at some point in their lives is something I've never done, or had any desire to do: own a house. Since I left home at 18 I have been a life-long renter, and that has been just fine with me. You couldn't find a monthly mortgage as low as many of the rents I've paid over the years, and I haven't had to worry about paying taxes, or insurance, or taking care of repairs, or other major maintenance situations (in two of the four houses I've rented in my life, I did take care of minor repairs...or rather, my handyman husband did).
Given my indifference to the very idea of owning my own home, I find it interesting that one of my favorite things to do is visit old homes that have become museums. I love looking at the size and layout of the rooms -- so often, even though a house may look large from the outside, the rooms really are not big at all, especially when you consider the large families and the voluminous skirts people generally went in for in the olden days -- the furniture, the knick-knacks (despite having no use for knick-knacks in my own home), the dishes and other kitchen utensils that might be on display, the arrangements for using the toilet, for taking a bath (my favorite example of the former was an elegant wooden "throne" in the master bedroom of an old plantation house in New Iberia, Louisiana, whereas my favorite bathroom was at Waddesdon Manor near Aylesbury, England -- the single round window had a stunning view of a huge, beautiful fountain in the center of a formal garden). I love the staircases, all the fireplaces -- even though I know they did a lousy job of keeping the inhabitants warm -- I love imagining what it might have been like to live in these houses.
On my trip to Rockland in early October (Notes of Oct. 11 and 19), between the main building of the Farnsworth Art Museum, and the converted church down the street that houses the Wyeth Center, is the Farnsworth Victorian Homestead. The last member of the well-to-do Farnsworth family bequeathed the building that became the art museum to the town, as well as her family home, with the stipulation that everything in the later structure remain essentially as it was. Although Lucy Farnsworth died in 1935, unmarried and childless at the age of 97; the house had been very little changed from the mid-1800s when it was built; thus, visitors are, indeed, able to see a comfortably middle-class "Victorian homestead."
There was the "second parlor," which was actually the room the family spent the most time in, where guests were routinely received -- the 1800s' equivalent of today's den or family room. This was a good example of what I was saying about rooms not being as large as you would think they would need to be. Across the hall was the formal parlor, much larger, much more "elegant" (actually quite ugly, in that way attempts by the Victorians to be elegant could be). Two of the most interesting rooms were for the servants, the housemaid and the hired man. Upstairs, back of the house over the kitchen, with a nearby stairs leading down to same. Small, very spartan rooms, especially the hired man's. I think about the maid, cleaning the bedrooms of the family -- so much roomier, and more attractive -- did envy ever tug at her brain stem? Or was her situation such that she could only be grateful to have a live-in position (one afternoon off a week), with her own room, small and plain though it was? The Everything's Relative Sydrome...
The one question I had for the two pleasant ladies who were serving as "guards" was, why was the cast iron stove in the kitchen so low?! It seemed almost like a toy. The ladies explained to me that Lucy had been quite short, not even five feet tall, on top of which, the pots and skillets they used back then were quite heavy, and the higher the stove, the more difficult to maneuver them. This answer left me a little skeptical, since surely Ms. Farnsworth had someone to do the cooking. This was a well-to-do lady, after all, in a time when servants were common. But maybe the cook was pint-sized, too.
Interestingly, this stove had a contraption connected to it that used the heat from the stove to produce hot water, which was then pumped to the one bedroom downstairs (which in her old age became Lucy's), and to one of the bedrooms upstairs...that of one of the sons. Lucky, spoiled so-and-so.
Given my indifference to the very idea of owning my own home, I find it interesting that one of my favorite things to do is visit old homes that have become museums. I love looking at the size and layout of the rooms -- so often, even though a house may look large from the outside, the rooms really are not big at all, especially when you consider the large families and the voluminous skirts people generally went in for in the olden days -- the furniture, the knick-knacks (despite having no use for knick-knacks in my own home), the dishes and other kitchen utensils that might be on display, the arrangements for using the toilet, for taking a bath (my favorite example of the former was an elegant wooden "throne" in the master bedroom of an old plantation house in New Iberia, Louisiana, whereas my favorite bathroom was at Waddesdon Manor near Aylesbury, England -- the single round window had a stunning view of a huge, beautiful fountain in the center of a formal garden). I love the staircases, all the fireplaces -- even though I know they did a lousy job of keeping the inhabitants warm -- I love imagining what it might have been like to live in these houses.
On my trip to Rockland in early October (Notes of Oct. 11 and 19), between the main building of the Farnsworth Art Museum, and the converted church down the street that houses the Wyeth Center, is the Farnsworth Victorian Homestead. The last member of the well-to-do Farnsworth family bequeathed the building that became the art museum to the town, as well as her family home, with the stipulation that everything in the later structure remain essentially as it was. Although Lucy Farnsworth died in 1935, unmarried and childless at the age of 97; the house had been very little changed from the mid-1800s when it was built; thus, visitors are, indeed, able to see a comfortably middle-class "Victorian homestead."
There was the "second parlor," which was actually the room the family spent the most time in, where guests were routinely received -- the 1800s' equivalent of today's den or family room. This was a good example of what I was saying about rooms not being as large as you would think they would need to be. Across the hall was the formal parlor, much larger, much more "elegant" (actually quite ugly, in that way attempts by the Victorians to be elegant could be). Two of the most interesting rooms were for the servants, the housemaid and the hired man. Upstairs, back of the house over the kitchen, with a nearby stairs leading down to same. Small, very spartan rooms, especially the hired man's. I think about the maid, cleaning the bedrooms of the family -- so much roomier, and more attractive -- did envy ever tug at her brain stem? Or was her situation such that she could only be grateful to have a live-in position (one afternoon off a week), with her own room, small and plain though it was? The Everything's Relative Sydrome...
The one question I had for the two pleasant ladies who were serving as "guards" was, why was the cast iron stove in the kitchen so low?! It seemed almost like a toy. The ladies explained to me that Lucy had been quite short, not even five feet tall, on top of which, the pots and skillets they used back then were quite heavy, and the higher the stove, the more difficult to maneuver them. This answer left me a little skeptical, since surely Ms. Farnsworth had someone to do the cooking. This was a well-to-do lady, after all, in a time when servants were common. But maybe the cook was pint-sized, too.
Interestingly, this stove had a contraption connected to it that used the heat from the stove to produce hot water, which was then pumped to the one bedroom downstairs (which in her old age became Lucy's), and to one of the bedrooms upstairs...that of one of the sons. Lucky, spoiled so-and-so.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Home invasion
Two nights ago, in the middle of the night, I had to call the police. I honestly thought there was someone walking around in my basement. My basement is on a level with my backyard – down a considerable slope from my very small front yard – and there is a door to the outside. Naturally I keep that door locked, but locks never deterred a determined burglar (or ax murderer). After a couple of minutes of listening, sure that what I was hearing was not the usual creaking of my little wooden house, or anything produced by the fairly brisk wind outside, I leapt from my bed and made for the telephone.
Yay 9-1-1. An instant person who doesn't waste time: "What is your emergency?" I told him my address and said, "I think there's someone down in my basement." I felt a little bit as though I were in a movie, although in a movie I would have had my back to some dark doorway – while the audience was yelling Get out of there, run! – and all of a sudden an arm would have wrapped around my throat from behind, and garroted me. Now I told the officer that "I think I'm going to go outside." I didn't feel up to dealing with some maniac who might come crashing through the door to the basement – breaking the two locks on it to do so – at any moment. That door was all of two feet from where I stood. Actually, I knew this was an unlikely scenario, but I was surprised at how frightened I felt, and being someplace where I could run seemed like a good idea. So I pulled on my robe, that I always leave thrown across the end of my sofa when I go to bed, in case somebody rings my doorbell in the middle of the night, and went out onto my tiny front stoop. And in maybe a minute two police cars pulled up. I was amazed and impressed with the speed of the response, but then I don't guess there's a whole lot of high crime taking place in Gardiner, Maine at 2:30 in the morning.
One fellow went around back; the other went inside with me, down my basement stairs that are so narrow you have to turn sideways to get down them. He tried the door, walked all around, poking into dark corners with his flashlight. Door was locked, no one was lurking behind the furnace. The fellow outside caught no one skulking in the bushes. So they went away, assuring me that it was probably the wind (but I knew the wind did not wear shoes).
And within three minutes I was on the phone again. This time what I had been hearing sounded like a body thumping up against the side of the house, right outside my window. "I really am not crazy," I said. "It may be an animal, but it's something." The fellow on the phone sounded a little less eager to protect and serve, but he said they'd send somebody back out. And in the meantime I put back on my fake-leopard robe, got a hammer out of the utility drawer, and the flashlight from where I keep it beside my bed – this is in case I wake up in the middle of the night and the power's gone out, so the night light I keep burning in the kitchen is out, and either I have to make my way to the bathroom, or I hear noises. This girl keeps herself prepared for all contingencies – and I went out to investigate myself.
Mind you, I have a gun. This dates from when Micheal and I were living out in the country in southern Louisiana, and he would be working offshore for three weeks at a time. I've always been a scaredy-cat when alone in a house at night (not in an apartment, which is what I lived in for most of my adult life, since then you have people all around you); and both Micheal and I had felt it would simply level the playing field if one of those times I heard a noise that frightened me, it actually proved to be a human being with dishonorable intentions.
But I haven't fired the gun in years; haven't even cleaned it in years. Couldn't remember if it was loaded. So decided I'd be better off with the hammer. So there I was, clutching the hammer and swinging my little flashlight around at the side of my house when the police arrived the second time. The young officer (who I think was amused by the hammer) sent me back inside while he walked all around the house. And then he came inside and informed me that I did indeed have an animal. Seems there's a nice big hole up under the eaves by the chimney, an open invitation to any homeless animal who can climb.
After the police left, while I was still standing in the living room, I heard my home invaders, yes, quite clearly over my head, rather than under my feet. I grabbed the broom and pounded on the woodwork that runs around the ceiling (couldn't really pound on the ceiling because it's a dropped ceiling, one of those cardboard things). Kept it up until whoever was up there got quiet. "I have to sleep!" I yelled at the interlopers. Then I went to bed. And today I informed my landlord that he needed to board up the hole.
So there you have the big excitement of my week. Definitely one of those times I could have used a man around the house. He could have gone outside with the hammer and the flashlight.
Yay 9-1-1. An instant person who doesn't waste time: "What is your emergency?" I told him my address and said, "I think there's someone down in my basement." I felt a little bit as though I were in a movie, although in a movie I would have had my back to some dark doorway – while the audience was yelling Get out of there, run! – and all of a sudden an arm would have wrapped around my throat from behind, and garroted me. Now I told the officer that "I think I'm going to go outside." I didn't feel up to dealing with some maniac who might come crashing through the door to the basement – breaking the two locks on it to do so – at any moment. That door was all of two feet from where I stood. Actually, I knew this was an unlikely scenario, but I was surprised at how frightened I felt, and being someplace where I could run seemed like a good idea. So I pulled on my robe, that I always leave thrown across the end of my sofa when I go to bed, in case somebody rings my doorbell in the middle of the night, and went out onto my tiny front stoop. And in maybe a minute two police cars pulled up. I was amazed and impressed with the speed of the response, but then I don't guess there's a whole lot of high crime taking place in Gardiner, Maine at 2:30 in the morning.
One fellow went around back; the other went inside with me, down my basement stairs that are so narrow you have to turn sideways to get down them. He tried the door, walked all around, poking into dark corners with his flashlight. Door was locked, no one was lurking behind the furnace. The fellow outside caught no one skulking in the bushes. So they went away, assuring me that it was probably the wind (but I knew the wind did not wear shoes).
And within three minutes I was on the phone again. This time what I had been hearing sounded like a body thumping up against the side of the house, right outside my window. "I really am not crazy," I said. "It may be an animal, but it's something." The fellow on the phone sounded a little less eager to protect and serve, but he said they'd send somebody back out. And in the meantime I put back on my fake-leopard robe, got a hammer out of the utility drawer, and the flashlight from where I keep it beside my bed – this is in case I wake up in the middle of the night and the power's gone out, so the night light I keep burning in the kitchen is out, and either I have to make my way to the bathroom, or I hear noises. This girl keeps herself prepared for all contingencies – and I went out to investigate myself.
Mind you, I have a gun. This dates from when Micheal and I were living out in the country in southern Louisiana, and he would be working offshore for three weeks at a time. I've always been a scaredy-cat when alone in a house at night (not in an apartment, which is what I lived in for most of my adult life, since then you have people all around you); and both Micheal and I had felt it would simply level the playing field if one of those times I heard a noise that frightened me, it actually proved to be a human being with dishonorable intentions.
But I haven't fired the gun in years; haven't even cleaned it in years. Couldn't remember if it was loaded. So decided I'd be better off with the hammer. So there I was, clutching the hammer and swinging my little flashlight around at the side of my house when the police arrived the second time. The young officer (who I think was amused by the hammer) sent me back inside while he walked all around the house. And then he came inside and informed me that I did indeed have an animal. Seems there's a nice big hole up under the eaves by the chimney, an open invitation to any homeless animal who can climb.
After the police left, while I was still standing in the living room, I heard my home invaders, yes, quite clearly over my head, rather than under my feet. I grabbed the broom and pounded on the woodwork that runs around the ceiling (couldn't really pound on the ceiling because it's a dropped ceiling, one of those cardboard things). Kept it up until whoever was up there got quiet. "I have to sleep!" I yelled at the interlopers. Then I went to bed. And today I informed my landlord that he needed to board up the hole.
So there you have the big excitement of my week. Definitely one of those times I could have used a man around the house. He could have gone outside with the hammer and the flashlight.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Knowing when to fold 'em
Some time ago I watched a PBS program called Who Cares if Bangladesh Drowns, that discussed the fact that that country, presumably to a large extent because of global warming, is being reclaimed by the sea. So much of the land lies at sea level, and when the annual monsoon arrives the people are finding themselves more thoroughly inundated than ever, and for longer periods, with great loss of homes, life, safe drinking water. The number one cause of death for children 1-4 years of age is...not malnutrition, as in so many poverty-riddled countries...but drowning. The gentleman who made the film was making a plea for the countries of the world to come together and do something about global warning. Save Bangladesh.
While I certainly agree that doing something about global warming is an important goal, it isn't going to happen quickly, may not happen to a sufficient extent to save much of the coastal land throughout the world that is threatened, including Bangladesh. The only real solution, it seems to me, is for people to stop living in these places! New Orleans is another example. After Katrina/Rita, I was one of those who thought we should just forget about resurrecting what had, indeed, been a unique, fascinating city, but a city built, not on sand, but on even more untrustworthy water. A city whose time has probably passed. I questioned then, and still question, whether it is worth it to try to rebuild what could quite possibly be wiped out again, in the not-that-distant future...after expending great gobs of money and effort. Wouldn't it make more sense -- wouldn't it actually be cheaper -- to help the citizens and institutions relocate?
According to the doom and gloom fellows, many, many places that lie along continental coasts are going to find that their days are numbered. In the case of low-lying Bangladesh, it's a third of a whole country. And yes, yes, there's the question for all of them of what to do with all the displaced people. In the case of Bangladesh, the narrator informed us that neighboring India cannot take a huge influx of people. The majority of Bangladesh citizens share a religion with Pakistan -- indeed, Bangladesh was originally called East Pakistan, after the division of India -- but the topography and culture of arid, mountainous Pakistan is a long way from that of humid, water-oriented Bangladesh. And of course, people don't want to leave what has always been "home." (See my Note of June 9, 2008). But people have emigrated, throughout history and pre-history, when conditions at "home" proved sufficiently intolerable. I think we have to start thinking in those terms as regards factors other than economic. If you're living at the foot of a live volcano, get the hell out of there. If you're living on a major fault line, get the hell out of there. If you're living in a city or, alas, a country, that is fighting a losing battle with the sea, for heaven's sake go someplace else. Maybe with a little help from your friends, i.e., other countries, other cities.
I remember when I lived in Boston, and the occasional hurricane would come through, wreaking the natural havoc, especially to homes built right on the coast. I would always feel irritated with those people who expected government help in restoring their homes. What, I would think, help you rebuild so the same thing can happen in three or four years? Do humans never learn!!
What humans are slow in learning, I think – or perhaps accepting would be a better word – is that the planet is really in charge. We can influence the weather – witness global warming – but we can't control it. We can't control the inner workings of the planet, that express themselves through volcanoes and earthquakes and tsunamis. All we can do is stay out of the way.
While I certainly agree that doing something about global warming is an important goal, it isn't going to happen quickly, may not happen to a sufficient extent to save much of the coastal land throughout the world that is threatened, including Bangladesh. The only real solution, it seems to me, is for people to stop living in these places! New Orleans is another example. After Katrina/Rita, I was one of those who thought we should just forget about resurrecting what had, indeed, been a unique, fascinating city, but a city built, not on sand, but on even more untrustworthy water. A city whose time has probably passed. I questioned then, and still question, whether it is worth it to try to rebuild what could quite possibly be wiped out again, in the not-that-distant future...after expending great gobs of money and effort. Wouldn't it make more sense -- wouldn't it actually be cheaper -- to help the citizens and institutions relocate?
According to the doom and gloom fellows, many, many places that lie along continental coasts are going to find that their days are numbered. In the case of low-lying Bangladesh, it's a third of a whole country. And yes, yes, there's the question for all of them of what to do with all the displaced people. In the case of Bangladesh, the narrator informed us that neighboring India cannot take a huge influx of people. The majority of Bangladesh citizens share a religion with Pakistan -- indeed, Bangladesh was originally called East Pakistan, after the division of India -- but the topography and culture of arid, mountainous Pakistan is a long way from that of humid, water-oriented Bangladesh. And of course, people don't want to leave what has always been "home." (See my Note of June 9, 2008). But people have emigrated, throughout history and pre-history, when conditions at "home" proved sufficiently intolerable. I think we have to start thinking in those terms as regards factors other than economic. If you're living at the foot of a live volcano, get the hell out of there. If you're living on a major fault line, get the hell out of there. If you're living in a city or, alas, a country, that is fighting a losing battle with the sea, for heaven's sake go someplace else. Maybe with a little help from your friends, i.e., other countries, other cities.
I remember when I lived in Boston, and the occasional hurricane would come through, wreaking the natural havoc, especially to homes built right on the coast. I would always feel irritated with those people who expected government help in restoring their homes. What, I would think, help you rebuild so the same thing can happen in three or four years? Do humans never learn!!
What humans are slow in learning, I think – or perhaps accepting would be a better word – is that the planet is really in charge. We can influence the weather – witness global warming – but we can't control it. We can't control the inner workings of the planet, that express themselves through volcanoes and earthquakes and tsunamis. All we can do is stay out of the way.
Friday, December 19, 2008
There's no place like home
“You are cordially invited to tea at Blaine House...”
Actually, I didn’t get my invitation to the annual Christmas tea at the governor’s mansion because the member of the Kennebec Valley Garden Club who was responsible for a certain number of invitations forgot to mail them out. This lady also happens to be my library’s most dedicated Friend, and it was while she was in decorating the library for the holidays that she remembered to mention the tea to me. (I’m actually pleased when someone else confesses to having forgotten something they were supposed to do. Makes me feel less the pariah). The Garden Club does the decorating for this annual event at Blaine House, and extends the invitations.
I love visiting old houses. This person who was an apartment-dweller from the time she left home at 18 until she moved into her first rental house in the southern Louisiana countryside at the age of 50, and has never in her life had a strong desire to own a home, has always been fascinated by big, beautiful, historically interesting houses. I always find myself imagining what it must have been like to live there, picturing myself sitting in that sitting room, sleeping in that four poster, standing at that window looking out at that garden. So I really could not pass up this chance to visit one of Maine’s most important “houses,” which has been the home of 25 governors and their families since the house was given to the state in 1919.
Located across the street from Maine’s State House in Augusta, and a five minute drive from my little library in Hallowell (the two cities bleed into one another), Blaine House was built in 1833 by a retired ship’s captain. It actually looks something like an old ship – the enclosed lookout on the roof could be the captain’s “bridge”, the four tall, white, black-topped chimneys, two on each side of the roof, could be smoke stacks
The house is the traditional white, with black shutters, and is surrounded by a white picket fence. It does look New Englandish, but I think it would not look out of place in the Deep South, perhaps because it’s so large, and has the lovely gardens around it.
The house was purchased in 1862 by James G. Blaine, one of Maine’s foremost political figures. He served as Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, was a U.S. Senator, Secretary of Sate and – what really surprised me – lost the presidency in 1884 to Grover Cleveland by only 2000 votes. Had he won, we would all have heard of James G. Blaine. It was his daughter who bequeathed the house to the state in 1919.
Inside, there is the “state” dining room, to the right of the main entrance hall. It can supposedly seat 36, but I think that would be a very snug fit. The table that was in place looked like it could comfortably seat 20, and there wasn't a whole lot of floor space available for adding "leaves." Indeed, none of the rooms is on anything approaching the grand scale, which seems appropri-ately "understated Maine."
The green and silver striped wallpaper is supposed to represent the trees and lakes of Maine, but what it looks like is a traditional, elegant dining room wallpaper. This is where tea – or coffee, if that was your preference – was served. And unlike at the little tea my library held a couple of months back, where functional but inelegant industrial coffee pots provided coffee and hot water, which went into styrofoam cups, here the beverage of your choice came out of a beautiful silver tea service, and was poured into lovely china cups.
Beyond this dining room is the kitchen, and beyond that, the "family" dining room, which naturally is smaller, cozier. Among the decor-ations there was a marvelous gingerbread house that had been done by the chef at the Augusta Country Club. I was enchanted by it, for I do love gingerbread houses.
Across the hall from the state dining room is the state reception room, with beautiful black Italian marble fireplaces, a dusky blue rug that makes a nice contrast with the white walls, and white columns that separate one part of the room from the other. You could easily imagine dignitaries standing around making small talk, sipping glasses of champagne. On this particular day we were all sipping tea or coffee, and most of us were hardly what you’d call dignitaries. There was a very large Christmas tree decorated charmingly with all natural ornaments, such as frosted pine cones and clusters of dried flowers.
My favorite room was the next one back, originally an open porch that was glassed in (very sensibly, given Maine winters) and became the sunroom. But I thought of it as the music room, as there was a baby grand piano there, being played by an unlikely-looking fellow, overweight, middle-aged, lank, shoulder-length hair. Not what you’d expect. Given all the genteel ladies, most well past middle age, who were hosting the tea, I guess I would have expected one of their number to be playing. All the windows looking out on the garden make the room very light and airy.
Beyond the sunroom/music room was a very small, very masculine study – more black marble, lots of wood, dark leather, books that actually belonged to James Blaine behind glass doors. And a door led from there to where ol’ Blaine, or later governors, might have gone to escape the ladies – the billiard room. Yes, real live billiard tables.
There were also two bedrooms upstairs that could be viewed (I viewed them), though these are not part of the private residence of the house, where the governor and his family actually live. All in all, this made for a very pleasant peak into the past, and into the “public” home of today’s governor.
Actually, I didn’t get my invitation to the annual Christmas tea at the governor’s mansion because the member of the Kennebec Valley Garden Club who was responsible for a certain number of invitations forgot to mail them out. This lady also happens to be my library’s most dedicated Friend, and it was while she was in decorating the library for the holidays that she remembered to mention the tea to me. (I’m actually pleased when someone else confesses to having forgotten something they were supposed to do. Makes me feel less the pariah). The Garden Club does the decorating for this annual event at Blaine House, and extends the invitations.
I love visiting old houses. This person who was an apartment-dweller from the time she left home at 18 until she moved into her first rental house in the southern Louisiana countryside at the age of 50, and has never in her life had a strong desire to own a home, has always been fascinated by big, beautiful, historically interesting houses. I always find myself imagining what it must have been like to live there, picturing myself sitting in that sitting room, sleeping in that four poster, standing at that window looking out at that garden. So I really could not pass up this chance to visit one of Maine’s most important “houses,” which has been the home of 25 governors and their families since the house was given to the state in 1919.
Located across the street from Maine’s State House in Augusta, and a five minute drive from my little library in Hallowell (the two cities bleed into one another), Blaine House was built in 1833 by a retired ship’s captain. It actually looks something like an old ship – the enclosed lookout on the roof could be the captain’s “bridge”, the four tall, white, black-topped chimneys, two on each side of the roof, could be smoke stacks
The house is the traditional white, with black shutters, and is surrounded by a white picket fence. It does look New Englandish, but I think it would not look out of place in the Deep South, perhaps because it’s so large, and has the lovely gardens around it.
The house was purchased in 1862 by James G. Blaine, one of Maine’s foremost political figures. He served as Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, was a U.S. Senator, Secretary of Sate and – what really surprised me – lost the presidency in 1884 to Grover Cleveland by only 2000 votes. Had he won, we would all have heard of James G. Blaine. It was his daughter who bequeathed the house to the state in 1919.
Inside, there is the “state” dining room, to the right of the main entrance hall. It can supposedly seat 36, but I think that would be a very snug fit. The table that was in place looked like it could comfortably seat 20, and there wasn't a whole lot of floor space available for adding "leaves." Indeed, none of the rooms is on anything approaching the grand scale, which seems appropri-ately "understated Maine."
The green and silver striped wallpaper is supposed to represent the trees and lakes of Maine, but what it looks like is a traditional, elegant dining room wallpaper. This is where tea – or coffee, if that was your preference – was served. And unlike at the little tea my library held a couple of months back, where functional but inelegant industrial coffee pots provided coffee and hot water, which went into styrofoam cups, here the beverage of your choice came out of a beautiful silver tea service, and was poured into lovely china cups.
Beyond this dining room is the kitchen, and beyond that, the "family" dining room, which naturally is smaller, cozier. Among the decor-ations there was a marvelous gingerbread house that had been done by the chef at the Augusta Country Club. I was enchanted by it, for I do love gingerbread houses.
Across the hall from the state dining room is the state reception room, with beautiful black Italian marble fireplaces, a dusky blue rug that makes a nice contrast with the white walls, and white columns that separate one part of the room from the other. You could easily imagine dignitaries standing around making small talk, sipping glasses of champagne. On this particular day we were all sipping tea or coffee, and most of us were hardly what you’d call dignitaries. There was a very large Christmas tree decorated charmingly with all natural ornaments, such as frosted pine cones and clusters of dried flowers.
My favorite room was the next one back, originally an open porch that was glassed in (very sensibly, given Maine winters) and became the sunroom. But I thought of it as the music room, as there was a baby grand piano there, being played by an unlikely-looking fellow, overweight, middle-aged, lank, shoulder-length hair. Not what you’d expect. Given all the genteel ladies, most well past middle age, who were hosting the tea, I guess I would have expected one of their number to be playing. All the windows looking out on the garden make the room very light and airy.
Beyond the sunroom/music room was a very small, very masculine study – more black marble, lots of wood, dark leather, books that actually belonged to James Blaine behind glass doors. And a door led from there to where ol’ Blaine, or later governors, might have gone to escape the ladies – the billiard room. Yes, real live billiard tables.
There were also two bedrooms upstairs that could be viewed (I viewed them), though these are not part of the private residence of the house, where the governor and his family actually live. All in all, this made for a very pleasant peak into the past, and into the “public” home of today’s governor.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Where's home 2
Well, I’ve already discovered something I don’t like about this blog business. The fact that the latest posting goes at the top of the page. With what I already detect as a tendency on my part to build on past “notes,” I fear that the logical progression of my thoughts...to the extent that there is a logical progression...may be lost. By profession I am a librarian, and order is very important to me. C should follow B which should follow A, not the other way ‘round. Wonder why They set blogs up in this way. Perhaps someone out there in Cyberspace will enlighten me.
I have been giving further thought to the idea of attachment to “home.” I have five brothers and sisters; all but one of us were born and reared in Texas. The one who was born elsewhere (Evansville, Indiana, during what I think of as our Norman Rockwell period) lived in Texas from toddler-hood on. She and one brother have remained in Texas for most of their lives – and I suspect they think of it as home, especially as my mother also lives there – but four of us have not lived in Texas for many years, and I think it’s safe to say none of us has any desire to live there. I don’t think any of us really thinks of Texas as home. For one of my brothers I think that is especially true since our mutual father and his mother (my stepmother) both died. Going back to visit them may have given him some sense of “going home,” but that’s gone now. For the rest of us, going back to visit our mother is a matter of going back to visit our mother, not a matter of going home.
Our homes were not a family-supplied given, but were the result of choices we made. One brother, decades ago, decided to try New Mexico, fell in love with it, stayed. One sister married someone who took her off first to Wyoming, then to Colorado. Although that marriage ended, when it did she had been living in Colorado Springs for some time and liked it, had a job as a middle-school art teacher, which she liked, and had a son with ties to the community – school, friends, his father. So she, too, stayed, and as retirement nears for her, she has every intention of remaining. It is her home.
Another brother is a cartoonist, and his work has pretty much dictated where he lived over the past twenty years. You can’t make much of a living as a cartoonist in Ft. Worth. So it was New York City, Los Angeles, then back to New York (but now having a wife and two small children, it was a house in Connecticut, rather than a loft in lower Manhattan). Actually, Bob may come closest to what I’m trying to get at here, because I suspect that for Bob – as for many people – “home” is where his family is. He is not so place-oriented, as people-oriented.
To a certain extent, I am, too. I would like to be able to say that Maine is my home. Certainly it is where I feel most “at home,” of all the places I have lived in the U.S., for all the reasons I mentioned in Note B. But I have no significant others here. The loss of my husband four years ago left a very large hole in my life, that nothing has come close to filling. This is true despite the fact that Micheal and I actually spent more of our 36 years of marriage living apart, than living together (we had what can only be described as a very unusual relationship). But I always knew he was out there, somewhere, loving me, just as I loved him – he was where I belonged, ultimately. So...I belonged somewhere! That seems to be what people need: a sense of belonging somewhere. Is that what the concept of “home” most represents? And if we don’t have that feeling, does it mean we have no home?
I have been giving further thought to the idea of attachment to “home.” I have five brothers and sisters; all but one of us were born and reared in Texas. The one who was born elsewhere (Evansville, Indiana, during what I think of as our Norman Rockwell period) lived in Texas from toddler-hood on. She and one brother have remained in Texas for most of their lives – and I suspect they think of it as home, especially as my mother also lives there – but four of us have not lived in Texas for many years, and I think it’s safe to say none of us has any desire to live there. I don’t think any of us really thinks of Texas as home. For one of my brothers I think that is especially true since our mutual father and his mother (my stepmother) both died. Going back to visit them may have given him some sense of “going home,” but that’s gone now. For the rest of us, going back to visit our mother is a matter of going back to visit our mother, not a matter of going home.
Our homes were not a family-supplied given, but were the result of choices we made. One brother, decades ago, decided to try New Mexico, fell in love with it, stayed. One sister married someone who took her off first to Wyoming, then to Colorado. Although that marriage ended, when it did she had been living in Colorado Springs for some time and liked it, had a job as a middle-school art teacher, which she liked, and had a son with ties to the community – school, friends, his father. So she, too, stayed, and as retirement nears for her, she has every intention of remaining. It is her home.
Another brother is a cartoonist, and his work has pretty much dictated where he lived over the past twenty years. You can’t make much of a living as a cartoonist in Ft. Worth. So it was New York City, Los Angeles, then back to New York (but now having a wife and two small children, it was a house in Connecticut, rather than a loft in lower Manhattan). Actually, Bob may come closest to what I’m trying to get at here, because I suspect that for Bob – as for many people – “home” is where his family is. He is not so place-oriented, as people-oriented.
To a certain extent, I am, too. I would like to be able to say that Maine is my home. Certainly it is where I feel most “at home,” of all the places I have lived in the U.S., for all the reasons I mentioned in Note B. But I have no significant others here. The loss of my husband four years ago left a very large hole in my life, that nothing has come close to filling. This is true despite the fact that Micheal and I actually spent more of our 36 years of marriage living apart, than living together (we had what can only be described as a very unusual relationship). But I always knew he was out there, somewhere, loving me, just as I loved him – he was where I belonged, ultimately. So...I belonged somewhere! That seems to be what people need: a sense of belonging somewhere. Is that what the concept of “home” most represents? And if we don’t have that feeling, does it mean we have no home?
Monday, June 9, 2008
Where's home
Talking about the weather makes me think of a phenomenon I observed when I lived in the Boston area, which I did for nineteen years. There I encountered numerous people who had been born there, lived there all their lives, but hated the winters. “So why don’t you move someplace warmer,” I’d ask, perplexed. “Oh, I could never do that.” And they could never do that because this was home. This was the place they were familiar with, the place where their extended family lived, where their friends were. It was where they felt psychologically comfortable (and this was the case even if they didn’t get along with their father, or whatever). How could they exchange mere physical comfort for all that?
Intellectually I can understand this reluctance to “leave home,” but not emotionally. For one thing, my physical comfort is extremely important to me. One of the reasons I live in Maine – and moved to New England in the first place, all those years ago – is that hot weather makes me miserable. My body simply does not function well when it’s hot. And this was as true when I was growing up in Texas, as it is today. I once wrote that I would be perfectly happy to live someplace where it never got any warmer than 68 degrees. I wasn’t particularly fleeing the heat when I left home at eighteen, but once I discovered cooler climes, my fate was sealed.
But it isn’t just physical comfort that is important to me. My soul is fed by beautiful natural environments. Growing up in the urban centers of Texas (San Antonio, Ft. Worth, Dallas), I don’t recall having any sense of natural beauty, except when we would go on camping trips to Colorado. Even now when I go back for visits, it seems to me there is no natural environment. Just endless freeways, shopping malls, what I think of as Auto Miles (one car dealership after another), the reflecting glass walls of business parks. Certainly there are attractive residential areas, with trees, and grass – that gets baked a brittle yellow in summer, unless there is no water shortage and people are able to dedicate great gobs of the precious stuff to keeping their lawns green – but you have to be driving through the piney woods of east Texas, to see much in the way of trees. So much of Texas is gently rolling prairie land, which has its own attractions – you get a nice sense of unfettered space – but it is simply not my idea of beautiful.
Here in Maine I encounter all these people who grew up here, and can’t imagine living anywhere else. And it is for all those reasons I mentioned in the first paragraph, but also because Mainers really love their state, terrible winters and all. Like me, they delight in the lush, green natural beauty – which turns stunningly aflame in the autumn, and into a magical winter wonderland at the appropriate season. Like me, most of them prefer cold weather to hot, even if they wish the winters didn’t go on quite so long, even if (like me) they get deathly tired of shoveling snow. And they value the small town pace and friendliness. For most of us, Maine really is “life the way it should be.”
Intellectually I can understand this reluctance to “leave home,” but not emotionally. For one thing, my physical comfort is extremely important to me. One of the reasons I live in Maine – and moved to New England in the first place, all those years ago – is that hot weather makes me miserable. My body simply does not function well when it’s hot. And this was as true when I was growing up in Texas, as it is today. I once wrote that I would be perfectly happy to live someplace where it never got any warmer than 68 degrees. I wasn’t particularly fleeing the heat when I left home at eighteen, but once I discovered cooler climes, my fate was sealed.
But it isn’t just physical comfort that is important to me. My soul is fed by beautiful natural environments. Growing up in the urban centers of Texas (San Antonio, Ft. Worth, Dallas), I don’t recall having any sense of natural beauty, except when we would go on camping trips to Colorado. Even now when I go back for visits, it seems to me there is no natural environment. Just endless freeways, shopping malls, what I think of as Auto Miles (one car dealership after another), the reflecting glass walls of business parks. Certainly there are attractive residential areas, with trees, and grass – that gets baked a brittle yellow in summer, unless there is no water shortage and people are able to dedicate great gobs of the precious stuff to keeping their lawns green – but you have to be driving through the piney woods of east Texas, to see much in the way of trees. So much of Texas is gently rolling prairie land, which has its own attractions – you get a nice sense of unfettered space – but it is simply not my idea of beautiful.
Here in Maine I encounter all these people who grew up here, and can’t imagine living anywhere else. And it is for all those reasons I mentioned in the first paragraph, but also because Mainers really love their state, terrible winters and all. Like me, they delight in the lush, green natural beauty – which turns stunningly aflame in the autumn, and into a magical winter wonderland at the appropriate season. Like me, most of them prefer cold weather to hot, even if they wish the winters didn’t go on quite so long, even if (like me) they get deathly tired of shoveling snow. And they value the small town pace and friendliness. For most of us, Maine really is “life the way it should be.”
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