Poppy poems! At last I’m bundling a batch of verse celebrating my favorite blooms. Poppies. Papaveraceae. Coquelicots… Most of these poppy poems started out as Instagram posts inspired, at least in part, by daily snapshots of poppies blooming in Rosslyn’s gardens. For this reason I’ll include links at the end of the poem if you’re interested in seeing the original posts. Just click the link and a new window will open with the poem as it originally appeared with accompanying image(s).
Haiku Poppy Poems
Almost ephemeral brevity, stark minimalism, and — at best — a tingly eureka moment overlap haiku’s distinctive hallmark. Delicate. Vigorous. As unlikely a juxtaposition as poppies. Exuding a fragility and sparseness, but remarkably robust and resilient, the poppy is the haiku of flowers. And so I initiate this slowly evolving post with a collection of haiku poppy poems.
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Pink-Tinged Poppy (Source: @virtualdavis)
From velvety spokes a supernova outburst, ivory crushed silk. (@rosslynredux)
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Unfettered, unfazed by cloudburst or thunderclap, sensuous stalwart. (@rosslynredux)
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Papaver flashbacks bloom in frosted flowerbeds, daydream confections. (@rosslynredux)
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Come coquelicot, come crinkly crepe paper kin, come and laugh and lift. (@rosslynredux)
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Poppy blossoms pop into crepe paper fireworks and flamenco skirts. (@rosslynredux)
Longer Poppy Poems
While poppies and haikus strike me as cousins (or perhaps even as one and the same being at different stages of transmogrification), there are times when a poppy poem’s florescence exceeds the restraint of micropoetry. There are instances in which a poppy poem’s petals bloom into a lyrical sketch or rhapsody.
Amongst vegetables, fruits, herbs, and spices pop, pop, populate floral fireworks, flamenco skirts, and crepe’s crinkly kin, the coquelicots.
So sensuous, so beyond beguiling, so delicate yet robust, resilient, as exotic and mysterious as the whispering wind. (@rosslynredux)
Poppy Portraits (Visual Poetry!)
Sometimes a poem is crafted out of words, letters and spaces coalescing around a moment, an experience, a sentiment. Other times poetry is so visual that an image better conveys the poem. Please think of my “poppy portraits” as visual poems. Maybe you’ll agree that visual poems can sometimes eclipse the letter-tethered lot!
https://www.instagram.com/reel/CgSOV5-g-WL/
She short video in the post above essays to distill the grace of a poppy in motion, buffeted by the breeze, petals fluttering, stem swaying. I’m not 100% pleased with this series of moving images, but it’s a start. I’m still learning the nuances of video, especially phone video. I’ll get better. Hopefully soon!
I’m as smitten with the poppy pods as the blooms. Once the papery petals yield to the wind or gravity, a handsome hull plump with poppy seeds remains. Ample. Memorial. Geometric.
https://www.instagram.com/p/B0GlMkNAh-1/
There’s something profoundly compelling in that image, don’t you think? A mystery unraveling. Or re-raveling. Wonder is summoned, and it answers eagerly.
Boathouse Bonfire, September 27, 2014 (Source: Geo Davis)
If September poems sound overly sentimental to you or if you’re inclined to a grittier observance of the almost-upon-us Autumn Equinox, I’ve got you covered. Soon. Stay tuned.
But if you’re comfortable lingering briefly — and these poems are, if nothing else, brief — in the seasonality and liminality of the present moment, then I’d like to offer you a few September poems. After all, sometimes the singing underneath doesn’t translate to images or longform exposition. So I’ve bundled a tidy bundle of verse celebrating my one of my four favorite seasons.
Susan in Carriage Barn, September 12, 2006 (Source: Geo Davis)
Haiku September Poems
Short and sweet, sometimes bittersweet, is the name of the game when trying to put your finger on something as poignant and humbling as the shift from summer to autumn (with the omnipresent reminder that autumn too will soon yield, and winter will shroud the colors and flavors and aromas away beneath a snowy blanket). But that can be an elusive errand.
There’s something ineffable about Septembering, but anyone who’s dwelled a spell in the North Country is familiar with this shift. (Source: Seasonality: Septembering)
Haiku’s economy offers a bold if foolhardy effort, so let’s start there.
•:•
Dusky zinnias,
harvest-ready to welcome
arriving houseguests.
— Geo Davis
•:•
Bountiful beans,
red-podded asparagus,
climbing the teepee.
— Geo Davis
•:•
Seasonal surreal:
autumnal art, alchemy,
tart transformation.
— Geo Davis
Sunset, September 6, 2015 (Source: Geo Davis)
Longer September Poem
I’m struck by the concurrently lavish spoils and humbling caution of September. In so many respects the bounty of an entire summer’s worth of gardening and orcharding comes due in September. Sure, we’ve been enjoying the gardens since May, but the this month full of contrasts is without doubt the most abundant harvest. And yet, even as we indulge to excess, the crisp nights and the sunlight’s increasingly anemic illumination remind us to prepare for winter.
When Septembering
honor abundance
as autumn will soon
yield to the drum roll
of hale and hoarfrost,
bitter wind, and snow.
— Geo Davis
This might be the first verse to a longer look at the point-counterpoint of this intoxicating yet sobering marvel of a month. It might also have reached its end. A little hibernation should help decide.
Cider Pressing, September 6, 2015 (Source: Geo Davis)
Sing-song Along
I’ve made no secret of the fact that this 2022 summer and autumn have been pivotal for Susan and for me. We’re surfing some seismic transformations in our lives, finally confronting inevitabilities and incongruities that have been evolving for a long time, and fortifying one another for significant choices and changes ahead. In all probability the liminal space we’re navigating underlies the vibrance and drama I’m noticing in everyday events. But I’m unable to disregard the rhymes, rituals, harmonies, and auspicious signs (cairns, buoys, vade mecums,…) as I immerse myself in the texture and artifacts of a decade and a half with Rosslyn, as Susan and I revise and remap and re-plot our next chapters.
So many friends and acquaintances have contributed to this new adventure we’re embarking on, often without even realizing it or intending to effect our trajectory. Influences have an uncanny habit of popping up at just the right time! And so I close this post with an invitation to you. We welcome you to join and participate in our quest. As fellow sojourners we’ll better bridge the valleys and better celebrate the lofty summits ahead. Grateful to be traveling together!
Sugar maples ablaze between the orchard, gardens, and barns. What a season! Thanks, Pam, for capturing the autumn vibes from this fun vantage point in the nearest of Rosslyn’s meadows.
Although leaf peeping fiery fall foliage is inevitably and justifiably the cynosure this time of year, autumn vibes are aroused insubtler ways as well.
Ripe apples and pears in the orchard. Grapes trellised along the fence line. Blueberry bushes blushing crimson. Squirrels hustling acorns into their winter larders. Deer, emboldened, arcing easily over the fence to forage the gardens and orchard. Canada geese chattering south in protean Vs, settling onto the lake or into the fields for the night…
And this year we have a new ritual this year: re-covering the high tunnel after months of open air gardening. New scissor doors will make air circulation and cooling convenient in the coming weeks when daytime solar gain can still be significant. And with a hint of good fortune we may even extend our growing season later than in the past. New experiment. New territory. New optimism. And the always new but familiar autumn vibes of light frost followed by heavy frost — gentle warning followed by mortal barrage — whittle dramatically away at the vegetable garden’s viability. But with the high tunnel it just might look a bit different this year. We hope so.
Autumn Vibes Haiku
Early the ash turns, now maples and blueberries, succession of leaves. — Geo Davis
So recently I shared a still-ripening vision of autumn, similarly infused with lyric longing and luminescence, but less resigned, less resolved, perhaps less poignant. In “September Twangs” the micro poem wasn’t puerile, but it did sing with the intoxicating twang of exuberance and curiosity. The poem above, though a mere sliver of a season, nods to the inevitability of fall’s flourish fading. If the earlier haiku was a ginger, matinal perspective, a youthful perspective when autumn was just arriving, this October haiku is less twang and more the sound of fireworks fading. Perhaps a sonic boom echo-doppling into the forests and hills, perhaps a casdade of delicate cracklings decaying downward, twinkling sparks like celestial petals falling free of their blooms, bending toward gravity’s seductive beckon, then fluttering toward the placid lake’s watery mirror.
Seasonality might strike you as a strange menu for organizing a blog (and an even stranger way to navigate a narrative.) But in many respects it may well be the *only* useful way to structure a circular story that’s slim on plot, chronically achronological, and deeply immersed in the poetics of place.
Summer’s End
As if on cue, rain, frost, acrimonious wind summon summer’s end. — Geo Davis
I often romance sunrise and to a lesser degree, sunset, powerful circadian rhythm markers. There are likewise singularly potent seasonal markers along our Adirondack shore of Lake Champlain that punctuate notable transitions, from summer-to-autumn, for example. Some are relatively fluid such as hauling and winterizing the boats, removing the docks, and the colorful drama of our much anticipated fall foliage. Each of these examples are determined approximately by the calendar but more precisely by weather changes, prevailing temperatures, the scheduling particularities of our protean paths through life, etc. Less fluid examples of seasonality during this same period include harvesting ripe apples in the orchard, first hard frost of the autumn, and the mysteriously consistent Labor Day weekend meteorological shift. With respect to this last marker, most years we enjoy a lengthy “Indian summer”, but Labor Day — with startling predictability — plunges us into chilly, usually rainy weather as if on cue.
Seasonality: Winter (Source: Geo Davis)
What Is Seasonality?
The concept of seasonality is often cited in the context of business (i.e. financial market and sales forecasting) and healthcare (i.e. patient and virus fluctuations), but let’s consider the idea of seasonality in a less confined context. Let’s look at the root of the word, for starts. Season. I imagine we’re all pretty clear what we mean when referencing the annual rhythm of the seasons, the periodic ebb and flow of monthly rituals, and even their fluctuations in variations. Seasonality is those periodic patterns, variations that recur at predictable or semi predictable intervals year after year.
Seasonality: Spring (Source: Geo Davis)
Rosslyn Seasonality
Our mind easily conceives of seasonality’s periodic points, references for rhythm and repetition, but I think we might need to do a little more work to grok the idea of seasonally recurring events and transitions at Rosslyn, so let’s push a little further.
In keeping with my goal to curate and convey the narrative of our Rosslyn years I’m essaying to distill and disentangle, gather cohesive collections, often thematically tied, sometimes chronologically structured, and often enough coalescing around seasonality. Excuse the clunkiness. It’s a work in progress.
I have remarked elsewhere that Susan and I aspired to recalibrate our lives when we moved from Manhattan to Essex. It was a desire to embrace the art of a slow living. Part intentionality and part immersion in the here and now. We yearned to savor the unique gifts of each passing period of the year. It was a comprehensive paradigm shift away from our habitual efficiency and productivity and busyness, and it wasn’t an easy shift. It was a paradigm shift toward creativity not only in the most active sense of making, but also in the embrace of essentialism. A mindfulness focused on learning and appreciating and investing ourselves in the many microscopic moments of homeownership and rehabilitation and adaptation and outdoor living and gardening and sporting recreation and… living fully and intentionally all of the magnificent processes of our new existence. Yielding to seasonality meant rebooting our lives and our work from New York City to upstate New York, from the quintessential metropolitan hub to its veritable antithesis. It meant homemaking in the North Country, only 5+ hours away by car but a world away in terms of the rhythms and rituals, and even many of the values.
So, what sorts of seasonality, what specific rhythms help punctuate our Rosslyn lifestyle?
I will try to jumpstart your navigation through Rosslyn seasonality with prior posts that offer glimpses into precise instances of seasonality. I will continue to update this post as I revisit and revise older posts and as I compose new ones. If you’re inclined to seasonality as a way of organizing your own experiences, please bookmark this post and reference it in the future as a window into our Rosslyn adventure. (And if you find the idea too contrived or too procrustean for your taste, rest assured, there are a great many other ways for you to navigate this mosaic-memoir.)
Seasonality: Summer (Source: Geo Davis)
Try These Posts
Consider this an evolving outline of my posts explicitly or implicitly treating the topic of seasonality. I will revisit and update when helpful.
December 2014: “In recent years December has given us our first real blast of winter. A premature blast usually because early December snows have usually melted by Christmas…”
De-Icing the Duck Pond: “Let me start by saying that we don’t have a duck pond. We have a lake. Lake Champlain. And although it pains me slightly to say it, we also don’t have any ducks. Not personally, at least. Lake Champlain, on the other hand, has plenty of ducks. And when the lake freezes and the ducks run out of water to swim and eat, we offer them a small “duck pond” in front of Rosslyn boathouse to tide them over until spring.”
Winter Wonderland 2019: “Winter storm warnings wander across our radar often enough this time of year that we become a little meteorology skeptical. Not cynical. Just suspicious that promised snowstorms won’t quite measure up to the hype. Sort of a wait-and-see approach to meteorological forecasting…”
February Swim in Lake Champlain: “February swim, anyone? In Lake Champlain?!?! Griffin, our now almost nine year old Labrador Retriever, was thrilled to chase some throw-toys in the chilly lake today despite the fact that it’s February 19 and the water temperature is exactly three days above freezing… 35° of mid-winter swimming bliss!”
Spring Dance: Coyotes and White Tail Deer: “One trail cam. One location. Three months, give or take. Deer. Coyotes. And the transition from winter to spring in the Adirondacks’ Champlain Valley.”
Spring Meditation 2018: “Welcome to springtime in the Champlain Valley, a glorious but slightly schizophrenic transition — sun, rain, wind, hot, snow, sleet, etc. — when springtails make way for dandelions.”
Moist May 2017: “The Lake Champlain water level is ever-so-slowly dropping, but it’s premature to rule out the possibility of hitting (or even exceeding) flood stage. At present, there’s about a foot of clearance between the bottom of Rosslyn boathouse’s cantilevered deck and the glass-flat water surface. Windy, wavy days are another story altogether.”
Spring Soggies & Blooms: “The rain has stopped. At last! It’s a misty, moody morning, but the sun is coming out, and the rhododendrons are blooming. Life is good.”
First Peaches: “It’s but a month and a day after Independence Day and we’re eating our first peaches of the season. Eureka! So memorable a moment each summer when I savor the first bites of the first peaches of the season that I’ve begun to wonder if we might need to create a floating holiday. It’s hard to conceive of a better cause for celebration.”
Septembering: “September 1 should logically be indistinguishable from August 31. But it’s not. Seasonality along the Adirondack Coast is irrefutable, and possibly no season-to-season transition more apparent than the one we’re now experiencing. “Septembering” is neither sly nor subtle.”
Undocking: “Once upon a time undocking referred to a boat pulling away from a dock, a ship disembarking from a pier. At Rosslyn we also use the term to describe the annual autumn removal of docks (and boat lift) from Lake Champlain…”
Waterfront Winterization: “There comes a time each autumn when summer has faded and winter is whispering over the waves. Or when work, travel, something eclipses the languid stretch of fall boating and watersports. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, and as inevitable and bittersweet as fall foliage, waterfront winterization is an annual ritual that braces us practically and emotionally for the North Country’s frosty November through February.”
Autumn Aura on the Adirondack Coast: “An autumn aura is descending upon the Adirondack Coast. Autumn colors, autumn lighting, autumn sounds (think southward-flying Canada Geese), autumn textures (think crisp leaves eddying and frosted grass underfoot), autumn smells, and autumn flavors…”
October Wind, Canada Geese and Essex DNA: “Despite the on-again-off-again Indian Summer that we’ve enjoyed this autumn, there have been some bracing days, many like the one captured in these photos. Picture perfect. Bluebird skies and sunshine. But crisp. And windy.”
Last Friday, I teased a recap of our recent deck rebuild — or more specifically an overview of installing garapa decking on the newly rebuilt deck — but then I proceeded to dive headlong into a 2008-9 decking-with-garapa flashback. Sometimes it’s helpful to discover the backstory before plunging into the present.
Here was my swaggering introduction (before getting lost down the rabbit hole…)
But you needn’t wait any longer. Patience is overrated, and the new deck “eye candy” is ready. Pictures aplenty coming your way shortly, but first a little backward glance to Rosslyn’s first garapa deck waaayyy back in 2008-2009. You see, this newly completed deck is a redo of the same deck and decking completed during our epic rehabilitation project a decade and a half ago.
So, without further ado, let’s look at the first iteration of Rosslyn’s garapa deck. (Source: Garapa Decking 2008-2009)
It was nostalgic to look backward at the original deck from inception through evolution through… failure. (Actually I didn’t include any of the documentation of the deck substructure’s gradual but premature decay. But I do have some unsettling photos squirreled away to review sometime. Maybe as a way to celebrate the longevity of the replacement deck.)
Today, instead of looking backward, it’s time to showcase this A+ rebuild, the handsome material we used, and the remarkable team that transformed a frustrating stutter-start (and a heady pipe dream) into a magnificent outdoor living space to make memories with family and friends.
Installing Garapa Decking… Again!
Before I plunge into the process (and handsome results!) of installing garapa decking on Rosslyn’s newly rebuilt deck during summer 2022, I’ll fill you in on the evolution of this project.
As you may already know, at the end of 2008 and beginning of 2009 Rosslyn’s deck looked picture perfect. In fact, it looked almost indistinguishable from the finished photos I’ll be sharing shortly in this post. That’s, of course, because the new deck is simply the old deck built again. Built better, because the substructure will not deteriorate prematurely like its TimberSIL predecessor.
The plan and timeline for Rosslyn’s replacement deck came into focus over a year ago.
During the summer of 2021 we allowed a carpenter to sweet talk us into entrusting him with… [three separate, historically sensitive, vitally important carpentry projects.] Although we initially informed him that our confidence was wavering given his subpar communication and organizational record during the planning and scheduling phase, we ignored our misgivings (and the warnings of many) and allowed him to persuade us that we had nothing to worry about. He planned to start by tackling the boathouse gangway and waterfront stairway in September/October, and then he’d move on to the house deck. We’d be so impressed, he assured us, that we’d then hire him to rehabilitate the icehouse. If only he built as well as he talked! (Source: Rosslyn Redux)
I’ve already covered in brief but painful details the calamitous unraveling of this 2021 plan, so I’ll sidestep the misery and fast-track to the good part. While our carpenter fiasco of the previous year might be summed up as a run-of-the-mill “crash and burn” story, this summer’s refreshing sequel was a quintessential “phoenix rising” story of mythic proportions.
And while there are so many “main characters” in this sequel that I can’t really credit one single protagonist — this was a truly inspiring group that coalesced into a collaborative, skilled, productive, respectful, creative, communicative team — it was Hroth Ottosen who served as the unmistakable catalyst. If I’m able, I’m hoping to eventually persuade Hroth to share his very personal decision to roadtrip east from Santa Fe, New Mexico to spearhead Rosslyn’s deck rebuild after the 2022 catastrophic wildfire season that ravaged the southwest. For now, I’ll say simply that Hroth reminds us that it is possible to emerge from calamitous circumstances braver, wiser, stronger, and freer than we were beforehand. I see an uncanny parallel between BOTH Rosslyn’s current rehab projects and the aforementioned 2021 fiasco AND Hroth’s decision to sojourn with us awhile on the Adirondack Coast. Like I’ve already suggested, a phoenix rising from the ashes!
Garapa v2.0 (aka Re-decking)
Time to dive in! I tried to post relatively current updates on the team’s progress during July, August, and September, so rather than getting in the way of the story, I’m embedding our Instagram posts that chronicle our step-by-step journey installing garapa decking (and sealing the boards to preserve and enhance their already breathtaking natural beauty.) I’ll add a few thoughts along the way, but for the most part a quick scroll through the images and videos will tell a purer and more visually satisfying story than my words.
The decision to deck with garapa back in 2008 rested on several considerations:
quality and endurance to outperform more conventional wood decking given the variable demands and extremes of our Adirondack Coast location, and
color and grain to complement late 18th, early 19th century architecture without appearing too contemporary and/or exotic.
We fell in love with garapa, and it handily ticked all three considerations.
We sourced the milled-to-order garapa decking lumber from Advantage Lumber (@advantagelumber), and I was impressed with both their customer service and sales support. Unfortunately delivery of the lumber as less impressive. Advantage Lumber arranged shipment of the substantial order via ABF Freight (@abftoday) and — as with the majority of the logistical partners with whom we’ve worked in the last few years — they overpromised and underdelivered. Despite clearly articulating our tight timeline and receiving assurances that we’d received our garapa decking in time, the new decking material arrived late due to “logistics delays”. Sound familiar?
Unloading Garapa Decking, July 2022 (Source: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Unloading Garapa Decking, July 2022 (Source: Susan Bacot-Davis)
On July 28, just shy of high noon on a scorchingly hot and humid day, we received our order. Perfect conditions for unloading. David wisely volunteered to inventory the lumber inside the shady truck, Tony tackled the task of unloading lengths of garapa from the truck and passing it down to the deck where Hroth and I hauled, sorted, and stacked the precious cargo.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CgpAXM5uFCN/
Unloaded, sorted, inventoried, and ready to become Rosslyn’s new deck floor, this garapa looks absolutely sumptuous after a midsummer rain. We were all a little gobsmacked with the sheer beauty of this lumber. Even an aesthetically astute bat (or three) dropped in to celebrate the honey hued hardwood.
https://www.instagram.com/p/ChnfAqnvaju/
It took a couple of days for the team to find their groove, eager to balance forward motion with perfect execution to ensure that their workmanship matched the beauty of the material. Soon they were installing garapa decking from sunup to sundown, performing a mesmerizing choreography as efficient and beguiling as a ballet. (I better not let them read this or they may refuse to let me document their work ever again!)
https://www.instagram.com/reel/ChARdWSgBlX/
Although progress on this sort of deck is steady and incremental, my eagerness to complete the project sometimes overtook my patience. Why aren’t we further along yet?!?! But each day, reviewing the team’s accomplishments since morning afforded us all a daily opportunity to romance the stunningly beautiful deck taking shape. End-of-day reflection (revitalized with frosty libations) frequently ran to artistic and poetic reverie more than carpentry tropes and jokes. I kid you not, but again, don’t let the guys know I said that.
https://www.instagram.com/reel/ChXGgegAGR-/
Although that post above specifically called out Eric Crowningshield, this project brought out the best in everyone. If my photo / video recording were as nimble as I’d have liked, I would have posted a similar tribute to every single member of the team. I’ve already mentioned Hroth Ottosen above. You’ll be hearing plenty more about him in the weeks and months ahead because he’s such a vital asset. And, Pam Murphy, our friend and property / project manager extraordinaire, not only keeps our diverse projects sorted and successful, she is the most capable “air traffic controller” ever, juggling everyone and everything without letting anything tumble out of orbit.
These are a few of the most visible stars on this allstar team, but there are so many other: Susan’s cousin, David McCabe; our friend, Ed Conlin; electrician Brandon Dumas; jack-of-all-trades, Tony Foster; and Eric’s ever-reliable and hardworking team (Matt, Justin, Andrew, Jarrett, and Jason) Not only is the end product from this collaboration an understated masterpiece fit for the handsome home, but every day cooperation with this team was a pleasure and a privilege. We are profoundly grateful. (In fact, this is precisely why they’ve all teamed up for the icehouse rehabilitation project!)
https://www.instagram.com/p/CiaG1LjOStE/
There are the predictable successes with a project like this, but there are also serendipitous triumphs. One among many is captured in that delicate image above.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CiprpA5uLug/
Once the last board is scribed and screw head is plugged, it’s time to oil the garapa decking. It’s at this point that everything comes together, and the results are far more glorious than the sum of the parts.
https://www.instagram.com/reel/CipsbUSgn9f/
As each garapa board is tenderly treated with oil, the drama and depth of the wood comes alive. Such beauty!
https://www.instagram.com/reel/Ci0XQr3A3Rn/
There remain a few last details to conclude the project — a bit of landscaping here, a few painted trim details there — but the results are breathtaking. And this is never more evident than in the later afternoon when that mesmerizingly lush sunlight bathes the wood in amber and gold.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CjOEWAAOjQ4/
And this, my friends, is the sun soaked conclusion of our summer (and autumn) 2022 Rosslyn re-decking adventure. Installing garapa decking isn’t an overnight victory lap, but the painstaking efforts will pamper us for years. Susan, Carley, and I extend our most sincere thanks to everyone who helped transform this dream into reality.
Icehouse Haiku or Sketchy Brainstorm?!?! A once pondered (and discarded) concept for lifting the icehouse… (Source: Geo Davis)
Recent months have been busy with rebuilding and advancing plans for further rebuilding. Soon I’ll share an update on our summer 2022 deck rebuild, and I promise that it’ll be worth the wait. Until then, I’ll tease out another potential rebuild on the horizon. But first, by way of introduction, I offer you an icehouse haiku.
Icehouse Haiku
Once sanctuary
for winter ice in summer,
so insulated.
Sometimes a morsel is all we need. And for some of you this may be plenty. A glimpse into my recent ruminations on Rosslyn’s historic icehouse.
If a poem is way of repurposing an experience, a subject, an idea, then drifting into recent evolution of our icehouse vision via an icehouse haiku seems appropriate. We are, after all, returning to the many times delayed and postponed notion of completing the icehouse rehabilitation initiated back in 2006 and 2007. By the end of this week we may — fingers crossed — be able to offer an exciting update. For now a few brief sketches will suffice, minimalist asides underpinning the idea of repurposing this circa 1889 utility building in a way that is relevant and useful to us today.
Intrinsic to the Icehouse Haiku
Underlying the ultra compact words of the icehouse haiku above (and the composited photo and sketch above) are sixteen years of brainstorming and iterating (and repeatedly postponing) plans for rehabilitating the icehouse.
Rehabilitation fails with no sustainable plan for use. — Stef Noble (Source: Demolition Dedux)
Our earliest plans for revitalizing Rosslyn rested on this idea that use, usability, contemporary relevance is fundamental to successful historic rehabilitation. Sensitive, responsible, historically and architecturally accurate, yes. But most important, the building must have a functional reason to endure.
More on this anon, but for now a few glimpses backward in time…
My earliest inkling about icehouse-ness hearkens back about four and a half decades to Homeport, the Wadhams, New York property that my parents restored when I was young. Although already removed prior to my parents’ purchase of Homeport in the mid/late 1970s, I grew up aware that there had been an icehouse just beyond the “sunporch”, my parents’ summer bedroom. The idea fascinated me. A house full of ice. My youthful imagination conjured up all sorts of fanciful possibilities that history fated to exist in my imagination only.
Before tripping further down memory lane, let’s get onto an equal footing with respect to icehouses in general. What exactly were they?
An ice house, or icehouse, is a building used to store ice throughout the year, commonly used prior to the invention of the refrigerator…
During the winter, ice and snow would be cut from lakes or rivers, taken into the ice house, and packed with insulation (often straw or sawdust). It would remain frozen for many months, often until the following winter, and could be used as a source of ice during the summer months. The main application of the ice was the storage of foods, but it could also be used simply to cool drinks… (Source: Wikipedia)
Ingenious!
Ever since my Homeport days I’ve been intrigued by life in the era of icehouses. And so inheriting one when we purchased Rosslyn was a particular pleasure. All the more so when I came across Sally Lesh’s personal recollection of the icehouse at Rosslyn (aka Hyde Gate).
Directly across the road, ice was cut every winter from the frozen lake surface. All these years later, I can picture the huge square hole full of dark water where the big blocks of ice had been cut by men using long saws. Each block was then hauled out. I have no idea how the block of ice was carried up the steep rocky bank and across the road, up the sloping driveway past the house, past the big barn that houses the carriage and the car, and finally to the icehouse, where it was buried in sawdust. We had iceboxes then, no refrigerators. The ice was broken into square chunks that fit neatly into the tin-lined top compartment of the icebox. I do clearly recall picking tiny bits of sawdust out of my summertime lemonade throughout my childhood. — Sally Lesh, All My Houses: a Memoir (Source: Sally Lesh & the story of Hyde Gate | Rosslyn Redux)
Sawdust in lemonade seems a small price to pay for frosty beverages and safely preserved perishables long before refrigeration came to Essex. I imagine that somewhere, some day, I’ll come across some historic photographs documenting this very practice Lesh brings to life, but until then I’ll dwell in my imagination.
As a final sketch before wrapping up this icehouse haiku rumination, let’s revisit these words from an older post.
The inspector opined that the boathouse and icehouse were probably unrecoverable. Use them while we could or demolish and replace them. There were other eleventh hour surprises that jeopardized the sale too, but demolition as a recommendation was unnerving. Rosslyn’s boathouse was precisely what I’d fallen for. Tear it down? No chance. And the icehouse promised to be the perfect office/studio/playhouse. Think desk, easel, pool table, bar! (Source: Demolition: Rosslyn Dedux)
Okay, it’s long past the point that I should have abbreviated this runaway reflection. Go figure, I started with a microscopic poem, but then the words just came tumbling out. Sorry!
I remember, as a boy, seeing a mature bald eagle sitting in this oak tree. It must’ve been 1984 or 1985. My mother was driving us from Rock Harbor to Plattsburgh, where we went to school. It was less common to see bald eagles back then. They were present in the Champlain Valley, but less abundant than today. So it was a big deal to come upon one unexpectedly. My mother slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road, cautious because there was very little room to pull out of the lane without getting stuck in a ditch that divided the road from the adjoining field. We sat a few minutes — my mother, my brother, my sister, and I — observing the majestic bird. Substantial in size and commanding in posture and intensity. It may have been the first time I saw this iconic raptor up close, and it made an enduring impression on me.
It was late winter, as I recall, and the monumental oak was bare, damp from rain, imposing. It seemed the perfect perch for such a majestic bird. A tree with dignity, with gravitas. And yet, I yearned for the eagle to spread his wings and soar. We asked my mother to honk the horn. She declined, reminding us that the eagle had been there first, that startling him would disrupt him unnecessarily. I suspected that she too wished the eagle would fly. But she slowly pulled back onto the road, and we continued our commute.
Since returning to the Adirondack Coast in 2003, I’ve made a point of stopping to appreciate this handsome tree during jogs, in the early years, and bike rides, over the last decade. I’ve never spotted another bald eagle presiding over its gnarled limbs, but some day I might. In the meantime I honor the tree — vibrant leafed, laden with acorns, rusting in autumn, bare but for snow frosting — enduring across decades but otherwise virtually unchanged.
Lone Oak Haiku
Dripping after rain, a vast acorn nursery, lone oak towering. — Geo Davis
Sally & Sentry
When I shared this lone oak photograph and haiku on July 23, 2021, our friend and Essex neighbor, Tom Duca, surprised me with a previously unknown detail about this tree.
“You know Sally Johnson saved that tree. Look close. She had a cable strung between the two big limbs so they would not split apart.”
I had not known. But knowing has added to my affinity for this lone oak. A quiet, timely, essential act of kindness by an admirable woman to honor and preserve an iconic tree, our Adirondack horizon’s sentry.
Griffin listens to cold snap “thunder” boom, boom, booming…
One very cold and quiet evening last week, I was outside accompanying Ginny on her last foray of the day, and heard what sounded like distant fireworks. It was a low rumbling that brought to mind quarry blasting, but it went on and on. I thought the truck stop on the Northway was on fire, but nothing unusual over that way, and there were no fireworks to be seen. What I believe was happening was the sheet of ice covering our hay field was contracting in the extreme cold, and as it broke into large slabs it emitted deep booming noises. The next morning we went for a walk across the field and indeed, the ice had split into irregular sheets in the night. There’s another phenomenon called frost quake, which is when water saturated soil freezes rapidly due to a sudden plunge in temperature and then splits apart. Ice expands slightly as it forms, and in places like plowed parking lots, where there’s no snow to provide insulation, the ground can suddenly crack open thunderously as pressure from below is released. This occurs more commonly on sandy or gravelly soils and foundations can suffer damage. ~ Rob Ivy (Essex Column, Valley News)
I experienced the same eerie sounds and came to the same conclusion less than a week ago. It was almost dark, and I was walking around on the meadow behind the carriage barn with Griffin, enjoying the sensation of walking on frozen snow (without crushing through). Wondering about the sound, the ground cracked audibly – thunderously – a foot in front of me, and for an instant I had the panicky notion that an iceberg was fracturing and I would plunge into the icy depths.
Griffin was startled. He flinched and looked up at me for reassurance. I laughed and he wagged his tail.
We wandered, listening to the booms in the meadow on the other side of the stream. It was truly beautiful. The sound of the cold.
The weather’s been all over the place. Snowy and cold followed by warm and rainy followed by bitterly cold and dry.
Cold Snap X-Country Skiing
Cold Snap Duck Huddle
Cold Snap Brussels Sprouts
These photos are from a cold snap already passed. Since then warmer temperatures and heavy rain reduced the volume of snow, and then temperatures plummeted again. Everything (including the driveway) is covered in 3″ to 6″ of bulletproof ice. It’s pretty lethal!
