Easter Eggs From Far Away

When I think about Easter, I think about eggs and daffodils and chocolate and new shoes. Sometimes I remember having to go to Sunday School the week before Easter and coming home with a couple of palm fronds that my sister and I always tucked behind the top of the old, drop-front, oak desk behind the front door. The palm fronds stayed there for months until they collected dust, and my mother threw them away.

I never understood the significance of the palms (certainly an incongruous element in the old house on Main Street), but they were different, and there for the taking, and it was something, at least, that I got from Sunday School.

Easter also meant a big chocolate rabbit from Uncle Barney and baskets fluffed with neon pink, green, or yellow Easter “grass” and filled with jellybeans, a chocolate egg or two, and a few marshmallow baby chicks. The night before Easter, we would dip hard-boiled eggs in old cups spilling over with boiling water and a vinegar/tablet combination that magically turned the shells a washy blue or pink or yellow.

Easter morning, we donned our new saddle shoes and perhaps a new coat and went back again to Sunday School, and that afternoon, to Aunt Florence’s for dinner. Her house was always sparkling clean and fresh and smelled good…like baked ham and paper and refinement and roses and order. Our house smelled like bacon fat and old, chipped woodwork and linoleum and pipe tobacco and a smidgen of hardship.

At Aunt Florence’s, we wore our new shoes and sat up straight and didn’t say much. We were quietly transported, reading the poetry and looking at the gleaming photographs of spring flowers in her Ideals magazine, which had a strong religious bent, though we focused on the daffodils and forsythia and tulips. And at dinner with fresh flowers in the middle of the table and heavy silverware and candles in the daylight and blue and white plates from Denmark, I felt as if I was in another country, a country of elegance and sophistication and education and mannerly deportment.

I knew at Aunt Florence’s on Easter Sunday a way of life that got all mixed up with new shoes and a glossy magazine and the fragrance of baked ham and the heft of sterling flatware. When we got home that night, my sister and I wrangled over who was going to bite the head off Uncle Barney’s rabbit. It was a school night and everything was ordinary and weary and plain again. I put Aunt Florence and her house in an exquisite egg wrapped in the tissue of memory and sealed with a handwritten, foreign address.

Shadows on Snow

Now I know that if a tree falls and I don’t hear it, the tree still falls. In the last blizzard, a majestic spruce that used to graze the sky snapped and toppled over, taking the trim and the windowbox of the garden shed with it. When I ventured out into the way-back of my yard to scatter a scuttle-full of ashes, I saw the downed tree and for a few seconds, couldn’t believe my eyes. Those few seconds are strange and eerie…when what you see can’t be immediately processed by your brain.

The very top of this giant tree used to be a favorite hang-out of the crows, who would perch and sway and survey the neighborhood, all the while chatting about what to have for dinner or where to sleep that night. I used to sit at my desk and watch the white trails of planes over the tree, headed to Paris or San Francisco, and I marveled at the silver cylinder piercing the clouds, the tiny people within drinking bad coffee and reading mysteries on their Kindles.

There was something about this tree that always made me look up from my daily tasks and forget for a minute or two the old ledger full of accountings or the electric bill or that day’s calendar of events. And for that minute or two, I got lost in something much bigger than myself.

On Friday night around nine o’clock, the lights went out, the furnace stopped, and the cold set in. The fierce wind shook the windows and roared down the chimney and the heavy snow fell like a weight on the heart. Saturday morning, my house was 50 degrees, and when I lit a fire, the cold chimney pushed the smoke out into the rooms, making my eyes tear and alarming my already anxious house.

I sat in my chair and watched the little fire flicker…no match for nature’s tempest. As the thermostat dipped down into the 40’s, all I heard was the relentless wind, and all I saw was snow piling up at the windows and doors.

I don’t know when the great tree snapped and fell. I don’t know when it stopped being a haven for crows, an inspiration for me. It’s lying on the ground now, its once graceful branches madly askew, separated from the roots that once held it aloft. I shall find someone to cut it up and carry its pieces away, but the space it leaves is big as sky, the hollowness my spirit felt as the cold turned my beloved house into stone.

The heat and the light came back on Monday night: 72 long, waiting hours. And now I am grateful for the luxuries I enjoy: heat, light, health, family, friends, and trees. Miracles of the daily sort indeed.

Steep Steps of Possibility

January is the month of possibilities. All the holiday glitter and hoop-la have been swept away or carted off to the transfer station. The house breathes again, settles into silence. The snow may fall without a whisper or the trees may clack in the wind, but inside all is snug and quiet as the long stretch of January endures.

January is one of my favorite months. It suits long black dresses and lace-up boots and layered skirts and dreamy introspection. It suits the wing chair that wraps its arms around me, as the gray light swirls in the coffee cup, and I study my old French book and listen to the roar of the furnace, the deep silence in the walls.

This, I tell myself, is a year of possibilities. I will ascend the steep attic steps and round the landing to a fresh version of myself. This is the self that speaks and writes French; that drinks mineral water from a crystal tumbler; that takes afternoon walks and breathes in the white January air like a bracing tonic; that clears away piles of papers and books and sees the open, beckoning surfaces of things; that finds something better to do in the evenings than watch television; that sees her friends more often; that makes good, hot food for dinner; that pays better attention; that sleeps well, plays more, and willingly suspends disbelief at least three times before breakfast.

In January, I believe all of this is entirely within the realm of possibility. I feel that thrilling sense of potential the whole blessed month. Perhaps all beginnings carry the seed of promise: beginnings of friendships, of projects, of plans, of chapters.

January dwells there inside that little seed.

Kitchen Shelf at the 4 O’clocks

This is a picture of my kitchen shelf. It speaks eloquently about one of my favorite months: November. November makes me hungry for bowl food like garlicky tomato white bean soup; like roasted potatoes with rosemary; like steaming spaghetti with roasted red peppers, olives, and feta; like black bean chili; like brown rice and tofu and caramelized onions; like bread pudding; like steamed broccoli with sauteed sunflower seeds. Simple, hot, earthy, bowl food in front of the fire is one of November’s joys.

So are the bare trees clacking in the wind and behind them the violet, purple sky and the sun falling so fast into China, you have only minutes to spare before November wraps you in darkness. The so so so short days make me want to bottle the light out on the sunporch and put it on the pantry shelf to drizzle like honey over the thick hunk of soda bread I’m craving.

November is a month to see what the neighborhood really looks like; it’s a no-place-to hide kind of time. I walk down familiar streets and am surprised…I didn’t know there was a fence there; is that a house behind that barn; where does that dirt lane lead to; who knew there were old roses climbing up that outbuilding or a swimming pool in that backyard or a doghouse with a weathervane on top.

My house begs for layers: lace upon tattered lace at the drafty windows; knitted afgans over rumpled linen over flannels on the bed; tweed slipcovers; scratchy, threadbare rugs on the chilly floors. And Boris, the furnace, is whooshing his melodies in my already whooshing right ear. I beg for layers too. It’s a bit of a paradox, all that stark, bare November light insisting upon leggings and boots and socks and undershirts and petticoats and cashmere cardigans and David Copperfield gloves and woolly little hats and scarves and black, bat-winged coats.

November is no-nonsense. She’s like a friend who tells you the truth. She wants your courage. She wants to know you can take care of yourself, that you can make a hearty casserole, withstand the winds, hold out your arms to the darkness, keep yourself warm. She wants to know you, plain and simple. No guss. No fuss. Just good old gumption and honest soda bread and a steaming bowl of that garlicky homemade soup.

Stone & Steel

In 1799, a stone carriage house was built on East 61st Street in Manhattan and 27 years later, was converted into a “day” hotel called the Mount Vernon Hotel. Because my sister likes to do her research before we journey places, she knew about this hidden treasure, a place certainly unbeknownst to many New Yorkers.

In the 1820s and 30s, the city only went as far north as 14th Street. It takes a real stretch of the imagination to picture most of the island of Manhattan as open fields with hills and trees and flowers and grazing cows, but wide open space it was. And those who could afford it would hop a steamboat or stagecoach and travel four miles up to the Mount Vernon for a summer day that might include a splash in the East River, followed by a luncheon of turtle soup…and for the ladies, embroidery and pianoforte in the upstairs parlors, and for the men, a flagon of beer, a game of cards, and a lively discussion in the tavern below.

You can hear these stories if you take a tour of the hotel, quiet now except for the voices of the guides and the visitors’ footsteps on the creaky plank floors, and no doubt, the swish of a ghost or two in the wee hours. Outside, the traffic courses up and down the avenues, horns blare, and the Roosevelt Island trams swing from the high wires crossing the river, and New York is the New York we know.

But then, there is this New York we don’t know. It’s good to venture into these long-ago places that jar us out of our present-day realities and conditioned ways of thinking. Places that have stories to tell about who came before us and the lives they lived and the circumstances of their lives. We can be eternally grateful that the Colonial Dames of America purchased the old stone building in 1924 from the Standard Gas Light Company (today’s Con Edison), extensively restored it, and opened it in 1939 for all of us to see.

I think about the old houses here in my village on Cape Cod, some of which have been lovingly and intelligently restored with their integrity intact and others that have been painfully made new or razed and carted away. Once gone or once “remodeled,” the stories go too and with the stories, our own deepening awareness of how we and our surroundings have been shaped by the happiness or unhappiness of those who came before us and what they believed was of value and what was not. We need those stories and the buildings that contain them and so eloquently, give them voice.

For more information on the Mount Vernon Hotel, visit www.mvhm.org.

Our Display at the CraftFest

I wish I could say that the morning of the CraftFest dawned clear and bright. But it started raining at 6:15 a.m. and then it started thundering and then it started pouring.

Every August, my sister and I (with help!) put up the big white tent and for two days, sell everything under the sun I’ve made in the past year. Every mid-August, we pray for fine weather and hold our breath. This year the rain stopped around 7:00, giving us just enough time to unload the tent, tables, shutters, windowless frame, old ironing board, display foof and flounce and fluff…plus Story Pictures, rag & bone books, pots of words, gift tags, and other sundry things.

It was wet, steamy, mucky, and difficult. Since we’d never had to put the sides on the tent before, we tried to make ourselves a foot taller to reach the infuriating loops at the top, all the while swearing silently that this was the last year we would ever subject ourselves to this physical and emotional duress when we could be home sleeping or sipping a good cup of coffee and studying French.

But when the rain came again, as if on a camping trip, we were ready in our little store. Instead of cots and gear, we were all smooshed in with our merchandise, displays, cash box, storage bins, shopping bags, and lunch boxes.

The intrepid souls that were out that day sloshed into our tent, smiled at us, told us their stories, bought Story Pictures and books, and never mentioned the weather. Among them were two sisters, Vivian and Celeste, ages 13 and 11 respectively, who dropped in several times during that wet, dreary day and shyly hung around flipping through blank books and reading Story Pictures.

I wondered why they kept coming back and sensed there was something about the work, the display, us…something that intrigued them, drew them in. So I finally suggested that each choose a Story Picture that spoke to her and please accept them as a gift from two sisters to two sisters. They seemed to bloom on the spot.

It was a sweet moment, but there were many sweet moments that day under the thick, gray clouds. Stories and more stories, some sad, some funny, and always, kind words. The next day the rain blew out to sea and the day cleared. We took down the wet sides of the tent and let the fresh air blow through and rearranged things and looked up mid-morning to find Vivian and Celeste, all smiles.

They handed us a brown bag and in it were two delightful books each had made expressing her thanks. It turns out they both love to write. It turns out they both love books. It turns out that it’s important to try and live your best life…even when you’re a little sodden and blue…because you never know when someone is looking, taking notes, and maybe even following in your very footsteps…forward.

Genius at Work

Sometimes you happen upon a place that makes your knees weak. You forget to breathe. Your pulse speeds up. Time stops. For some of us, it’s the Grand Canyon, or the twilight streets of Rome, or the cloud-swept view from 30,000 feet, or the ancient stones on the lonely Irish highlands.

But if you’re lucky, one day you stumble upon a place that mirrors the quirky interior of your own particular rag and bone shop of the heart. This happened to me last Sunday just outside a small town in upstate New York when my sisters and brother-in-law and I found the Hen House.

A crooked, makeshift trellis led into an overgrown garden scattered with rusty pots, Parisian park chairs with missing slats, little elfin houses hidden under silk flowers and thistles and Queen Anne’s Lace, iron trays and arched headboards, dog dishes and twisted wire planters and peeling window frames…everything etched with the traces of snow and rain and sun and neglect and time, lots of time.

Like Hansel and Gretel entering the forest, enchanted and spellbound, we called, “Hello. Hello!” No one answered except the buzzing flies and the hot afternoon breeze. There was no visible sign of commerce, no cash register, no counter, no desk, just a clutter of envelopes scratched with sums, just tumble, jumble, hittery-skittery piles of the most wildly romantic stuff rising to the rafters of the once-upon-a-time barn.

I don’t know why seemingly random heaps of tarnished silver, musty lace, dolls in bird cages, plaster busts, the insides of moribund clocks, wavery mirrors, Venetian chandeliers, tureens, candlesticks, yellowed paper, Victorian sewing machines, sooty lamps, and faded velvet opera capes can transport my heart to swoony places, but they do and in the Hen House, they surely did. I was quite sure there was a genius at work here. Only a madly deliberate intelligence could have created such glorious cacophonies and scatterings of oddities.

The juxtaposition of things was so unusual, so serendipitous, I thought about Miss Havisham and how she would have felt right at home here. I thought that perhaps I had been transported to a dusty backstreet shop in a sleepy corner of Paris. I thought how do you ever find magic like this in such a seen-better-days town.

Places like the Hen House stay with us. They charm our world-weary eyes. They color our pale imaginations rouge and saffron and lapis. They nourish our spirits hungry for evidence of an original talent at work. And they remind us again and again of what is possible in this impossible world.

If it were possible, I would visit every week and pick one corner, one tabletop, one towering clutter of what-not and stare and stare until I was filled to the brim, ready to go out and make a little wild magic of my own.

Petit Chien. Grande Porte.

One of my favorite fantasies is that I am not American. I am French. Not an original fantasy, certainly, there are Francophiles on every corner. And I’m sure my fantasy is much like many others.

Of course, since I am French, I speak and write that beautiful, maddening language fluently, and I don’t have to think for long, excruciating minutes before I translate a sentence in my head like “Will you miss me?” Or, “Did you have a good time?” Or, “I got up late.”

And of course, I know all the quirky byways of Paris, the tangled stone streets that head straight to the boulangerie and all those baguettes, brioche, and croissants that accompany the perfect cafe au lait.

I am quite at home on these steep, cobbled lanes and gracefully accept the hot water that suddenly turns cold, the flickering lamps, and the fact that we all leave for vacation on the same day. I make a (yes) perfect omelet and (yes) assemble a stunningly beautiful cheese platter, and have mastered the art of lingering for hours in a corner cafe.

But most especially in my French fantasy, all is “haute.” Coin silver spoons, Belgian linen napkins, fresh flowers, Italian shoes, perfectly cut black dresses, miles of silk scarves, bottles of crisp champagne, vintage nightgowns, haute, all of it. Nothing superfluous or ordinary or common.

This is, for sure, a thinly disguised fantasy about living better: paying attention when I eat my melted cheese sandwich for lunch and not reading the supermarket flier; buying fresh organic produce instead of a tired old head of romaine; dressing each day in clothes that make me really happy; riding my bike to the post office and the library; spending more time with friends; paying attention to the sound of the rain; hanging all the clothes out to dry in the sun; and losing my silly trepidation about dinner parties.

In my French fantasy, I pay attention. I know that every day is a precious one, and every minute, if I stop and linger and attend, is pure, genuine haute.

Visual Poem. Beckoning Chair.

Every now and then, a miracle happens. Sometimes a cardinal splashes down in the birdbath; sometimes I walk for a mile and my knee doesn’t hurt; sometimes the words just come for a Story Picture; sometimes I run into a friend on a city street; sometimes the checkbook balances; sometimes the pansies take root in the clay pot; and sometimes I get to spend a day or two in a place so magical, I am transported.

This is a chair in a room in a very old house, owned and created by an inspiring and wildly talented artist. When an old house is a visual poem, a chair is not just a chair, a cup not just a cup. Stepping over its worn threshold, I can see the way light pours through watery glass and plays on the fibers of a threadbare carpet; see the underpinnings of a chair, the way it’s tufted and tacked and flounced and fringed; see the imprint of countless, long-ago footsteps on the steep, narrow stairs; see the glorious color of a withered bunch of daffodils long past their prime over a once-smoking fireplace.

It is a sensual arriving, this house. When I listen, I hear the wind whistling off the ocean just across the street. I hear the gale pushing through the cracks of the front door with a stormy cacophony of howls and whooshes and clatters, and in response, I hear the old house creak and whisper its warnings. In the morning, after the storm, I hear the spring chives growing and the alley cats skittering up the rough fences and the songs of last night’s black stars.

And I smell Ireland: stone, clover, thatch, potatoes, linen, Guinness, and the Book of Kells. I smell muddy wellies, marmalade, wool, clotheslines, fog, tobacco, and bread rising. I smell crooked chimneys and moss. I smell my grandmother’s scoldings. My grandfather’s late hours.

When morning comes around in this poem of a house, there are plushy geraniums climbing the watery windows and eggs sunny-side-up on the slightly burned toast. There are line-dried sheets caught in the now-sweet wind; there is strong coffee in French cups. And in this house, I stand in my thick-soled shoes and swirly skirts and discover light again in my bones, flowers in my lungs, and I sing…if not quite an aria…certainly a heartswelling chorus of thanks.

In Here & Beyond There

Romance. I think we’re starved for it…need it like bread and water, like rain, like air. It doesn’t matter if it comes from a commercial holiday like Valentine’s Day or from an event like an anniversary or birthday. Wherever or whatever its source, romance springs from a deeply human impulse: the need to heighten experience, to wake up our slumbering sensibilities, and to perceive the moment in all its fresh, glistening glory.

Most of the day, living out the dream called reality, rushing from one place to the next, our minds are a jumble of mish-mash, a cacophony of restless and often contrary thoughts. If I’m doing this, I should be doing that. If I’m here, I should be there.

But sometimes, something happens, and romance intervenes. A little black cat jumps on our lap, and we put the cell phone down; the wind picks up, drifting lilacs and wood smoke; the light suddenly changes and thunder makes the windows shudder; we bite into the season’s first strawberry or asparagus spear or tomato or ear of corn; our husband looks at us like a lover; our lover looks at us like a husband; the red geranium pushes up through the lampshade; the candles dance in a frenzied dervish; we open a trunk and grandmother’s ghost escapes into the hallway; there is a love note in the crisper.

No doubt, it would be a great challenge to live every day mostly awake and aware of the moment, though poets and children make a valiant effort. But the fact remains that romance is in here, over there, behind this, under that. It isn’t always happy; sometimes it’s wistful, sometimes a bit melancholy, and if it is beautiful, it’s not in a perfect, retouched, magazine way. It’s the beauty of laugh lines around the eyes; the beauty of a dog with three legs; the beauty of a souffle whooshing down; the beauty of a child’s handwriting; the beauty of your old car suggesting one long last road trip.

There is romance in here. There is romance out there. In this very moment, all we have to do is wake up.