Tag: Rock Harbor

Re-Homing Stump-to-Lumber Ash & Elm

Today I’d like to touch upon a recurring theme: re-homing materials and items still potentially useful to others (if no longer to us). We’ve been fortunate over the years to pair Rosslyn’s storage capacity in the carriage barn and icehouse with local expertise — specifically sawyers with portable sawmills able to custom cut logs on our property — so that fallen and culled timber can be transformed into lumber. The stump-to-lumber ash and elm flooring that was so recently installed during the icehouse rehab, up-bumping the character quotient dramatically, was not completely exhausted during installation. In fact, there’s enough surplus that I’m hoping to use it on a future project. But a short term opportunity arose to share some of this material with my nephews for a small but soon to be eye-popping outbuilding in their Rock Harbor renovation.

Re-Homing Stump-to-Lumber Ash & Elm (Photo: Christoph Aigner)

That sneak peek above illustrates the handsome walls and ceiling in what will become a dedicated workspace located a short plein air passage from the house. Looks a lot like the new floor in Rosslyn’s icehouse, right?

Soon this stump-to-lumber paneling will be paired with more re-homed Rosslyn material: Brazilian cherry (Jatoba) flooring remaining from our 2007-8 dining room rehabilitation.

Reimagine, Re-Home, Reuse

From reimagining to rehoming and reusing, Susan and I have been pretty obsessed with creative ways to revitalize and reboot whenever possible. Yes, that’s a whole lot of re-prefixing! I did mention obsession, right?

Baked into the icehouse rehab (and sooo much of our +/-17 year love affair with Rosslyn) is the inclination to salvage and rehabilitate, to recycle and upcycle, to repurpose and reuse… we’ve been keen to reimagine obsolete and abandoned artifacts in new, useful ways. (Source: Re-Homing Exterior Door)

Another similar opportunity, repurposing a pre-hung door, came up recently.

In the spirit of reducing, reusing, recycling, and repurposing, it pleases us that Tony Foster will be re-homing this exterior door from the icehouse. (Source: Re-Homing Exterior Door)

Sustainability is intrinsically rooted in responsible innovation. We strive to incorporate full cycle, cradle-to-grave thinking into our creative endeavors. A half century of combined construction and renovation experience has taught Susan and me that every project is part of a bigger whole, a small arc in a much larger continuum. And Rosslyn’s endurance, a two century story of repeat reinvention, enriches our confidence and our commitment to responsible re-prefixing whenever possible.

So much of our good fortune as Rosslyn’s stewards has been inherited from generations before us. Responsible ownership, conscientious preservation, and magnanimous spirits account for the life we’ve enjoyed on this property. We endeavor to follow in that tradition… (Source: Re-Homing John Deere AMT 626

Yes, Rosslyn has been far more than a home. She’s been our companion and our teacher.

Rosslyn has tutored us in the merits of conservation and preservation, rehabilitation and reinvention, generosity and sharing. (Source: Re-Homing Exterior Door)

And so it has made perfect sense to extend Rosslyn’s generosities to others. And perhaps my nephews’ workspace will afford them a small reminder from time-to-time of the property where they made many memories between childhood and adulthood.

June 19, 2023
Ready for Rhubarb Time?
Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)

Spring along the Adirondack Coast tempts us with plenty of enticing seasonal flavors, but a personal favorite is the sweet tart medley of local maple syrup and homegrown rhubarb. Although we’re still a little shy of rhubarb time, the maple syrup is standing by, and my imagination is conjuring up this springtime staple. It’s as perfectly paired with a steaming cup of morning tea or coffee as with grilled protein and a spring mixed green salad.

Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)

The images in today’s post, rhubarb photos that I posted on Instagram back in 2021, were inspired when Pam thrust a healthy handful of rhubarb stems into my grateful paw one morning. They’re a pinch more poignant now because our rhubarb crowns were accidentally rolled under last spring and we haven’t yet propagated a new generation.

Now that I’ve dangled the palate puckering temptation of rhubarb sautéed in maple syrup I’m going to ask your forbearance as I take a brief detour. I’ll get back to the super simple recipe in a moment.

But first an amuse-gueule: rhubarb haiku.

Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)

Rhubarb Haiku
```
Still chill, spring soil parts. 
Green, red, unclenching, stalking,
sweet tart rhubarb.
```
When spring’s still inhospitable weather and clammy soil don’t seem to suggest this potent plant coming forth, just then, it does. Courageous and colorful. A fist unfurling from the earth, stretching out into impossibly lush, almost tropical, foliage. It is rhubarb time again.

Perhaps this tangle of tartness and sweetness, cool climate growth and tropical semblance, is the allure of rhubarb time.

Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)

Rosslyn Rhubarb Time (Photo: Geo Davis)

Rosslyn Rhubarb Time

Rhubarb was one of my first forays into homegrown edibles back in 2007. I transplanted several crowns from my parent’s Rock Harbor property. We did not yet own the acreage west of the barns, so I hadn’t even begun to conceive of the gardens and orchard that we’ve been fortunate to develop since acquiring the first portion of our backland from Greystone in 2008/9.

I propagated the transplanted rhubarb crowns directly to the south of the carriage barn within the stone foundation of a long gone lean-to addition to the barn that may have at one point housed animals judging from the fertile soil. Combined with sunlight and heat reflected off of the carriage barn’s southern facade, this proved a productive microclimate for rhubarb (and asparagus) in those early years.

When fortune cast her benevolent gaze upon us, allowing us to add +/-28 acres to Rosslyn, I transplanted the rhubarb (and the asparagus) to a new location about 100 feet west of the carriage barn, where the plants would benefit from plenty of sunlight. These hardy perennials served as reliable forerunners for today’s productive vegetable and fruit gardens.

Their propagation served another symbolic, if sentimental, importance to me. Both — Rosslyn’s rhubarb and Rosslyn’s asparagus — were transplanted from existing beds that my mother had previously transplanted from our childhood home (see “Homeport in Wadhams, NY”) to Rock Harbor a couple of decades prior. A continuity reaching back to childhood, a lineage of homes, and a meaningful association with my mother, the self taught gardener who exposed me as a boy to the uniquely fulfilling practice of germinating, propagating, cultivating, harvesting, preparing, and sharing homegrown food. A perennial interconnectedness.

Rock Harbor Rhubarb Time

Turning back the clock a dozen years to May 31, 2011 I posted about harvesting Rock Harbor rhubarb some 5-6 years prior. (If lost in the math, the following refers to the time when Susan and I were contemplating the still-unlikely possibility of moving from New York City to the North Country. Rosslyn was still more playful pipedream than reality.)

We walked down the road from the tennis court and stopped off at my parents’ house, still closed up for the winter. It would be several weeks before my parents arrived in Rock Harbor for the summer, and by then the asparagus would have gone to seed, so we picked enough for dinner and enough extra to bring back to the city for another meal.

I also picked a fistful of rhubarb to sauté with maple syrup for dessert. Susan disliked rhubarb, but I loved the lip puckering tartness. The taste transports me instantly to The Farm. (Source: The Farm)

Rock Harbor Rhubarb (Source: Geo Davis)

Much as our Rock Harbor rhubarb bridged time and place, Rosslyn’s rhubarb had become a seasonal reconnection bridge to a timeless tapestry of family, gardening, meals shared, and home oases.

Before I slide further down the slippery slope of sentimentality, I’d better get on with that recipe!

Maple Rhubarb Recipe

This maple rhubarb recipe may well be the simplest how-to you’ve ever come across. Sometimes the best recipes are the simplest!
- Trim rhubarb ends to remove any leaf remnants (which are toxic to humans due to high levels of oxalic acid.)
- Trim rhubarb ends to remove earthy bits.
- Chop rhubarb into 1/2″ to 3/4″ pieces.
- Fill a saucepan about halfway full of chopped rhubarb, and place on low heat.
- Add a cup of water and a teaspoon of vanilla.
- Cover the sauce pan and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring periodically to ensure even sautéing.
- Once the rhubarb has begun to break down evenly, add a dash of cinnamon
- Add maple syrup to taste.
- Top this quick dessert/snack with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, or a dollop of vanilla yoghurt. (If you’re dairy free, as I am, substitute your preferred alternative!)
The sweet tart flavor profile of sautéed maple rhubarb is so unique, so scintillating, so memorable that my taste buds are tingling as I write these words. Enjoy.
May 28, 2023
Tasha, Tennis and Wildlife

Tasha Testing the Territory

Tucked into a meadow surrounded by forest, the tennis court was starting to show a quarter century of soggy springs and icy winters. The net drooped, but we decided not to tighten it and risk breaking the rotten netting. Besides the droop better accommodated our rusty tennis skills.

The twelve foot tall fence around the court sagged along the north side. A tree that had fallen across it a few years before had been removed, but the stretched steel mesh retained the memory. Several young maple trees grew along the crumbling margin of the court and protruded inside the fence. Towering maples, oaks and white pines surrounded the court on three sides, lush with new foliage that whispered in the wind. Birds and squirrels chattered in the canopy. Ants paraded across the court’s puckering green surface, and a pair of small butterflies danced in a rising and falling gyre. Tasha sniffed around the perimeter of the court, her obligatory inspection as head ball girl for our sylvan Roland Garros.

We started to volley back and forth, balls collecting quickly on both sides of the net. It felt great to be hitting a tennis ball again, and – like every spring – I vowed to spend more time on the court, perennially optimistic that a solid tennis game was within my reach.

The sound of our rackets making solid contact with the fresh balls encouraged us and prompted Tasha to abandon the grasshopper she had been badgering. She headed out onto Susan’s side of the court and started to lunge at balls, attempting to catch them in her mouth. We tried to be more creative in our placement, trying simultaneously to avoid hitting her and to protect the nice new balls from her slobbery maw.

Soon enough she discovered that she could simply take her pick from the balls that were collecting beside the net, and she plunked down in the middle of the court to enjoy a new chew toy.

“Maybe we should have brought the hopper of old balls, so it wouldn’t matter if she chewed them…”

“Home run!” Susan cheered, sending a ball soaring over the fence into the woods. Excited, Tasha got up and padded over to the fence where she stood, looking for the ball in the woods.

Soon, enough balls had vanished over the fence that we headed out to see how many we could recover.

“Hey, come check out this snake!” I called out to Susan after startling a small garter snake in the tall grass near the woods.

“Tasha, come! Grab her. Don’t let her get close to it!” Susan’s words came like machine gun fire as she sprinted toward me. “It might be poisonous!”

“It’s just a garter snake,” I said. “Tasha’s fine.”

“Are you sure it’s not a rattlesnake? Where is it?” she asked, next to us now, grabbing Tasha by the collar and pulling her backward, away from the grass where the snake had already vanished.

“It’s gone.”

“Gone? Where? Why didn’t you keep your eye on it?” Susan hustled Tasha back toward the tennis court.

“Relax. It was a garter snake, Susan. It’s harmless. Nothing to worry about.”

“How do you know? What if you’re wrong?”

Tasha shags a tennis ball

When I returned from the woods with most of the balls, Susan had our tennis rackets tucked under her arm. Tasha was leashed.

“I’m ready to go,” Susan said.

“Because of the snake?”

“No. I’m just ready. I’ve played enough tennis.”

“Okay.”

Susan asked me to walk ahead, checking for snakes. I laughed, then obliged, walking a few paces with exaggerated caution.

“Stop!” I bellowed, freezing and pointing into the grass ahead. “I think I see one…”

“That’s not funny,” said, repressing a smile.

“Wait, do you hear that rattling noise?”

Susan laughed. Tasha pulled at her leash, excited, ready to help me search for snakes.

“Well, you never know,” Susan said. “Tasha’s a city dog. She might try to attack a rattlesnake.”

“Because that’s what city dogs do?” I laughed.

Tasha, our twelve year old Labrador Retriever, enjoyed bark at wildlife, maybe even an abbreviated mock charge in the case of deer, but she had little interest in tangling with animals, birds or snakes. Frogs intrigued her more, briefly, until she realized they were not toys. A sleepy cluster fly could entertain her for five or ten minutes. But Tasha would leave rattlesnake attacking to younger, more aggressive beasts.

May 20, 2011
Fox & Squirrel

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8vmPSvUNps]

When I was in middle school my parents moved our family from a circa 1876 manse in Wadhams that they’d restored gradually over a decade, to a new home tucked into a tree-lined meadow near Lake Champlain.

Formerly part of the Higginson farm, the homeowners association comprised a little over a half dozen camps and homes tucked between Rock Harbor and the Split Rock Wilderness Area. During the next two years before I headed off to boarding school this wild wonderland dished up a daily buffet of adventures.

Recently I’ve been remembering the spring that we discovered foxes. Or the foxes discovered us. In the spring of 1985 a pair of red foxes got themselves in the family way and unwittingly lured my brother, sister and me into a full-scale Vulpes vulpes obsession.

Red Fox Kits (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t remember now if there were two or three fox kits, but I do remember that their mother would let them play around the house while she hunted for mice or freshened up the den or got her hair done or whatever it is that vixens do when they get a little time to themselves.

The kits played and wrestled and chased butterflies and explored while we studied their every move, first from the windows and then from the open front door and then from the steps of the front stoop.

Day by day they became more comfortable with us, and day by day my brother and sister and I grew more entranced. At first the kits were skittish but they gradually grew more comfortable with us. They tousled and nipped at each other in the sunshine a mere 6 to 10 feet away. As we became more and more obsessed with the idea of diminishing the distance between ourselves and the foxes, they too became curious about us. They watched us and came closer to sniff and inspect.

I was 13 at the time, the eldest of my siblings, and I probably should have spent more time considering the dangers of interacting with wild animals, but I didn’t. I’d abandoned prudence and reason. The beauty and playful nature of the rapidly growing kits had swept me up, eclipsing any common sense I might have possessed.

Red Fox cubs. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

No doubt it was my idea to see if we could entice the young foxes into the house. Little by little the kits followed the trail of snacks placed on the steps, on the landing, on the threshold, in the hallway… We gradually lured the young foxes into the kitchen where they sniffed briefly, nibbled the snacks and headed back outside. We were elated.

In hindsight, there was no meaningful reason to entice the foxes inside except curiosity. And challenge. And the almost primal thrill of interacting with beautiful, wild creatures.

I’m not quite sure how we managed this without my parents realizing what was going on. Perhaps it was early on weekend mornings. I don’t know, but somehow we managed over several weeks to overcome the foxes’ sense of caution and prudence. And then the adventure ended. I’d like to think we wised up, realized the danger of befriending the kits, the danger of having their mother return when the kits were inside. But probably my parents discovered our misguided obsession and abbreviated the adventure.

The memories flooded back this winter because that handsome (if somewhat short-legged) fox in the video clip above became a frequent Rosslyn visitor. Perhaps affected by the virtually snow-less conditions or more likely by my bride’s enthusiastic bird and squirrel feeding regimen, the fox made daily — and sometimes twice daily — tours of our front lawn. I was usually the one to spot him early in the morning while feeding Griffin breakfast, though Griffin’s attentive window watching served as a reliable early notification system.

Fox hunting for mid-morning snack. (Photo credit: virtualDavis)

It turns out that plump, well-fed squirrels are not only a tasty breakfast for a fox but they are also easy prey, unable to skitter up the ginkgo tree as quickly as necessary to escape the hungry hunter.

Despite the emotionally disturbing reality of observing any predator-prey showdown, the foxes cunning and efficiency intrigued me in the way the playful kits had more than a quarter century ago. I’ll save details for another time as I know that my bride suffers these descriptions. She’s informed my on multiple occasions that our yard is a safe haven for wildlife, which is a laudable decision, but difficult to enforce. So far we’ve failed to communicate the message to the foxes and hawks… Any suggestions?

April 26, 2012
The Farm

Rock Harbor Rhubarb (and memories of The Farm!)

We walked down the road from the tennis court and stopped off at my parents’ house, still closed up for the winter. It would be several weeks before my parents arrived in Rock Harbor for the summer, and by then the asparagus would have gone to seed, so we picked enough for dinner and enough extra to bring back to the city for another meal.

I also picked a fistful of rhubarb to sauté with maple syrup for dessert. Susan disliked rhubarb, but I loved the lip puckering tartness. The taste transports me instantly to The Farm.

My parents, living and working in New York City, had purchased an 1840s farmhouse on 85 acres near Greenwich, New York five months after getting married. I was born less than two years later.

Although The Farm served primarily as a weekend getaway for the next five years, it dominates the geography of my earliest childhood. A stream of nostalgia gilded memories flow from this pastoral source: exploring the time-worn barns, absent livestock except for those conjured up by my energetic imagination and the swallows which darted in and out, building nests in the rafters, gliding like darts through dusty sunbeams; vegetable gardening with my mother; tending apple, pear and quince trees with my father; eating fresh rhubarb, strawberries and blackberries; discovering deer and raccoons and snakes and even a snapping turtle.

May 31, 2011
Rosslyn for Sale

Rosslyn for sale (photo credit Jason McNulty)

Susan and I were driving back to Rock Harbor after visiting Rosslyn, an early 19th century home in Essex, New York, which our realtor had just shown us for the second time in several months.

It was spring. At least a dozen sailboats speckled Whallons Bay as we wound south along the edge of Lake Champlain. Small white caps, light wind, bluebird skies above. Two fishing boats trawled between the beach and Split Rock where a glimpse of Vermont was visible within the cleft.

We veered away from the lake and up Couchey Hill toward one of the most picturesque views in the Champlain Valley. Hurricane, Giant, Dix and the Jay Range were silhouetted against cloud specked blue skies to the east. An undulating patchwork quilt of hayfields and tree lines stretched to blue green foothills clumped against the Adirondack Mountains.

Half an hour can vanish in a single breath while watching a sunny day expire here. Even at midday the view is an open-ended invitation to linger.

But with minds and mouths racing, we did not even slow down on our way back to Rock Harbor. We were sorting engagements, worrying over deadlines and synchronizing schedules for the week ahead. After a quick lunch, we would drive back to Manhattan. Although the trip could be as quick as five hours, Sunday afternoons were typically slower with increased traffic around Albany and returning weekenders adding to the congestion.

May 16, 2011
Almost Logical

What if? Wondering what life would be like living full-time in the Champlain Valley…

Within minutes we were tripping over each other, drunk with excitement, imagining one whimsical “What if…” scenario after another. No filter, no caution. Our reveries flitted from one idyllic snapshot to another.

“What if I finally sat down and finished my novel?” After dawdling self indulgently for a dozen years – writing, rewriting, discarding, rewriting, shuffling, reinventing – my novel had evolved from failed poetry collection to short story collection to novel to a tangle of interconnecting narratives that loosely paralleled my life since graduating from college. Too much evolution. Too little focus. But what if I made time to sit down and knock it out? Reboot. Start over. Find the story. Write it down. Move on.

“What if you weren’t sitting in front of your computer all day? Every day?” Susan asked, returning to a common theme. “What if you went outside and played with Tasha? Took her swimming or hiking or skiing every day?”

“What if all three of us went swimming or hiking or skiing every day? What if Tasha and I went jogging along Lakeshore Road instead of the East River?”

We could waterski and windsurf for half the year instead of just two or three months, starting in May with drysuits and finishing in the end of October. We could sail the Hobie Cat more instead of letting it collect spider webs on the Rock Harbor beach. I could fly fish the Boquet and Ausable Rivers in the afternoon while Tasha snoozed on the bank. We could join Essex Farm, the local CSA, supporting a local startup while eating healthy, locally grown and raised food. I could grow a vegetable garden, an herb garden, an orchard. Susan could work for an architecture firm in Burlington and volunteer at the animal shelter. We could buy season passes to Whiteface and downhill ski several days a week. We could cross country ski and snowshoe and bike and rollerblade and kayak and canoe and hike, and maybe I would start rock climbing again. And how much more smoothly the Lapine House renovation would be if we were on-site every day answering questions, catching mistakes before it was too late.

“I could interview candidates for Hamilton!” Susan said. She had recently become an alumni trustee for her alma mater, and her already high enthusiasm had skyrocketed. She had become a walking-talking billboard for the college. “You know how much more valuable it would be to interview candidates up here? There are tons of alumni interviewers in Manhattan, but in Westport? In Essex? In Elizabethtown?”

Suspended in lukewarm bathwater, our collective brainstorm leap frogging forward, it all started to make a strange sort of sense, to seem almost logical.

June 10, 2011
Reliance and Neptune Grapes

Reliance and Neptune grapes from Doube A Vineyards

Neptune grapes? What?

This spring one of my gardening priorities is developing Rosslyn’s long term fruit production. I’ve spent the last couple of years salvaging long abandoned apple trees, and this spring I’m planting additional fruit trees, shrubs and vines. Sounds factory farm-like… Not at all what I’m going for, so let’s start again!

Neptune Grapes and Reliance Grapes

On March 28 I placed an order with Double A Vineyards for four grapevines, two Neptune grapes (a seedless white grape variety) and two Reliance grapes (a seedless red grape variety). Taking advantage of today’s beautiful mid-70’s weather I planted all four grapes along the garden meadow fence, filling in some of the gaps between the grapes I planted last year.

The grapes arrived at the end of last week, but I was unable to plant them before heading down to Montclair, New Jersey to celebrate Easter with my in-laws. Fortunately the grapevines were well packaged in damp, shredded newsprint wrapped in plastic. I left the package sealed in the carriage house to avoid drying out the roots, and they were still damp (but not moldy) when I opened them up today.

Why Reliance and Neptune Grapes?

[pullquote]Unfortunately wine production has been limited by the incredible efficiency of the wild turkey and deer who consistently gobble the crop as each variety ripens.[/pullquote]

So, why’d I pick these Neptune grapes and Reliance grapes? Why not!

All of the grapes I’m growing are primarily table grapes (as opposed to wine grapes), and because it’s a lot more enjoyable to eat seedless grapes, I’m mostly narrowing my variety selection to avoid seeded grapes. Although I may later add in a small wine grape vineyard, my short term priority is food, not wine.

We planted a vineyard of wine grapes in Rock Harbor in the mid-1980’s and it’s done surprisingly well over the years. Unfortunately wine production has been limited by the incredible efficiency of the wild turkey and deer who consistently gobble the crop as each variety ripens. I do have a few bottles of our own foxy Dry Gulch Vineyards wine in the Rosslyn wine cellar, and I’d be remiss not to offer a hat tip to my parents who actually made two delicious wines last fall, one a lively red from a wide range of grapes from the vineyard supplemented with plenty of native wild grapes. The second was a popular dry apple wine made from fruit purchased at one of the orchards in Peru, New York.

Reliance and Neptune Grapes Diversify Vineyard

I’m meandering. Back to Neptune grapes and Reliance grapes. I chose these seedless grape varieties to supplement the existing grapevines I planted last spring: Himrod, Catawba, Concord and Mars. According to the good folks at Double A Vineyeards, Neptune/101-14 (Seedless) will afford us a not-too-late crop of super sweet fruit!

A mid-season variety with medium sized berries on a conical shaped cluster. Fruity berries have high sugar solids with good resistance to cracking. (Double A Vineyards)

And Reliance, another mid-season ripener, also offers a sweet alternative to some of the tart fruit I’ve already planted. And melting flesh!

Produces large clusters of round, red, medium-sized berries. The skins are tender and the flesh is melting in texture, with a sweet flavor. Coloring may be poor in some years, but cold hardiness is among the highest of the seedless varieties. University of Arkansas Ontario/Suffolk Red cross. (Double A Vineyards)

Lake Champlain Floods, but Rosslyn Vineyard Thrives

Rain is predicted for the next few days. Heck, with the exception of this weekend, the forecast for the next ten days is rain, rain, rain! So while Rosslyn dock house submerges, the grapes will prosper. There’s always a silver lining!

April 27, 2011
Lingering Longer at Rock Harbor

Rock Harbor view of Lake Champlain and Vermont shoreline

Back at Rock Harbor I packed the car while Susan prepared tuna melts. The temperature had warmed to the mid seventies, and a light breeze was blowing off the lake. We ate lunch on the deck, one last indulgence before locking up and heading back to Manhattan.

Perched a hundred feet above the lake, the deck offered a stunning panorama of Lake Champlain’s mid-section, known as the narrows. At just over a mile across, the narrows are the wasp’s waist of the 125 mile long lake that at its broadest spans 14 miles across. Across the field of sparkling topaz Vermont farmland extended to the Green Mountains. The Basin Harbor Club’s whitewashed cottages winked through heavy foliage along the shoreline. Several sailboats glided north. A motorboat buzzed lazily, weaving in and out of the coves along the New York shoreline.

I remembered the summer five years ago when Susan and I first explored these same coves together — waterskiing, drifting, skinny dipping — enjoying a whimsical summer fling before heading back to separate lives and responsibilities on opposite sides of the Atlantic.

“I was thinking,” Susan interrupted my reverie. “I don’t really have to be back in the city until noon tomorrow…”

I smiled. We both knew that she really meant, Do you want to stay another night and drive home tomorrow? Though not habitually subtle, Susan had a tendency to suggest rather than request. So, an offhand, “It’s getting late, we really should feed Tasha,” actually translated into, Can you please feed Tasha dinner? Or, “It would be nice to have a fire in the fireplace,” meant, Would you build a fire?

“Great! Let’s stay.”

“Really?” Susan sounded surprised.

“Sure, it’s a perfect day for tennis.”

My work was portable, so Monday mornings rolled out more or less the same whether we were upstate or downstate. Up early, take Tasha out, feed Tasha, feed myself, fire up my laptop and get to work. In Rock Harbor I could let Tasha out the front door in my bathrobe and then let her back in five or ten minutes later when she barked at the door. In Manhattan, I got dressed, chatted with the doormen, walked Tasha around the block on a leash, chatted with the doormen again and then scarfed down a banana or some cereal at my desk in front of my computer. Breakfast at 430 East 57th Street and Camp Wabetsu might have tasted the same, but the view from the kitchen window in Rock Harbor — this same IMAX movie we were experiencing right now — tipped the scale. Often we were accompanied by a bald eagle sitting in the dead pine tree 25 feet away, waiting to plunge down and grab his own breakfast. Or a fox patrolling for mice. Or a herd of white tail deer browsing saplings and tender spring shoots.

“You won’t be anxious if you can’t work tomorrow morning?”

Translation: You won’t be annoyed if I sleep in and we get a late start? Now we were getting to the crux of it.

“No problem. I’m okay with missing a morning’s work while we drive down in exchange for some tennis this afternoon and another relaxing night here. But let’s make sure we get up early and leave on time, okay? I don’t want to miss a whole day’s work because we got a late start.”

This was a familiar conversation. We always craved more time at Rock Harbor and always found it hard to leave. The Champlain Valley effect. It kicked in each time we drove up, right after passing the last Lake George exit on Route 87. It felt like the first few deep breaths after a good visit to the chiropractor. Maybe it was the clean air or the spectacular views. Or the absence of traffic. Or the anticipation of a slower rhythm.

We agreed to postpone our departure, and I unpacked the car while Susan cleaned up from lunch. A couple of phone calls and a change of clothes later we headed up to the tennis court to burn off the tuna melts and Doritos.

May 18, 2011
Postprandial Soak

Postprandial Soak

After dinner Susan opted for a postprandial soak. Quiet. Languid. Sybaritic. Tasha curled up beside the bathtub, sighed and fell asleep. A breeze carried the faint smell of pine trees through the open window. A whippoorwill called in the distance.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we could live here?” Susan said.

“Why couldn’t we?” I asked, vaguely aware that my response might abbreviate the placid mood we were enjoying.

“Really?” Susan sat up abruptly. “I mean, of course we could, but we can’t just leave our friends behind. And the apartment?”

“Our friends would visit. And the apartment? We could figure that out.” We only recently had found and renovated the co-op on East 57th Street, our first joint remodel. Located on the twelfth floor of an understated pre-war with a southern exposure, tons of sunlight, a working fireplace and beautiful hardwood floors, we knew we were incredibly fortunate. The neighbors and staff were friendly, and the neighborhood offered excellent restaurants, grocers, wine shops and even a knowledgeable and well stocked fromagerie.

“We can’t just sell the apartment. I mean we’ve barely lived there. And besides…”

“You want to work in green design, right?” I asked. “Why not get a job in Vermont? They’re all about green over there, aren’t they?”

“How did you know I was thinking about my career?”

“I didn’t know. I guessed.”

“I know I haven’t exactly gotten around to starting my design career yet,” Susan said and went on to remind me that soon – very, very soon — she anticipated a high profile job with a world renowned firm, designing hotels and proving that commercial interior design could be environmentally friendly, healthy and affordable.

“Sounds good,” I said softly, definitively and tried to sink back into dreamy limbo.

Susan was quiet. Tasha ran in her sleep, thumping against the side of the tub.

“I need to spend a few years with a big firm first, for the experience. Then, maybe…”

“I’m just saying, if you’re serious about green design, Vermont might be as good a place as any to start your career. And besides, you’d actually be living a green lifestyle in the Adirondacks, right?”

“But what about you?”

“What about me? I’d be living a green lifestyle in the Adirondacks too. I love it here. I’d be thrilled to live here for a few years.” Peripatetic by nature, I enjoyed relocating every three to four years. Having grown up in the Adirondacks, mostly in the Champlain Valley, I had long yearned to reconnect, not just for vacation or a weekend.

“Really? But what about your career?”

“Which one? Teaching? Writing? Ecommerce? Renovating real estate? Susan, my career is adventure!” I said melodramatically, with a splashy flourish and a roguish grin. “And right now my adventure is the Margaux Project and ShipStore,” referring to two websites I was currently working on. “I can do that anywhere. And, frankly, if we we’re up here I might find more time to write. This’d be the perfect place to finish my novel.”

“And my screen play.”

“And your screen play.”

June 2, 2011