Signs of springtime are abundant lately. It’s asparagus time. Also ramps, apple blossoms, dandelions, fiddleheads, tulips, nettles,… And lily of the valley unfurling dramatically. An entire army of terpsichorean twirlers synchronized, slowly unfurling, mesmerizing.
Lily of the Valley Unfurling (Photo: Geo Davis)
Lily of the valley (Convallaria majalis)… is a woodland flowering plant with sweetly scented, pendent, bell-shaped white flowers borne in sprays in spring. (Source: Wikipedia)
Lily of the Valley Unfurling (Photo: Geo Davis)
It’s still too early for the perfume that this ground cover will waft across the deck and into the screen porch, but anticipation smells almost as sweet! And the vibrant pageantry, Nature’s unsubtle choreography, is enchanting, even slightly hypnotic. Believe, these sylvan dervishes chant, believe and spring will swirl into summer once again.
I missed my mark — Earth Day, April 22, 2023 — with this post extolling the poetry of earth. It was germinal then, and it remains germinal today (albeit marginally more mature?)
Sometimes a seed germinates with exuberance, practically exploding into existence as if overcome with the glory of imminent bloom and fruit. Other times a seed lingers dormant — cautious or reticent or simply, inexplicably vigorless — for so long that its potential is overlooked, obscured by the foliage and flowers and harvest of its neighbors.
And through it all nature’s song endures. Just when we are lulled into torpid tranquility it swells in symphonic crescendo.
“The poetry of earth is never dead.” — John Keats, “On the Grasshopper and Cricket” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
Poetry of Earth, May 2, 2010 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Often a blog post is sketched out with a few simple strokes that distill the essence for what I expect to write about. A mini map yo I de ate my route. As I develop the post, filling in the voids, perhaps adding texture and color and context, I approach the anticipated narrative scope. Upon arriving at my destination I publish and share. But exploring a preliminary sketch or fleshing out a rough outline sometimes occasionally renders surprises. Wayward adventures lurk in the most unlikely places. I plan to take journey A, but I end up taking journey B.
And then there are the posts that linger dormant. A seed is planted, but it doesn’t leap to life. Perhaps the ground is still too cold, the earth isn’t sufficiently fertile, or the rain and sun remain elusive. A sketch, an outline, a map. Perhaps even a journey — or several journeys — but they are abbreviated and fruitless. False starts.
It is wise on these occasions to move on. Maybe circle back in the future. Try again. Or compost the effort that it might fertilize another seed. For this is the wisdom of nature and the gardener. This is the poetry of earth.
My mind meanders from Pollyanna printemps — nature reaching and bursting, reinvigorating all that withered and laid dormant these frosty days and nights of winter — to autumn’s harvest. Symphonic crescendo and resounding applause. Such success and such succession. Sweet reward and bitter decline. Decadence and decay.
This seasonal swan song’s poignance is the marriage of expiry and infinity, waning and immortality.
As when winter succumbs to spring’s tender caresses, thawing and refreezing, thawing and refreezing, melting into muddy mess, then gathering composure, turning etiolated tendril toward the sun begins to warm, to green, toward foliage and flower and fruit and… fall.
The poetry of earth is a consoling refrain. It is a reminder that beginnings end and endings seed new beginnings. Out of the mud, a sprout. From the sprout a life full of wonder and another generation of seeds.
“The poetry of earth is ceasing never…” — John Keats, “On the Grasshopper and Cricket” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
Keats’ poem delivers where I have come up short. Perhaps grasshoppers and crickets and birds lend themselves more willingly to the poetry of nature. Perhaps not. Perhaps this still muddled effort is destined for the compost where it’s decomposition will enrich a subsequent effort to compose this song of seasonality that so far eludes me. To convey the tragic beauty, and the profoundly consoling inspiration of the poetry of nature…
This morning my friend, Mark, sent me a photo snapped exactly thirteen years ago (where does the time go?!?!) after we launched the dock and boat lift for the start of the boating season. In addition to a timely hint that spring is starting to flirt with summer — a meta metronomic rhythm reminder, if you will — another note struck me: friendship is the common denominator in so many of our Rosslyn memories. So at its core, this “photo essay” flash back thirteen lucky years ago is a meditation on seasonality and friendship.
Installing Dock with Tom and Griffin on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Dock & Friends
Rosslyn seasonality is a year-round singalong, the metronomic melody I suggested above. Highest water level. Lowest water level. Docks and boat lift in. Docks and boat lift out. The photos in this post tell the springtime refrain of Rosslyn’s waterfront singalong, or at least part of it. The other is the voices joining in the singalong.
Installing Dock with Doug and Mark on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
The inspiration for today’s post, a retrospective photograph texted to me by Mark, sent me digging deep into my photo history. I pulled up the photos that Susan had snapped thirteen years ago while we were readying the waterfront for an incoming boating season.
Installing Dock on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Upon locating these images I was struck far less with the docks and the boat lift and much more with the three friends braving the cold lake on an inclement day to help us get ready for months of boating, waterskiing, etc.
Installing Dock with Mark, Tom, and Doug on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
While I couldn’t ignore the fact that peeling a decade and change off our faces and physiques made me nostalgic for younger days, the more poignant sensation was of gratitude for the camaraderie.
Installing Dock with Doug and Tom on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Mark Englehardt, Tom Duca, and Doug Decker, I thank you. These fuzzy old photos trigger a great gusher of gratitude to you three. Yes, there’s gratitude aplenty for you waterfront assistance. Plenty! We couldn’t enjoy much of our Rosslyn lifestyle without the generous participation of so many. But there’s also something even more fundamental. Friendship. Rosslyn has, since our earliest days, been interwoven with a wondrous web of friendships.
Installing Dock with Doug, Tom and Griffin on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Over the past year that I’ve been revisiting our almost seventeen years at Rosslyn it’s become abundantly obvious that first and foremost this place is a nexus of friendships, memories made, and memories still-to-be-made. Rosslyn is so much more that bricks and mortar, beach and meadows, gardens and orchard. Rosslyn is connectedness, relationships, people, stories,…
Installing Dock with Tom on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
The photos so far, a 2010 dock launch “documentary” of sorts, are interspersed with stream of consciousness notes that, upon rereading, are more gush than good. Unfiltered. Unedited. And perhaps a little over the top. Perhaps. But I’m going to leave them. For now at least.
And I’ll get out of the way as we shift from dock to boat lift.
Boat Lift & Friends
Here’s the photo essay I promised at the outset (sans the sentimental soul dump that infiltrated the preceding. Thanks for your forbearance!)
Installing Boat Lift with Tom, April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)Installing Boat Lift with Mark, Tom, and Carley on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)Installing Boat Lift with Mark, Tom, and Doug on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)Installing Boat Lift with Mark, Tom, and Doug on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)Installing Boat Lift with Mark, Tom, and Doug on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)Installing Boat Lift with Mark, Tom, and Doug on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)Installing Boat Lift with Mark, Tom, and Doug on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)Installing Boat Lift with Mark, Tom, and Doug on April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)Geo and Tom Installing Boat Lift, April 30, 2010 (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Acknowledgements
Thank you, Mark, Tom, and Doug. Thank you, Griffin, who made several appearances in these photos. We still miss you. And thank you, Rosslyn, for continuing to connect amazing people (and dogs!)
It’s been a good week, and it’s not even over yet. Much gratitude is due the entire team as we move into a Friday with many moving parts and a growing balance sheet of synchronous progress in the icehouse, outside the icehouse, and throughout Rosslyn’s still muddy but increasingly springlike grounds.
A photo essay (think more photos, less essay) will offer the best glimpse into the latest round of accomplishments. And behind all of these photos — if not literally behind the camera, in all cases behind the wrangling and tasking and managing and juggling and multitasking and quality control — is Pam Murphy. Our gratitude to everyone behind this week of synchronous progress, especially the woman who keeps it all together!
Finishing Up Icehouse Ceiling (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
In the photo above installation of the T&G nickel gap on Rosslyn’s icehouse ceiling is. Almost. Done. Rumor has it that tomorrow the ceiling will be finished. Fingers crossed!
March has marked plenty of plumbing progress in the icehouse rehab, most recently installation of the admittedly unattractive but practical mini split that will keep this oasis cool in the steaming days of summer.
East Icehouse Lamp Reinstalled (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Electrical headway includes reinstallation of the lamp next to the entrance door. Removed during installation of the insulated panels and clapboard siding, the patinated exterior sconce is now back in place.
New Marvin Doors and Architectural Salvaged Door in Temporary “Paint Shop” (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
The first of the Marvin Doors have been received from Windows & Doors by Brownell. We started the process back in August, and the still have a little over a month to wait for all of the windows. So for now we’ll get to work painting the doors and installing them. On the right of the photo is an old door that Peter has rebuilt and that is now repainted in satin White Dove by Benjamin Moore to match the rest of the icehouse interior trim.
High Tunnel Almost Ready for Planting (Photo: Tony Foster)
In other exciting spring news, Tony has done a remarkable job of preparing the high tunnel for early season planting. And check out that solar gain on a freezing day!
In addition to carpentry, plumbing, electrical, and gardening headway, some landscaping progress is also worth noting. In the photo above the lawn adjacent to the icehouse deck and terrace, has been crisply edged so that Bob Kaleita can fine-tune the site work and stone wall construction can begin.
A hat tip to our Amish neighbors who’ve accelerated the landscaping grounds work AND split up the massive ash tree that fell a couple of weeks ago. Plenty of firewood now curing, a geometrically impeccable extension to the daylily bed, and plenty of edging including the new hemlock hedge planted last summer by Patrick McAuliff.
Edging New Hemlock Hedge (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
Crisp edging ready for mulch along the hemlocks. In the photo above the perspective is looking east toward Lake Champlain, and in the photo below looking west toward the Adirondacks.
Edging New Hemlock Hedge (Photo: R.P. Murphy)
And that’s just *part* of a busy week. Thank you, team!
“Rather than trying to coerce the house to do something new, we tried to reawaken it.” (New England Home)
In “Taking the Long View” Paula M. Bodah refers to the renovation of a Victorian house near Boston, Massachusetts in unusually anthropomorphic terms. Reawaken? Since when do houses sleep?
Despite the unfamiliar reference, Bodah’s terminology is precise, accurate and familiar. In the case of Rosslyn, reawakening is precisely how I too describe our renovation process, though I didn’t understand this at the outset.
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)
While “turning a house into a home” is a topic for a future post, and although I’ve frequently joked that no detail of Rosslyn’s rehabilitation escaped our fingerprints, 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.
In fact, I wanted to move into Rosslyn after six months — after the most critical infrastructure had been upgraded — so that I could discover the house by living in it. I wanted to understand Rosslyn from the inside out. Remember my coffee-in-the-morning pipe dream? My bride thought I was crazy at the time, willfully opting living in a full-scale renovation project. No doubt here judgment was sound, but it turns out my instinct wasn’t so unusual after all.
The couple who bought this Boston-area Victorian [described above]… lived in their house for a full year, noting how they used the space and how the light flowed (or didn’t), thinking, planning and discussing before undertaking any serious renovating or redecorating. (New England Home)
There’s a certain intimacy, a depth of familiarity and knowledge, that is only possible when you live in a house. When you fall asleep listening to its sighs and creeks mingling with the soft breathing of your bride and dog. When you wake up and navigate your way to the bathroom in the dark in the middle of the night. When an avalanche of snow slides off the roof, startling you early in the morning. When you wake up but stay in bed with your still sleeping bride because the room’s so cold, the comforter is so warm, and you can’t imagine feeling this cozy ever again. When Griffin, your Labrador Retriever, licks your cheek and stares at you pleadingly so that you slide into your robe and slippers and shuffle down the staircase to take him outside for a crack-o-dawn potty break. When you crack a pair of eggs into a sizzling skillet next to the popping bacon and wait for the house to smell like Sunday morning. When the ferry boat landing at the nearby ferry dock vibrates the house. When you step out of the shower onto the worn floorboards. When you inhale a nostril-full of moist brick after a summer rain. When you gather family together for a celebratory meal in the dining room with the smell of crackling fire mingling with the the aroma of roast turkey and pumpkin soup…
These are the caresses and whispers that you miss when you renovate a house from without, when diagrams and computer-assisted drawings and conversations are the only firsthand contact you’ve experienced with the environment that will nurture and protect and inspire you for many years to come.
Several years of interior design school underpinned my bride’s confidence that living in a home to understand it was unnecessary, that carefully calibrated (and much debated) drawings were more than adequate to understand the best orientations for bathrooms and kitchens and beds and desks. She was comfortable forging ahead.
I was not. I wanted to touch and smell and hear Rosslyn in order to understand her. I agreed with my bride that it was critical to renovate our home according to the needs of our own lifestyle, but I wanted to ensure that we weren’t imposing our own will haphazardly onto those of the house.
Perhaps this sounds contrived? Perhaps it hints of New Age-y pseudo philosophical blather? I don’t fully disagree. But it’s an honest accounting of our differences as we plunged into Rosslyn’s renovation.
For a long time I struggled to admit to myself, much less to my bride, that I considered it arrogant to impose our dreams upon Rosslyn without first trying to understand her dreams. I was obsessed with reawakening and listening to the old house, trying to hear what she was trying to tell us.
At first we strained to hear, and then it became easier. Her stories, her dreams flowed, and before long we lost the ability to mute Rosslyn. We were inundated with her past and her hopes for the future. Before long it grew virtually impossible to distinguish between Rosslyn’s will and our own.
And so the scope of our project mushroom and the timeline extended. And mushroomed. And extended. We joked that we had been kidnapped by Rosslyn, and in a sense we had.
Did Punxsutawney Phil see his shadow? Is spring around the corner? Are we headed into six more weeks of winter?
In this high tech era of satellites forecasting weather from beyond the beyond, intricate algorithms gobbling gargantuan data sets, and media channels dedicated to analyzing and communicating meteorological mysteries in real time, we still get excited on February 2 to see how a groundhog will react to brisk midwinter conditions. It’s folksy fun, I suppose. Maybe a result of cabin fever…
Today the furry fellow decided it was wiser to double down on hibernation. Spring’s still a long way off, at least in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.
To be sure, Essex isn’t exactly tropical compared to Punxsutawney, so a belated de-wintering would seem inevitable based upon this morning’s proceedings. But, I’m pro-spring, even if that puts me in disagreement with Phil.
Unlike the groundhog,
fur ruffed against shadowed chill,
I suspect springtime.
I love springtime almost as much as I love morning, and for similar reasons. So much possibility in both reawakenings!
And who’s to say that haikupoetry is any less indicative of spring’s arrival than a groundhog coddled by top hatted members of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club gathering at Gobbler’s Knob? Not I. (Which begs the question, what *else* do marmots and micropoems have in common?)
What to make of an annual tradition centering around a groundhog venturing out of hibernation to prognosticate on the coming season? Let’s dig into the legend of Punxsutawney Phil.
Each February 2, on Groundhog Day, the members of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club make the pilgrimage to Gobbler’s Knob, Phil’s official home.
The group waits for Phil to leave his burrow and, legend has it, if he sees his shadow we’re in for six more weeks of winter. If he doesn’t, we get to bask in an early spring.
Scientifically speaking, winter will officially come to an end on the equinox on March 20, regardless of what Phil predicts. But Mother Nature doesn’t always follow the timetable, and neither does Phil.
Though Phil has no meteorology degree, every year the United States tunes in for his prediction.
Phil’s track record is not perfect. “On average, Phil has gotten it right 40% of the time over the past 10 years,” according to the National Centers for Environmental Information, a division of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration… (Source: CNN)
So, the meteorological marmot’s not the best indicator of whether or not winter will yield early/late to spring.
This year marks the third straight year the groundhog spotted his shadow, something that he has often done since making his first prediction in 1887. Of the 127 recorded times Phil has predicted the weather, he has now seen his shadow 107 (84%) times. His longest streak of seeing his shadow remains at 31, when he saw it every year from 1903-33.
It’ll take some time to figure out if Phil’s prediction will be right, but given his history, he’s likely wrong. (Source: USA Today)
But math be damned! There’s a whimsical charm surrounding the event. Seasonality keeps us in sync with our environment, wondering and wandering about nature, so the meter-marmot’s sub 50/50 track record isn’t really the point.
To better understand the popularity of Groundhog Day, Troy Harman (Penn State University history professor and Gettysburg National Military Park ranger) talks left brain, right brain and the science-to-tradition spectrum.
“Throughout history, whenever there has been a real strong emphasis on science, its counterpart of intuition, instinct, emotion, imagination — the right side of our brain — pushes back a little bit,” Harman says, explaining that Groundhog Day took off right around the time of the industrial revolution.
He says those massive societal and technological changes spurred a desire to return to what people imagined were simpler times, in the form of things like literary romanticism and gothic revival architecture…
“I strongly suspect that the people that go to Gobbler’s Knob are fully aware of the power of science, but at the same time want to hold on to traditions and a deeper vibe,” he says. “There’s the instincts and the intuition and the imagination that every human being has that has to come into balance with logic and reason.” (Source: NPR)
It seems there’s plenty more to be said on this logic, reason, and science versus intuition, emotion, and imagination comparison, but this isn’t the time or place. And I think that Harman’s probably right. Trusting in science and logic, many/most of us still allow room for romantic traditions and intuition. It’s quite likely a part of what humanizes us.
So whether today’s shadow viewing gets chalked up on the wins side or the losses side of Punxsutawney Phil’s tally, we’re likely to see another six weeks on winter weather in Essex. Sure, there will be some balmy days when the mud oozes, but it’s a rare year that February and even much or March aren’t snowy or at least inclement. But we’re hoping this year to take advantage of the high tunnel to fast-track spring in the vegetable garden, so we just might stand a chance of realizing the optimism in my haiku!
In closing, you may be wondering what the difference is between a groundhog and a woodchuck. And what about a marmot?!?! Although the three names are often used interchangeably, the “marmot” is exactly the same as the other two. While a groundhog and a woodchuck are one and the same wildlife (taxonomically Marmota monax), the term “marmot” generally refers to the entire genus Marmota and/or the subgenus Marmota which includes the groundhog (aka woodchuck, whistlepig, monax, moonack, whistler, groundpig, etc.) Armed with that tidy tidbit of trivia you’re armed and dangerous for happy hour this evening. Cheers to Phil. Cheers to spring!
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.
Sometimes we call her the air traffic controller — calibrating schedules, inventorying and coordinating and unmuddling messes, managing myriad micros and macros, and multitasking Monday, Tuesday, heck, every day — also installing docks, feeding ducks and songbirds, soliciting bids and perhaps painting clapboard or pruning persimmons, brush hogging meadows, and welcoming travel guests. In short she is all this — air traffic controller, conductor, ringleader, emcee and referee — but also cheerleader, advocate, confidant, colleague, and dear-dear friend.
Primer, Painter, Polymath
Not my first Pamuela Murphy post, and certainly not my last. Susan and I recount our good fortune daily to share in this work, this journey, this life with a woman of such character and integrity, such persistence and problem solving, such strength and kindness. This preliminary piece of poetry is still germinating, still unfurling its precocious fingers and reaching toward the sunlight, toward springtime’s sweet awakening, the promise of a delicate bloom. With luck a clutch of blossoms soon…
Rosslyn boathouse during Adirondack mud season (Source: Geo Davis)
I recently returned to Rosslyn after almost two months away. It was my single longest absence since buying the house in July 2006, and the extended hiatus was a bit surreal. I departed Essex in February and returned in April!
For readers familiar with life in the Adirondacks, you’ll remember that we have the distinction of a fifth season in addition to spring, summer, fall and winter affectionately known as “mud season”. Okay, not so affectionately. Mud season — tied with black flies for least sexy North Country inconveniences — is tolerable for two reasons:
Sugaring: Authentic maple syrup is an Adirondack staple. Remember the smell and flavor of real maple syrup, before corn syrup and artificial flavoring and coloring elbowed their way onto the breakfast table? Sugaring is as much a gourmet delicacy as it is a theme of story lore. Extracting maple sap and concentrating it into syrup or sugar wasn’t just a local sweet source before grocers and box stores. According to Bill Yardley, sugaring provided an occupation for lumberjacks during mud season.
Transformation: Like a rite of passage, the Adirondack mud season is sometimes dreaded, usually messy, often cathartic and almost always revitalizing. Tucked between winter and summer, two of the most glorious North Country seasons (the other two are spring and fall,) mud season is our annual reminder that we aren’t living in paradise, just a near-perfect facsimile of paradise.
This year I was traveling during mud season (not altogether a coincidence, I admit) which meant that I missed almost the only snowfall that the Champlain Valley experienced this winter. The silver lining? I also missed the slush and mud that followed.
Maple Syrup (Source: Wikipedia)
But despite my absence, life at Rosslyn sailed on smoothly. By now you may have realized that my bride runs a tight ship, possibly even more so when I’m away from home. And with Doug and Lorri contributing muscle and follow-through to my bride’s decrees, not much slips between the cracks. Except for the tattered flag…
Upon returning from my travels I discovered that a concerned passerby had stopped to complain about the tattered American flag flapping over Rosslyn boathouse. He spoke with Doug, referenced his years of military service and departed. By all accounts, the passerby was courteous and respectful, and his concern was justified. Old Glory was in a sorry state of neglect.
Doug promptly replaced the tattered flag and assumed that the case was closed.
It wasn’t.
A few days later the same gentleman returned and expressed his gratitude. And then he departed. No name. No way to thank him for his attention. A mysterious stranger with a patriotic soul and a neighborly spirit.
Mornings offer me moments of introspection, mostly optimistic meditations catalyzed by the dawning of a new day. A fresh start. So much pent up potential swelling. And like morning, springtime fills me with enthusiasm for what is possible. A seasonal morning. And so I’m finding myself lately absorbed in this liminal zone of daily and seasonal reawakening. Yes, it’s been a meditative March…
Meditative March (Photo: Geo Davis)
This morning’s March 16, 2023 sunrise over Lake Champlain — with new snow still covering Rosslyn’s lawns and fields but the lake lapping languidly, never having frozen this winter — conjures exuberance and anticipation, both overlaid with dark silhouettes. There is heightened contrast and a lingering darkness. There is also explosive blooming of color and light. Our winter world is reawakening.
With the official start of spring only days away, even the calendar acknowledges this liminal moment. Meditative March is not subtle in its instruction. Pause. Consider. Mindful morning meditations happen unbidden, but wonder wants throughout the day. Allow for it. Tea and rumination. A muddy meander. A hunt for green shoots parting the leaf rot, swollen buds bursting along stems and limbs, the Doppler effect of Canada geese migrating high overhead, locating last season’s allium stems hung for drying in a carriage barn horse stall,…
Meditative March (Photo: Geo Davis)
There’s something about the light in that snapshot above — weak, filtered through cobwebs, illuminating edges, painterly, flirting with chiaroscuro — that mesmerizes me. It conveys that meditative March moodiness, as if the carriage barn, as if Rosslyn itself were ruminating, introspective, contemplative, wondering and wandering inward… Can a home brood?!?!
I invite you to enjoy Mischa Maisky’s cello performance of Saint-Saëns’ Carnival of the Animals: The Swan coupled with the same photo below.
Startled by the sight of lunar liftoff I slip-slide on ice, reel, rebalance, and then I remember: a full moon rising tomorrow, tonight penultimate night of winter’s waxing.
The March moon shimmers on unfrozen lake, saluting springtime’s assured/unassured arrival two weeks — per the oracles, a frosty fortnight of whiplash weather — from this Monday eve.
Rosslyn boathouse, January 8, 2012 (Photo credit: Glenn Estus)
It’s time for another Rosslyn Roundup to share everything Rosslyn-related that I didn’t get a chance to post over the last few weeks. Champlain Valleysprings are unpredictable and exciting, sometimes arriving early (this year) and other times hiding behind rain, rain, rain (last year).
We’ve been celebrating our good fortune (quietly, with fingers crossed, while chewing on garlic cloves) that Spring 2012 has been considerably drier than Spring 2011. Remember the devastating Lake Champlain floods last year? For the better part of two months we experienced history making high water levels which inundated the Town of Essex and swamped Rosslyn boathouse under three feet of water for weeks on end. But we were lucky. Damage was minimal, and we recovered. Actually… we’re still recovering. Rebuilding the stone walls along the waterfront is ongoing, but that story for another blog post!
It’s a bit hard to believe that I launched the Rosslyn Redux blog just over a year ago. I’ve been finding my feet, trying to decide what goes into the book, what goes into the performance and what goes into the blog. I’m still filtering through artifacts and unadopted stories, but the most everything has fallen into place. The book (books? booklings?) are nearing their inevitable (and looong awaited) right of passage. And the blog, evolving in fits and starts has nevertheless averaged almost one post per week. Expect that rate to increase now that I’m in the homestretch with manuscripts.
Okay, enough bellybutton gazing. Well, almost enough. A couple of other interesting items to relay before plunging into the Rosslyn Roundup.
May Day was the busiest day on the blog ever! In addition to “Reawakening Rosslyn” which drew record readers, there were many people who showed up a day late to read “Old Glory & Mud Season“. The combination of these two posts included a magic elixir… If only I knew what it was! Please don’t hesitate to share your preferences for future posts, and I’ll do my best to honor your wishes.
I have to admit that I was pretty thrilled with the reception that “Reawakening Rosslyn” received. You may have already figured that it’s a central theme in the story of our epic home and property rehabilitation.
Less surprising, my post about cartoonist Sid Couchey was also well received. Proof that whether we all admit it or not, we all love cartoons! And if you ever met my Essex friend and neighbor, you’d love Couchey too. He will remain a local legend for many years to come. I feel fortunate each time I pass Couchey’s painting of Rosslyn boathouse which hangs in our morning room. I’ve decided that the fellow chatting with Champy — the Lake Champlain monster — at the end of the boathouse pier is the cartoonist himself. I’m listening carefully and hoping to hear the joke that they’re sharing.
Okay, about that roundup… Did you see that spooky photograph of Rosslyn boathouse at the top of this post? Spectacular. Eerie. The image is called “Essex, NY Boathouse #3” and it was shot on January 8, 2012 by local photographer, Glenn Estus. We have several of his photographs hanging on the walls at Rosslyn, and you can see plenty more in his Flickr feed if your interested.
Speaking of photographs, check out the new Rosslyn Redux board on Pinterest to see a growing collection of Rosslyn photographs shared by people all over the globe. Add your own photos, and I’ll heap praise and accolades upon you.
And you’ll find more photographs by me and others on the Rosslyn Redux Facebook page which has grown steadily in membership over the last year. If you’re not already a friend of the forthcoming Rosslyn Redux memoir, now’s the time. Please friend the page and feel free to share your thoughts. I look forward to hearing from you.
