For such a nanoscopic space, it’s a little uncanny how much complex finish carpentry and how much cabinetry have been part of this final stretch in the icehouse rehab. Actually… it’s precisely *BECAUSE* of the nanoscopic proportions that we’ve emphasized builtins and detailed finish work. And degree-by-degree we’re measuring progress toward completion. Even the cabinetry in icehouse loft is beginning to take shape.
An endoskeleton for the soon-to-be loft shelving has begun to take shape. Shop-built carcasses fabricated by Bernie Liberty have been delivered and installation has begun. Lining the north and south knee walls, these reading repositories will soon be lined with bound words… (Source: Loft Shelving)
Cabinetry in Icehouse Loft (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
I accompanied my April 25, 2023 update with a haiku — a loft shelving haiku, of course, — brimming with bookish confidence. Bookshelf confidence, at least. I acknowledged my exuberance at the time.
A little forward leaning, I suppose. Aspirational. Projecting, courtesy of my imagination, a few weeks forward… (Source: Loft Shelving)
A few weeks forward?!?!
“Piece of pie,” the carpenter responded in January when we discussed the icehouse loft cabinetry. He estimated “a couple of weeks” to fabricate and install the cabinets. My optimistic update (referenced above) was posted three months later when some carcasses had been delivered, and the first units were installed. Hhhmmm… Almost two months after that the face frame is joining the ensemble. Hurrah!
Cabinetry in Icehouse Loft (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
I frequently remind Carley that anticipation is half the pleasure. She remains unconvinced, but lately I’ve been reminding myself that this isn’t just a patience mantra. There’s more than a kernel of truth in it. An aphoristic cousin to “distance makes the heart grow fonder”, perhaps?
However we account for it, I’m relieved and more than a little thrilled to see my loft cabinetry coming together. Since this space will be my study, the lofty locus of my productivity, I have a vested interest in the timely and reliable execution of this builtin storage. A tidy workspace is a productive workspace! Heck, I’m overflowing with aphorisms today. And even an autogamous poem…
Study & Studio Haiku
Lo lofty locus, penning’s, typing’s, doodling’s manufactory.
Speaking of anticipation, years of hope and expectation have fertilized the vision for my study-studio in the icehouse loft. A picture perfect panacea! And yet, I recognize the zealous overreach, understand that degrees of recalibration may be necessary. Soon.
Loft Cabinetry
With luck I’ll follow this post soon with a celebratory bookend to this project. Perhaps “a couple of weeks” will have extended into a couple of seasons, but I’ll be able to migrate my books and files and fountain pens and miscellaneous mementos into their new shelves and cabinets. I’ll be able to position my desk beneath the east side gable window and occupy the chair with a view for productive mornings in my loft. Ah, Elysium.
My mind meanders, doubling back on an exchange with Pam this past winter.
Geo: Builtins will combine open shelving (note dimension changes per our meeting) and cabinet doors (paint grade shaker style with flat panel and no panel molding) concealing deep cabinet storage. Please review plans and help me determine whether or not we can/should fabricate in-house or subcontract to a cabinetry shop. (Note: I’m hoping to evaluate whether or not our team is well suited to undertaking this mostly shop-work carpentry, and whether or not it is the most pragmatic use of our resources.
Pam: Builtins have been snapped out. I have a cabinet maker stopping in tomorrow to see the scope of work and discuss his availability.
Willing forward motion — cabinetry installation, final painting, hardware, and… migrating from the house to the icehouse — in the coming days.
We’re grateful to our Amish community for assistance nurturing Rosslyn’s organic vegetable, fruit, and flower gardens; our holistic orchard and vineyard; and sixty acres of landscape. While there’s much to admire about the dedicated women who have planted and weeded, pruned and suckered, nurtured and harvested for us, I’m especially grateful for their petroleum-free, exhaust free locomotion!
You suspect I jest? I do. Often. But not in this case. I’m actually quite fascinated with their efficiency of 21st century horse-and-buggy travelers.
And not only when our dedicated Amish gardeners arrive and depart, but on most every morning’s bike ride between the Adirondack foothills and Lake Champlain. I often share quiet, winding backroads with these courteous drivers. And last night, returning from Westport at an advanced hour, we witnessed three buggies moving along at a startlingly quick clip despite having no headlights. Only a single, diminutive lantern bounced within each buggy scarcely illuminating the driver, so certainly offering no navigational assistance.
Amish Assistance Arrives (Source: Rosslyn Redux)
As muscly pickup trucks and stealthy EVs wind through our rural communities, the Amish manage admirably to accomplish whatever locomotion they need without combustion engines or power grid tethers. There’s plenty to be learned from them, and not only for their dedicated industry.
This is a new opportunity for us. One nearby Amish family has been trafficking between our properties, learning quickly what each garden, each plant, each property needs. Since early spring the two to three sisters will arrive in the morning via ultra quiet conveyance. Although it took Carley a little while to become accustomed to the horse-drawn buggy, she’s no longer startled when the staccato sound of horse hooves and the curious crunching noise of carriage wheels on crushed stone awaken her from her postprandial snooze. She perks up, saunters into the screen porch, and observes. The bonneted young women wave, and I return their greeting. Carley watches until the horse and buggy disappear from view.
I’ll close with a short video I shot early in the morning last summer as another Amish buggy for a moment rolled in front of the rising sun.
I received heartbreaking news this morning that dear friend and accomplished folk artist, Mary Wade has passed away.
Mary was a remarkable woman with a huge heart and sense of humor, a vast memory, and an enchanting gift for storytelling. Our community loses so much with her passing, but her caring and creative legacy will endure for generations. I consider myself fortunate to have shared a memorable friendship — from laughter filled meals to Essex memories and stories — with Mary since we moved to Essex. Susan and I will forever cherish her many artworks that we’re lucky to have collected over the years.
Mary Wade, December 3, 2011 (Photo: Geo Davis)
I shared the following memory a little over a decade ago.
Mary Wade, a folk artist who lives in Willsboro but runs a seasonal gallery in Essex each summer… creates painted wooden models, silhouettes, and paintings of historic buildings in Essex that are collected by her fans all around the world. Although I’d visited her shop in the past, it wasn’t until last December (when Mrs. Wade was offering her artwork for sale during the Christmas in Essex event) that we discussed her Rosslyn inspired artwork. I spotted a painting of Rosslyn’s boathouse adorning a wooden box… and asked her if she could make a birdhouse modeled on the same structure.
“I think so,” she said, considering. “I could do that.”
“What about a painting of Rosslyn?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve done that plenty of times, you know, all the Merchant Row houses.”
As soon as my bride was safely out of earshot, we began to conspire. Could she undertake *both* projects this winter? She could. And much more! (Source: Mary Wade’s Rosslyn Rendition | Rosslyn Redux
The photograph shows three Rosslyn inspired artworks that Mary created for me in 2012 to gift my bride on Mother’s Day. The three dimensional model of Rosslyn’s boathouse is not only meticulously accurate, it’s also a birdhouse!
Mary Wade, May 11, 2012 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Among our colorful menagerie of Mary Wade artwork are a couple of favorites. A weighty stone, tumbled smooth along the shore of Lake Champlain, was transformed into a functional work of art, a paperweight and an unmistakable rendering of our boathouse as seen from the Essex ferry dock. Capturing the peak of summer in a breezy day, seagulls swooping in front of the quirky lakeside folly that enchanted us almost two decades ago (and that continues to enchant us today!)
https://www.instagram.com/p/CUFrUiZvGJl/
You can scroll to see the backside of the stone in the Instagram post above. The simple caption on the reverse of this treasure we received from Mary is especially poignant now. An evocative scene and a handwritten dedication, a bridge back to the twinkling eyes and the rich repository of Essex lore that Mary chronicled with endless energy and a hint of playful mischief.
Another personal favorite Mary Wade memento is an almost life sized representation of our Labrador retriever, Griffin. This handsome pup, painted onto a wooden cutout, was a surprise that Mary presented to us a decade ago. It stands sentry in our entrance hallway to this day, welcoming guests, and keeping an eye on Carley.
Mary Wade, May 30, 2013 (Photo: Geo Davis)
I will update this page with additional memories of Mary Wade as I come across them. For now I conclude with a brief recap of something I mentioned to Mary’s grandson, Kasey McKenna, this morning. We’re fortunate when our parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents are able and willing to guide us and to enrich our life’s journeys. But every once in a while we happen upon a relationship outside of our family, a connection to an acquaintance that evolves into something closer to kin, perhaps a sort of intentional extended family. In this way, I can’t help but feeling as if I am saying goodbye to more than a friend today. And I am profoundly grateful for this opportunity.
Carley, Contemplating 33% Ahead (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
This is my 243rd Rosslyn update in daily succession. It completes an 8-month streak of daily old house journaling, the 2/3 mark in my quest to post every day for one year. I marked an earlier milestone — six months in and six months to go — with a summary of the aspirations guiding these posts.
With four months to go, I’d say this vision is still accurate, but the “mercurial transition / transformation we’re currently navigating” has received short shrift. The most psychologically probing (and the most elusive) of the subjects I’ve been exploring, it nevertheless gets sidestepped, dodged, abbreviated, and postponed.
And so I’m hoping to recalibrate in the weeks ahead, offering more perspective on our current state(s) of liminality. Dig deeper. Increase transparency. Invite you into the considerations and conundrums that we’re weighing. Big decisions on the horizon, and sometimes complex, sometimes conflicting feelings and ideas. Time for an open book…
Among many curious characteristics that distinguish the dazzling Amazon who stole my heart 22 years ago, Susan actually enjoys cold water. Swimming in cold water! She claims that it is Scandinavian heritage (on her maternal side). And so it should come as no surprise that a 35° polar plunge in Lake Champlain is my bride’s idea of a good way to start the day.
35° Morning Dip in Lake Champlain (Photo: Geo Davis)
Needless to say, we don’t always see eye-to-eye. But… happy wife, happy life! (And when it comes to polar, plunging in almost frozen water, Carley is as enthusiastic as Susan.)
35° Morning Dip in Lake Champlain (Photo: Geo Davis)
If you’d like to relive the peculiar pleasure that is intentionally plunging your corporal self into lake water just barely higher than the freezing point, then this next little mashup is for you. Enjoy.
You’ve heard of happy hour. And maybe even beer blogging. But opossum o’clock?
Carley *Prior* to Opossum O’Clock (Photo: Geo Davis)
Earlier this evening (or late this afternoon, if you’re still jet lagging from the standard time to daylight savings time adjustment,) Carley burst into a barking frenzy. Bark, bark, bark,… Not an excited “My momma’s home!” bark. Nor an “I need to pee” bark. It was an unmistakable alarm bark.
So I extracted myself from my desk chair and headed down to the sunporch where she’s taken to snoozing, tucked between pillows on the sofa, most days lately.
But she wasn’t on the sofa. She was alert at the glass doors, pointing, hackles high. All business.
So I followed her gaze to the stonewall around the back deck where a fat opossum was waddling. Carley was incensed. Why wouldn’t I let her out? She wanted to show that overgrown rat who was boss around here!
The opossum finally made her/his way up and over the snow bank, across the driveway, and then began an ungainly exit toward the hemlock hedge. At least until Carley seemed less threatening at which point the opossum made a 90° turn to the right and began waddling down toward the bird feeders hanging under the ginkgo tree.
Opossum, Oh, Possum
What to make of these quirky characters that have become commonplace in the Adirondacks despite the fact that I never saw one in this area in the 1970s and 1980s when I was growing up. Are they even native?
I turned to ChatGPT, the chatbot causing such a stir lately, to see what light it might shed (or make up).
Yes, the opossum is native to North America. In fact, it is the only marsupial that is native to the continent. Opossums can be found throughout much of the United States and Mexico, as well as parts of Central America and Canada. They are known for their distinctive appearance, including their long snout, hairless tail, and opposable thumbs on their hind feet. Opossums are also well-known for their ability to “play dead” when threatened, which is actually a defensive mechanism called thanatosis. (Source: Source: ChatGPT)
Not 100% sure that’s all tip-top information given the rather dubious ChatGPT answer that was shared with me earlier today by David Howson. (More on that tomorrow perhaps?) Let’s see what Wikipedia contributors believe about the opossum.
Opossums (/əˈpɒsəm/) are members of the marsupial order Didelphimorphia (/daɪˌdɛlfɪˈmɔːrfiə/) endemic to the Americas. The largest order of marsupials in the Western Hemisphere, it comprises 93 species in 18 genera. Opossums originated in South America and entered North America in the Great American Interchange following the connection of North and South America.
The Virginia opossum is the only species found in the United States and Canada. It is often simply referred to as an opossum, and in North America it is commonly referred to as a possum (/ˈpɒsəm/; sometimes rendered as ‘possum in written form to indicate the dropped “o”). Possums should not be confused with the Australasian arboreal marsupials of suborder Phalangeriformes that are also called possums because of their resemblance to the Didelphimorphia. The opossum is typically a nonaggressive animal. (Source: Wikipedia)
Seems like there’s enough overlap to set us straight (and enough Australasian unclarity to invite confusion?)
Let’s turn instead to a far more reliable source, poetry.
Opossum Poem
Oh, possum, opossum,
our springtime may have come;
narcissus nudging up,
snow melting into mud.
Perhaps prehensile tail,
opposable thumbs, and
dying art theatrics
have inured you to threats.
Or perhaps you're aware
that my Labrador's barks
are booming bluster not
cause for canine concern.
But beware, snouty snoop,
that winter's not finished,
and precocious parades
hint-hinting at hubris
may well invite frigid
flashbacks, hail, blizzards, and
temperate day delays
with bites bigger than barks.
Playing Opossum
[Witnessing the curious creature investigating our deck and yard, I’m transported back to another opossum memory, this one from December 23, 2008 during our early days living at Rosslyn with Griffin, our Labrador prior to Carley.]
Saturday morning and we’re sitting in the morning room eating waffles in our bathrobes and slippers. We’ve slept in, lazed around, made breakfast, and lingered over the ritual of starting our day.
It snowed last night. Not much, but just enough to cover everything. Maybe an inch. Wet snow. Like white frosting coating everything.
Suddenly I’m aware that a critter is making its way across the front lawn toward us. Actually Griffin realized it, stood up from his bed abruptly and pointed, hair on his back standing straight up, low rumbling half barks alternating with half threatening, half excited glances at us then back at the animal. Like a huge rat. Wet from the soggy snow. Dragging itself across the grass, then across the gravel driveway, then across the grass between the driveway and the house. He was coming right toward us and Griffin was not sure whether to be protective or excited.
“An opossum,” Susan and I both said at the same time.
“I’ve never seen one here,” I said.
“Me either,” Susan said.
“Looks like he’s headed for the trash bins,” I reasoned and picked up my Blackberry from the table. “I want to go take a picture.”
“Don’t go out there.”
“Why not?”
“He could bite you. They’re mean.”
“I won’t get that close. Just a quick picture then I’ll be back in.”
The opossum had managed to pull himself up the stone step to the deck and was waddling past the sliding doors of the garbage and recycling shed toward the back deck.
I opened the door and headed outside in my bathrobe and slippers to get a closer look and a photo.
And then, as if Susan had cast a spell upon me, totally wipe out.
I fell on my back, head bouncing off the deck, limbs splayed to the from corners, bathrobe wide open, buck naked, looking up at the sky. And at a freaked out opossum literally a foot from my face, chattering his teeth menacingly.
Susan was laughing, Griffin was barking wildly inside, I was stunned, and the opossum was presiding.
Susan Skiing Through Saturday Snow Day (Photo: Geo Davis)
No progress on the icehouse project today. None. By design. And by the benevolence of mother nature. Today we celebrated a Saturday snow day!
Carley and Geo on Saturday Snow Day (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Although Saturdays and Sundays are usually rest days for most people, our amazing team has worked through weekends and days-off for months in order to ensure forward motion seven days a week (with very few exceptions and holidays and extreme weather days) ever since this project got off the ground last fall. But today was a planned pause. To reboot. And to accommodate a major March blizzard.
Carley at Library Brook on Snow Day (Photo: Geo Davis)
So I share with you a few snapshots from a day that was snowing when we awoke and that’s still snowing as we head off to dinner.
Carley on Saturday Snow Day (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
These first photos were taken during our late morning cross-country ski outing through Rosslyn’s back fields and forest. Overcast, snowy wonderland. These last two photos were taken earlier, easing into the snowy morning with Carley, Mud/WTR in hand, observing our avian neighbors breakfasting.
Cardinals on Snow Day (Photo: Geo Davis)
Although primarily intended for songbirds, Rosslyn’s bird feeders also welcome enthusiastic opportunists like the mallards.
What is the cross-country skiing equivalent of schussing down a powdery piste? If it exists — some etymologically Nordic, onomatopoeicly swooshy reference for scissoring smoothly across a snowy meadow or through a snowy forrest — I could sneak it into today’s outing. But I’d be waxing poetic. Projecting fantasy onto a considerably stickier cross-country skiing experience.
Cross-Country Skiing Library Brook Trail (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Don’t get me wrong. Venturing out into Rosslyn’s backland with Susan this afternoon for some slippery sliding and gliding was the perfect reentry. Especially on a Monday. Decadent!
Cross-Country Skiing Beaver Meadow (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
But the new fallen snow was far from powdery. Perfect snowball weather. But the only snowballs we’re those clinging to Carley’s undercarriage as she raced across fields investigating animal tracks. The temperate was week above freezing which made for a highly agreeable jaunt, but the snow adhered to the bottoms of our skis, clumping, slowing out progress.
Carley Criss-Crossing Ski Tracks (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Sticky snow. Overcast skies. And yet it was perfect. My bride, my dog, and time taken to tour Rosslyn’s wilder side while cross-country skiing. Perfection!
At the root of Rosslyn Redux is a question. What makes a house a home?
Simple question. Less simple answer. More precisely, the answers to what makes a house a home are diverse and possibly even evolving — slowly, perpetually — as we live our lives. What defines “homeness” as a child likely differs as a young, independent adult, nesting for the first time. And our first autonomous forays into homemaking likely morph as we live through our twenties and into subsequent decades, family and lifestyle changes, etc.
Let’s start with a playful poem by Edgar Albert Guest.
Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;
[…]
Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.
— Edgar Albert Guest, “Home” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
If you haven’t read this Edgar Albert Guest poem, I recommend it. And I strongly suggest you read it out loud!
I start with Guest’s insights because they’re thoughtful despite the playful affect. They capture both the breadth and the subjectivity of answering the question, what makes a house a home? And they hint at the protean nature of this inquiry.
Love Makes a House a Home (Photo: Geo Davis)
An Evolving Recipe
Just when I think I’ve narrowed down a reliable recipe for what makes a house a home, I question it. Whether catalyzed by a conversation with another homemaker, exposure to an especially compelling or innovative home, or a eureka moment totally unrelated to “homeness” (recently, sailboat design of 35-50′ sloops), my reliable recipe is suddenly less reliable. It needs a few tweaks. I remove ingredients less essential than previously believed, and I introduce new ingredients. A teaspoon of this, an ounce of that. Season to taste…
The mercurial nature of “homeness” is not really that surprising given the subjectivity of our residential tastes, needs, means, ambitions, and limitations. The rise of a thriving van life culture in recent years offers a healthy reminder of how little is actually needed for many individuals to feel at home. And yet, the proliferation of van life blogs and social media streams celebrate the individuality and subjectivity shaping perspectives on what makes a house a home. Overlanding in a tricked out van, living aboard a wind and water washed boat, or nesting on an anchored spot of terra firma, it turns out that what makes a house a home is profoundly personal.
One of the joys of homeownership lies in expressing ourselves through our surroundings… Most of us can hardly wait to put our personal stamp on our living spaces. It is, after all, part of the process of turning a house into a home. (New England Home)
The process of transforming a house into a home — fixed or mobile — inevitably encounters elements and conditions that shape the nesting process. In other words, our will and whim are only part of the equation.
Once upon a time
this handsome old house
became our new home,
and along with it
almost two hundred
years of backstory,
lives, styles, and lifestyles…
Snipped from my short poem about repurposing Rosslyn into our home, I’m acknowledging the property’s history and preexisting conditions. It’s a nod to inputs outside of Susan and my personal needs and desires. Just as these inherited inputs can be hurdles or challenges, often they introduce character and richness, add depth and texture, and even invest an aesthetic or programmatic cohesion that might otherwise be lacking.
I’ve frequently joked that no detail of Rosslyn’s rehabilitation escaped our fingerprints, [but] much attention was paid throughout to preserving the buildings’ unique heritage. My bride and I were far less preoccupied with our own personal stamp than we were with finding Rosslyn’s personal stamp, her DNA, and reawakening it to guide our renovation. (Reawakening Rosslyn)
I suspect that there’s often an even more abstract but profoundly important force at work in making a house a home. Intersecting our needs and appetites and the preexisting conditions, there exists an ineffable consciousness, even a conviction, that we feel at home. Can it be a sanctuary where we feel safe, happy, calm, nourished, revitalized, and creative? Can the house, as our home, become an oasis nurturing the sort of life that is indispensable to our wellbeing?
House of Dreams: Gaston Bachelard (Source: The Poetics of Space)
I understand that this wonderful old, living and breathing home provides for us in innumerable ways every day. I know that Rosslyn is a house of dreams and daydreamers. And for this I am extremely grateful. (House of Dreams)
This consciousness or conviction is totally subjective and deeply personal. Clearly articulating it can prove elusive. But we recognize the feeling when we’re fortunate enough to come across it. Sometimes the pull can be so powerful that we yield despite logical and practical considerations, and even despite obvious counterindications.
We had joked about how much time and money it would take to make Rosslyn habitable, categorically dismissing it as an investment. And yet it clearly had captured our hearts. If it were our home and not a short term investment, then maybe the criteria were different. Maybe the potential was different. Maybe the risk was different. (We Could Live at Rosslyn)
Many of us have found ourselves in this push-pull between the abiding rules and paradigms we use to navigate most of our life’s decisions and the sometimes conflicting passion we feel for a potential home. Over the last decade and a half that I’ve been trying to understand “homeness” and the curious exceptions that some of us are willing to make when it comes to our homes, I’ve picked the brains of family, friends, and total strangers when opportunities arose. And sometimes when they didn’t! I’ve been struck as much by the overlaps as the distinctions. There do seem to be some almost universal notions of what makes a house a home, and yet a beautiful bounty of unique attributes are at least as important to the individuals creating (and sometimes recreating) their homes.
Personal Mementos Make a House a Home (Photo: Geo Davis)
Vox Populi, An Introduction
Rather than pretending I’ve distilled the perfect formula, I’m going to showcase a relatively random but recent collection of perspectives and opinions gathered from family, close friends, and several contributors to our current projects. That’s right, I’m going to sidestep the tempting trap of defining what makes a house a home in lieu of broadening and diversifying consideration. Or, put differently, I’ll bypass my own bias by crowdsourcing the question.
I reached out a few days ago to a couple people with whom I’ve discussed this topic before. I asked them all some version of the following.
I have a quick challenge-type-question for you. I’m drafting a blog post about “homeness”, and I’ve reached out to a handful of people that I think might offer interesting perspectives. If you have 30 seconds, I’d love to include your thoughts. If not, no worries. No deep thinking. No fancy answers. No pressure. Just a spontaneous, off-the-cuff, candid response to the question: what does it mean to make a house a home? In other words, what transforms a house into a home?
I was so enthralled with the first few responses that I decided to postpone the post in order to solicit even more perspectives. What follows is a fascinating array of responses, starting with several collaborators on Rosslyn’s icehouse project (Tiho, architecture; Hroth and Eric, construction/carpentry; and Pam, project/property management) and Mike, a carpenter who works for us in Santa Fe (as does Hroth, although we’ve been fortunate to have his expertise at Rosslyn as well since July.)
Tiho Dimitrov: What makes a house a home? For me, it’s my books, my guitars, and the odd pieces of art that I own. It’s the art and the books that bring a sense of me or a sense of my spirit. Combine that with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and you have a home. It’s the imperfections of a place that make it perfect.
Hroth Ottosen: Off the top of my head the difference between a house and a home would be family. But that doesn’t apply to my life. My circumstances are extremely exceptional. I consider my house in Mora, New Mexico my home because I built it from scratch without much help from anybody, and to my own specifications and desires. Not many people can say that. (Later…) While making dinner I thought about what makes a house a home. A name doesn’t hurt. I consider Rosslyn my home right now!
Eric Crowningshield: Home is the place where I feel proud and comfortable being! I joke around saying we are the dream makers because we try to take homeowners’ dreams and turn them into a reality!
Pamuela Murphy: A house is a house, but a home is where the love is. It takes love, hard work, and teamwork to make a house a home.
Mike Hall: To me it it means cozy and comfortable and someone to share that with. This popped into my head because my wife and I are at the Bosque del Apache celebrating our 31 anniversary!
Homegrown Food Makes a House a Home (Photo: Geo Davis)
My next pollees are family members, starting with my beautiful bride (Susan), then on to my parents (Melissa and Gordon), one of my nieces (Frances), one of my nephews (Christoph), and my cousin (Lucy).
Susan Bacot-Davis: It’s easy to see Rosslyn as my home. We’ve invested sixteen years of our life reimagining, renovating, and sharing her. But I learned in Côte d’Ivoire where I lived in 1989 and 1990 that home can be a place very foreign to me. I came to my village wondering how I would ever be comfortable there. I departed almost a year later wondering how I could ever bear to leave. It was my neighbors, my friends and colleagues, my community, and my sense of belonging within that community, not the concrete hut within which I dwelled, that embraced me and made me feel safe and nurtured.
Melissa Davis: I’d say home needs comfortable spaces for you to do the things that you like to do. That means you need to know what those things are! So I need a place to sit and write, draw, type, pay bills, and address Christmas cards. And I need a place for the related “stuff”. And homeness means music in the places I do my activities as well as space to actually do the activities (room for yoga mat, comfortable chair/bed to read paper and books, do crossword puzzles, and drink coffee). House becomes home with enough outdoor space to grow something to eat! Eventually a home has memories throughout it which solidifies its homeness, and that requires people who are important to us.
Gordon Davis: Takes a heap a livin’ to make a house a home. And snacks.
Frances Davis: What makes a house a home in my mind is the few mementos that hold special memories or are sentimental for any reason, which we bring with us to each new place we live in. For example, random mugs collected over the years, or certain books, or even a sweater that we wore after high school grad. Whatever they are, these items carry significance in our hearts and bring our past into whatever new building we’re in to make it our home.
Christoph Aigner: Home is a place that draws people in, a space that makes one feel comfortable and at peace. It is familiar to those who call it home, and it reflects a person’s or family’s values and the life they live.
Lucy Haynes: Bringing the outdoors in – branches, plants. Living things. Also – antiques and pieces that have been used. And enjoyed.
On to friends, diverse personalities with whom we’ve fortunately become acquainted across the years.
Kevin Raines: The word home has it’s roots in the old English word ‘ham’ and means a place where souls are gathered. I like that idea because as a house is lived in it grows rich in memories that welcome and enrich the inhabitants and guests who frequent the structure. Through the gathering of souls space becomes an extension of self, past, present, and into the future.
Lisa Fisher: Home is not the house where you live but your relationship to it. If within the space you feel comfortable, yourself. To be “at home” is to have a sense of belonging — to a place, to the world you have made within it. I think it was Heidegger who came up with the notion of individual worlds, meaning the stuff we surround ourselves with, including ideas and beliefs, but also our physical realm. Homenesss speaks to the human element of habitation: the inhabiting of a space.
Alexander Davit: The stories that are created while people are living there.
Miriam Klipper: House is the structure. A home is all the things you’ve put in it — including memories. By the way, memories include selecting every painting, carpet (remember our visit in Turkey?), crafting the most beautiful house, every perfect detail…
Amy Guglielmo: What makes a house a home? For me it’s comfort and color! Soft natural textures, local art and touches. Softness, coziness, calmness. Always views for us. Aspirational space to dream. And accessibility to community. Beach, pool, recreation. Close proximity to nature. We’re wrapping up designing our new home in Ixtapa, Mexico, and we’re only missing books and games at this point. But I think we nailed the rest!
Roger Newton: Love.
Jennifer Isaacson: Surrounding yourself with things/objects that hold a history and meaning to you.
Lee Maxey: What transforms a house into a home… One word “life”. Living things, people, animals, plants, and any items that support or enhance life. Cooking implements, cozy blankets, music, well read books on a bookshelf, and signs of soul. Today is the 2nd anniversary of my mom’s passing. I have just spent a couple hours going through photos and crying and writing in my journal. One of the things I miss most are the smells. Our smells make a house our home.
Denise Wilson Davis: For me, simply, what makes a house a home is the feeling that love resides there. That, as an owner you’ve put love into it… from the care and fixing to the furnishings and found objects that bring joy or remembrance. Home is an intimacy — a reflection of your heart and creative soul — that welcomes guests and makes them comfortable.
David Howson: This is similar to the saying, “at home”. When one feels “at home”, they mean they feel a certain kind of comfort and peace. One wouldn’t say, I feel “at house”. I fondly remember the first night I stayed at Rosslyn. While it wasn’t my house, you and Susan certainly made me feel “at home”.
Ana June: I think of home as curated and designed. It is a space where your heart is visible in your environment.
I’m profoundly grateful to everyone who offered their quick thoughts. And I was warmly surprised by how many wanted to expand the exchange into a lengthier conversation. So many intriguing notions of “homeness” and personal perspectives on what uniquely distinguish their own living space. Often relationships, shared experiences, and love wove their way into our discussions. I’ve abbreviated this post, and yet I realize that I’d like to dive in a little deeper with many of those I’ve quoted here. With luck I’ll revisit again in the near future.
Pets Make a House a Home: Griffin, April 16, 2012 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Until then, I’d like to weave in one additional thread that I personally consider an indispensable component of our home. Pets.
While Susan is the beating heart around which our small nuclear family orbits, we’ve never been without a dog for more than a few months. For us family and home are intrinsically connected with Tasha, Griffin, and Carley. Although Tasha and Griffin are chasing balls in the Elysian Fields, they remain with us, surfacing every day in our memories and conversations. They’ve left their imprints in the ways we live and play and entertain and in the way that we raise our current Labrador Retriever, Carley. On occasions when our little threesome is temporarily divided, for example this past October while I was away in California while Susan and Carley were in Santa Fe for a couple of weeks, our home felt incomplete. Despite good adventures with good people, Susan and I both acknowledged the voids we were feeling. Our home was temporarily divided. Returning to my bride and my dog instantly made me feel complete once again. So, for us, an important part of what makes a house a home is all of the beings — human and not-so-human (although our dogs differ on the distinction!) —that inhabit and visit our dwelling.
I’ve succumbed to the rhythm and rhyme of Tuesday snooze-day, not because this is an especially unusual site, Carley enjoying a postprandial siesta (after all, the same could be said of Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.) But coupling the second day of the work week with the hole-up-and-play-hooky siren call of a mid morning snooze? That’s simply too intoxicating to pass up. Especially because every inch of my 50 year old frame, and the grungy gray matter between my middle aged ears are aching for a little unplug and reboot time. Soon…
Tuesday Snooze-day
Snowflakes drifting at a remove of two glass panes, radiant heat, a snoring dog, shuffling paper, a cardinal gathering seeds, morning meeting double header, conference call, branches frosted, fluttering paws, barking in sleep, time to triage daily deadlines, silence ringer, to steal some z’s.
If I can’t justify a Tuesday snooze-day IRL, then at least I can pen a paean — albeit a quick micro-paean — and enjoy the revitalizing bump of an imagined siesta. Ah, the life of a dog!
Griffin Considers Winter Solstice: December 22, 2013 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Welcome to day one of the Adirondack Coast‘s coldest season. Today is the winter solstice, the first official day of winter, and — more importantly for the likes of my mother and others who favor longer days and shorter nights — the threshold between the briefest day and the most prolonged night and imperceptibly-but-steadily lengthening daylight. If you live in the North Country it seems peculiar that winter should only have just begun given several weeks of wintery weather. Seasonality, in these parts, might suggest a slightly earlier autumn-to-winter transition, closer to Thanksgiving than to Christmas.
But the choice is ours to remark and not to make, so we soberly observe this hibernal milestone with tempered optimism that sunnier days await us on the other side. And, for the astronomically exuberant, it’s time to celebrate. Cheers!
If you’re longing for more sunlight, Wednesday is a day to celebrate: Dec. 21 is the winter solstice, the shortest day and longest night of the year — and first day of astronomical winter — in the Northern Hemisphere. It’s a sign that longer, brighter days are upon us. (Source: Justin Grieser, “First day of winter: Shortest day, longest night on December 21 solstice“, The Washington Post, December 21, 2022)
But, as with most tidy transitions, this threshold isn’t actually so tidy. Winter solstice may mark the shortest day and the longest night of the year, but the sunrise and sunset equation is slightly more muddled.
The bottom line: mornings will get a bit darker until early January, but we’ve already gained a few minutes of evening light. On balance, daylight will start to increase after Dec. 21, even as winter’s coldest days still lie ahead. (Source: Justin Grieser, “First day of winter: Shortest day, longest night on December 21 solstice“, The Washington Post, December 21, 2022)
So let’s focus on the lengthening days. And, if those increasingly cold days ahead bring snow, then let’s focus on that as well. After all, winter — proper, snowy winter — is one of our four favorite seasons of the year at Rosslyn! It’s a time for dog adventures, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, alpine and telemark skiing, bird feeders flush with avian wildlife, and that unique flavor or crystal clarity that only a subzero morning can catalyze.
Winter Solstice & Onward: December 21, 2022 (Image: Dark Sky)
And speaking of colder days ahead, this screenshot from Dark Sky appears to corroborate the generalization, albeit with a curious exception on Friday. Winter is here, and it looks probably that we’ll be able to enjoy a white Christmas (unless Friday’s warm weather melts the existing snow and delivers rain instead.)
In closing, note that the handsome Labrador retriever atop this post is not Carley, our current dog, but Griffin, a prior pal-o-mine. We lost him just over two years ago, and the ache hasn’t subsided. Maybe with longer, colder days ahead…
I’ve waxed whimsical on autumn before, and I’ve celebrated wonder-filled winter aplenty, but what of the blurry overlap between the two? Well, today I’d like to pause a moment betwixt both current seasons. Or astride the two, one foot in autumn and the other in winter. To borrow a morning metaphor from my breakfast, let’s pause for persimmons (as a way to grok — and hopefully embrace — our present seasonality.)
What?!?!
For the time being let’s sidestep the vexing fact that almost a dozen years into cultivating three persimmon trees in Rosslyn’s orchard we’ve never produced a single edible persimmon. Instead let’s look at persimmoning in terms of this morning’s sweet and sour, ripe and rotten persimmon episode.
Fuyu Persimmon, Sliced (Photo: Geo Davis)
I’ve been monitoring two pretty persimmons in the fruit bowl. I’ve been checking them daily for ripeness. Firm, firm, firm, less firm, slightly supple, soft, ready! Or so I thought this morning. I lifted the first much anticipated fruit in the lightless shadows of 5:00am. If felt perfect. I gathered the second and grabbed a small cutting board. I prefer to allow my mornings to illuminate naturally, calibrating by circadian rhythms holistically, so I generally avoid turning on the lights, even this time of year when 5:00am is still shoe polish dark. As I prepared to plunge a knife into the first persimmon, I detected something unsettling. The slick surface of the persimmon had a fuzzy spot about the size of a quarter. I turned on the light, low, but enough to show that I’d missed my moment with the persimmon. It was rotten. Moldy. Both. I’d literally been checking daily, often lifting both fruit from the bowl to examine them, but somehow this previously perfect fruit had suddenly become rotten. The second fruit showed not fuzzy rot spot. I carefully cut out the leafy stem, and sniffed the inside of the persimmon. Perfection. Somewhere between the consistency of gelatinous custard and viscous liquid, the persimmon was divine.
Fuyu Persimmon, Sliced (Photo: Geo Davis)
At this point seasoned persimmon aficionados are aware that I’ve been recounting an experience with hachiya persimmons (rather than fuyu persimmons), and the photos portray the latter. You are correct astute reader/persimmon connoisseur. And as my prologue likely betrays this morning’s experience was not well suited to photography. But it did remind me of a previous persimmon apropos of the actual topic I’d expected to explore in this post (but have so far mostly skirted.) And that memory, of a similar morning anticipating and then partially enjoying a persimmon is what lead me to these photographs. Why partially, I can hear you think. I partially enjoyed that persimmon, a fuyu persimmon, because the first few slices were ripe and delicious. But partway though the small fruit the sweet turned to astringent. And this puckering experience is a sure sign that the fruit is not yet fully ripe. Now, lest I’m misleading you again, I’m sorry to say, the photographs in this post are not of that persimmon either, though they are, in fact a fuyu persimmon. And, as a discerning eye might note, this photographed persimmon was delicious throughout.
So why all the persimmoning? The memories of this morning’s fruit and the part ripe, part unripe fruit a year or two ago, offer me a glimpse into the sort of autumn-into-winter transition we’re in right now. Almost ready, almost ready, over ready! And sometimes ripe and unripe at the same time. And, as I understand it, persimmons are often culturally associated with joy, good fortune, and longevity. I am hopeful that our present season change, still in limbo, but creeping closer and closer to that transition from autumning to wintering, from autumn vibes to winter vibes, might — like persimmons in the best of circumstances — may portent joy, goof fortune, and longevity for the rehabilitation projects underway in the icehouse, the boathouse, and our home.
1-1/2” ZIP System insulated panels reading for installation (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)
Willing Winter Away a Little Longer
There’s something meditative about this time of year, a marginal meditation on interstices, on the span between autumn and winter, harvesting and larder hunting, biking and skiing, Thanksgiving and Christmas,… This liminal space is tied with winter-to-spring for most dramatic transitions in the circle of seasonality. And yet some years, this year, the switch is far from binary. There are moments when we appear to be on the crux, the hinging moment between the most abundant season and the leanest season. And other moments we’re currently in both concurrently. Ripe and rotten. Well, not rotten, really, but in terms of exterior carpentry, the going gets exponentially more challenging once snow arrives and temperatures plunge.
And so, for a while longer, we’re willing winter away. Tomorrow we’ll be installing the first round of spray foam insulation inside the icehouse, and we’ll *hopefully* begin installing the ZIP System paneling outside the icehouse. In other words, we’re getting really close to having the icehouse ready for winterier weather. The boathouse isn’t really winterizable, however, and temperate conditions are a huge boon as we forge ahead. At the risk of temping fate I’ll admit that it’s almost as if nature is holding her breath, stalling between autumn and winter. With luck, we’ll be able to take advantage of a little more borrowed time. But she can’t hold her breath forever, and we’re all aware of that…
This non-harvest, autumning haiku was born of Carley‘s lethargic mid-morning siesta by the fireplace. Contentment, canine style. It’s a tough life.
https://www.instagram.com/reel/CljJSOFgoFV/
Wintering: unhaiku
Between blushing vegetation and gingerbread outbuildings, what name for this season?
Hustling pre-hibernation and melting flurries with breath, what post apple appellation? What pre skating designation?
I echo my own refrain again into the autumn interstices ringing with wintering song.
Willing Autumn Linger Longer
Like ripening persimmons, the transition from unripe to overripe happens whether we’re watching for it or not. Likewise fall vibes have been exiting gradually, and winter’s stark contrasts have been insinuating themselves into the autumnless voids. It’s inevitable that winter will arrive, and it will be glorious in its own right when it does. But here’s hoping fortune smiles upon us a little longer, that we can dwell in this construction-centric liminality for another week or three. Or right up until Christmas!
