The Cottage

A Stranger in the Night

The reflection in the mirror is mine but I look through it searching for a place that is familiar. Hoping to find just a morsel of a moment from the past that will tether me to this person staring back. The tears come. Warm. Like a stranger in the darkness of the night, emotion slips in and out and gone before the light.  I have nothing left.  Through the blur of the tears I ask the reflection who she is.  'I don’t know,' she says back.  I look closer at the reflection – the contours of the face speak of a past:  freckles from her childhood days spent outdoors in the sun dot her nose and cheeks; lines stretch out from the corners of her eyes a gift from the long, stressful days behind a desk; the stormy blue eyes speak of past pain but the rosebud lips remember the tender touch of lovers past who helped her forget what laid in her path.  She stares back at me expectantly; waiting to be recognized.  Not tonight. Perhaps with the morning light.  

Friendships that Fertilize

May 18, 1938

  Peggy and I spent the day at the farm.  The men were busy digging ditches for drains and building the fireplace. The day was glorious.  We walked across the fields in front of the house and through the woods. The house showed up so prettily from the distance.  We rested in the fields.   (From the journal of an unknown woman, whom I’ll call Bess, which was discovered at a flea market in Ghent, NY.)

I sit in the Thoreau Room trying to embrace the fact that modern technology has been introduced into the cottage.  A modem’s green lights flash at me as a reminder that a foreign object has crossed the threshold and taken up space in my retreat.

My friend Dan came up and visited this weekend and his mellow Brazilian music playing in the other room influences my mood. It’s a reminder that without the modern day conveniences such as laptops and iPods, our quest for a weekend respite would be limited.  Work responsibilities do not know the difference between a weekday and a weekend so the modem allows for a peaceful cohabitation between deadlines and downtime.  As he reviews contracts, I explore the outdoors before the modem’s lights have a chance to hypnotize me into using the internet.

Mother nature has been busy the past two weeks. While my tomato plants did not survive the late spring frost, the thyme planted just a fortnight ago has taken off.  A pleasant surprise as I round the corner of the house – two yellow and rust color irises have blossomed over night.  As a little girl, I remember my grandma Briggs always had the most beautiful irises planted three feet deep and twenty feet long on the side of the house.  They were gorgeous and rich in color.  I never remember her bringing them into the house though for a pretty arrangement. Curious as to why one would take great care in cultivating such beauty but not want to be surrounded by it – outdoors and indoors.   We humans do that though. We spend countless hours each day making sure everything on the outside looks good:  our hair, makeup, suit, shoes, relationships, work product, etc. How much time  though do we dedicate to cultivating our internal beauty? 

The peonies in the front yard are about to pop. I watch the black ants do their job on the pregnant pods.  A friend’s gardening tip encouraged me to research the relationship between the black ant and the peony.   Apparently, in early spring, the peony buds secrete a small amount of nectar, which attracts the ant. The ants will then pull slightly at the peony petals to get to the nectar. This helps loosen the peony’s petals and makes it easier for the flower to open. The ants are not absolutely necessary to help the peonies bloom, but they are helpful and do not harm anything.

Dan was my black ant this weekend.  I have a bad habit that he called me on.  Over the years, I have cultivated a pretty good sarcastic humor.  It’s most prominent when I try and hide my true feelings on something that is of personal sensitivity. As a result, I don’t necessarily open up to people – I keep my thoughts and emotions closed off.  If one could draw a picture of this, it would look a lot like the peony pod closed up tight.   

While it’s easy for me to share my observations on the world and surrounding environment, I’m more hesitant to present my personal feelings to anyone. Being the friend that he is, Dan shared this observation with me in an attempt to help me see the potential within.  While I did not initially appreciate his advice, I realized later his heart was in the right place.  Like the black ant that slightly pulls at the peony petals, allowing it to open more easily and turn into the beautiful flower that it has the potential to become, so too does a good friend.   

      
 

An Exercise in Editing

The first time I stepped into the cottage I was enamored by its cozy simplicity. There were no cupboards in the kitchen that would allow clutter to gather behind closed doors. Instead, plates are stored in an open, wall mounted plate rack and glasses stacked on long shelves.  The sofa and chair in the living room are covered in crisp white slipcovers. Shaker peg boards have been placed in the bathroom and on bedroom doors to hang ones identity at the end of the day. The floors are rustic, wide-planked wood that reflect the same character as the exposed beamed ceilings.  

Narrow steps lead visitors to an upstairs landing with views of the back field, lilac bushes and woods.  A fresh breeze is circulated between the windows of the master bedroom and guest room.  The windows upstairs swing up on their hinges and are hooked to the ceiling adding yet another layer of character. 

I had to force myself to just "exist" in the space for the first three weekends before adding unnecessary layers from the outside world.  The cottage is suppose to be a retreat -- a haven for allowing the mind to re-energize and exploring the meaning of life.  The natural inclination is to define life by adding "things" -- sometimes material things -- to our landscape so that we feel fulfilled or fool ourselves into thinking we have found meaning.  My goal was, and continues to be, to edit out the unnecessary items that would not bring value or meaning to my retreat space.  

In the first few weeks, cooking as been a favorite activity -- with a preference towards fresh, local products -- i.e., editing out unnecessary junk food that can quickly fill one's cabinets. No cabinets = no junk food! (with the exception of one guilty pleasure -- Pillsbury orange rolls -- a treat from childhood that I have not been able to find in NYC markets but stumbled across in the local market upstate).  The owner of the cottage has a farm where I purchased the beautiful eggs in the pic below. Kinderhook Farm hens eat grass and the bugs that naturally exist in their space -- which is outdoor, open space. As their caretaker Georgia would tell you, they are happy hens and not confined to small spaces nor fed artificial feed products.  When I stopped by the farm this weekend to pick up a dozen eggs, Georgia told me I would be surprised with how golden their yolks are -- a reflection of their grass consumption. She was right!  I have never seen eggs that beautiful and rich in golden color.  I can't wait to see how they perform with future baking projects. Thanks to my friend Hal's winning scrambled egg recipe, I was able to do some immediate experimentation:  

4 eggs whisked + a few dashes of kosher salt + 1 tbsp of diced chives (all mixed together). Melt 1 tbsp of butter on medium heat -- once frothy, add  egg/chive mixture. When almost completely cooked, take off heat and mix in 1/2 cup of ricotta cheese (I used 1/4 cup), making mixture creamy with the white of the cheese slightly lumping. Feeds 2.

What I have discovered over the past few weekends, is that my exercise in editing has made me more joyful. I am not burdened with "finding a home" for unnecessary items; there is less to clean -- which means more time to enjoy things that make you happy; there is an obvious and clutter free spot for everything which decreases frustration. It makes me want to come home and purge everything out of my Manhattan apartment. 

This weekend, the cottage hosted its first guest -- my friend Jody. An old kindred spirit from graduate school.  Jody tackled a few local tag sales with me (keeping in mind my new exercise of editing unnecessary items!)  Tag sales are great -- it's so much fun discovering items that can be re-purposed for your own needs. In my case, that was a $2 old, red antique tool box that will either store tools that my dad has passed down to me or perhaps serve a less practical use of displaying some pretty white geraniums. 

The rest of the day was spent strolling Warren Street in Hudson, NY which is dotted with beautiful brick row buildings, antique stores such as the Hudson Super Market http://www.hudsonsupermarket.com/   and  unique boutique shops such as liliandloo:http://liliandloo.com/

The upstairs guest room assembly was finally completed this weekend (pics below).  Four twin beds were put together in anticipation of a gaggle of girlfriends visiting for a weekend and staying up all night sharing stories over martinis. Each of the bedrooms at the cottage has been christened with a name. The aforementioned room has been named the Carlock Room in honor of my great-grandparent's fruit farm. Growing up, my mother and her first cousins were very close and most holidays were spent at Mamaw and Ba-bo's house (my great-grandparents) with all the family present. Sundays spent at M&B's usually meant fried chicken or a pot roast. Mom and her sister-like cousins would regale me with their stories of sleeping together on feather beds in the attic of the old farmhouse, staying up all night talking.  Their visits to the farm felt like home -- picking peaches that were so juicy that their elbows would be sticky from its streaming, sweet nectar or Mamaw's homemade baked crust that was served with the farm's fresh fruit and ice cream.  I hope that the Carlock Room will be filled with as many memories as that old farmhouse attic room was years ago. 

The downstairs guest room with its antique twin bed, has been named the Thoreau Room as it looks out onto the back field full of animal activity and contains a small writing desk for those visitors so inspired to take pen to paper. 

While I finished assembling the upstairs room, Jody tackled the herb garden -- getting me started with some thyme, lavender, rosemary, sweet snapping peas, and a few varieties of tomatoes.  I hope to get some basil and flowers planted this coming weekend. Some fresh mint added to a glass of ice water created a refreshing break from the early-summer heat wave we had -- 85'. 

To add a little excitement to the day, while walking barefoot in the grass to cut some honeysuckle, I stepped on a snake. I'm not sure who jumped the highest -- me or him. After some diligent computer research, I think he was identified as a brown garter snake. A harmless snake which I keep reminding myself will keep the cottage free of rodents. 

The exercise in editing never seems to include the fresh supply of flowers and blooming bushes on the property. The fireplace mantle was adorned with fragrant lilacs this weekend and the peonies should be in bloom within the next two weeks.  Cutting and arranging the flowers is always my joyful reward after a long and productive day. 

   
   
   






   
 
 

 
  
 
  
 
 

The Silent Awakening of Spring

Henry David Thoreau spent two years living on Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts in the mid 1800's. On its banks he built a small abode that he called home. It is here that he contemplated life as he explored on foot, fished and provided for himself, all of which, captured in his written journal.  If you have ever had the enlightening experience of reading Walden, you know that it is bursting at the seams with quotes. I feel a connection with Thoreau.  It is not only now, as I set out on my own adult adventure, but in high school as well as college his words touched a deep and familiar place inside of me. A kindred spirit I found in him through his words and imagery.  Thus, don't be surprised if you read his words from time to time on The Cottage.  

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.  Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away."  

My musical composition has brought me to the hamlet of Ghent in Columbia County.  For two days of the week, and during holiday three to four days of the week, I live off a quiet County Road.  

Spring has arrived with me. The field behind the cottage looks like lush green velvet with dew sprinkled on top and all of nature seems to be waking up from a deep sleep.  As Thoreau observed, "...the coming in of spring is like the creation of Cosmos out of Chaos..."   

While this entry is short on written detail, attached you will find a few images of spring that I captured this weekend at the cottage:  Lilacs budding; an apple tree that literally came to life over night with its dainty light pink blooms; and a yellow plant that adds flecks of sunshine along the front of the cottage and is quite popular with the bumble bees --  if anyone can identify the yellow plant, please post, as I would love to know what it is -- it is approximately 6-8" tall and reminds me a bit of a snapdragon but more wild-like and with more greenery. It has been used to create a winding, two-foot deep border against the front of the cottage. 

A few other signs of spring:  treasures found at a roadside antique sale, including a wood and wicker rocker that will welcome weary guests and an old black leather travel suitcase/trunk which will hold board games and magazines ($20 for the pair!!);  a few snapshots of some whimsical old mailboxes off a country road -- they make me smile every time I drive by; and open doors beckoning fresh spring breezes. 

 
 
       
 
 
       
 
 

  

 
 
 

Opportunity Knocks

For nearly two decades, I have lived in New York City.  The city is vibrant – alluring even for a veteran.  Often I’m asked, “do you like living there?”  The only answer that seems to fit is: ‘She [the city] has a way of wrapping her arms around you and not letting go.’

That said, at times I feel disconnected.  I'm not quite sure if the disconnect is with the city or perhaps with myself.  If the latter, could the city be a co-conspirator with some other force that makes me doubt my sense of self and my place in the world from time to time? 

To sort through the question, I have started a habit of going for long walks late at night when the city begins its slumber. It is in those moments I can't help but wonder if somehow I missed a clue during the course of the day.  In the middle of one of my daily meetings or conference calls, was there a sign that would help me understand where I should be at this point in my life and how I should get there? As my stride finds a rhythm with the changing traffic lights, the nocturnal surroundings become a backdrop to the darkness inside me. 

So what is it exactly that I want?  What do I need?   Matthew Arnold’s words scribed over 150 years ago resonate: 

…But often, in the world's most crowded streets,


But often, in the din of strife,


There rises an unspeakable desire


After the knowledge of our buried life;


A thirst to spend our fire and restless force


In tracking out our true, original course;

A longing to inquire


Into the mystery of this heart which beats


So wild, so deep in us--to know


Whence our lives come and where they go...


And then it happened.  The clue fell into my lap; the catalyst to discovering what I want in life and why appeared out of thin air.

Three weeks after my father died, I was sitting in a restaurant with my friend Hal, glad to be out-and-about but feeling a bit gloomy.  Our discussion focused on my father's remarkable life and how my family had made the decision to remove him from life support.  To add to my heartache, a recent beau had informed me just a few days after my return to the city that I was not, "wife material".  All of which was fodder for a girlfriends' night out.  And then it happened. Hal told me she was closing on a weekend house in Columbia County that very week and was giving up the cottage she had rented for the past several years in the same town --- and, might I be interested in it?

I felt something stir immediately inside of me but I remained cautious as I peppered Hal with questions: how far of a drive is it? 2 hours. how big is it? 3 bedrooms with an artist’s studio (that's not a cottage - that's a house!  I now live in a 420 square foot studio apt). what is the setting? sits on a quiet country road on several acres of a farmer's property with a pond, cattle and sheep across the road. when is it available? sometime after March. what's the rent? $xxxx.  when can I see it? at the end of February.  how do I make it mine?  laughter.  

The next day I did the math. It would be a stretch on my cash flow and savings would have to be pared back but something inside of me told me I needed this -- even if the arrangement was short-term. This was not the type of need a girl experiences when she walks into a Coach bag store during a 50% off sale. It was the kind of need one experiences when they are thirsty for water after a long day working in the sun. But why? -- why was this little piece of rural property in Columbia County so important?  That's what I would set out to discover -- one weekend at a time.....