Sailing in San Diego, April 27, 2023 (Photo: Richard Darmanin)
Homecoming! After a week in the Gila Wilderness with John Davis and other Rewilding friends I’m reunited with my beautiful bride. The photo above has *almost* nothing to do with my backcountry adventures in the middle of 3 million acres of New Mexico wilderness. That image was taken about a month ago when Susan and I were sailing in San Diego. The common denominator? “Home is wherever I’m with you…”
Instead of getting tangled up in words and thoughts about homecoming, today’s post will lean into the lyrics of the song “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros… “from Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros’ debut album ‘Up From Below’…”
Oh, home, let me come home Home is wherever I’m with you Oh, home, let me come home Home is wherever I’m with you
Sometimes it takes being away from home to identify “homeness”. I’ve been meditating on this question of what makes a house a home for a looong time. And I’m not ready to offer a definitive answer yet. But juxtaposing glimpses — one above, and the other in my unplugged memories of six days and nights in the Gila — reminds me that a BIG piece of the puzzle is Susan. Home is wherever I’m with you!
If you don’t know this catchy song by by Alexander Ebert and Jade Allyson Castrinos, here’s the full adventure.
“Home” is a song written and recorded by American group Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. It was released in January 2010 as the second single from the album, Up from Below… The song is a duet between Alex Ebert and Jade Castrinos, with portions of spoken word from both. (Source: Wikipedia)
A quick post for a contemplative homecoming. Ideas percolating…
Springtime is tulip time, a dramatic chapter in gardners’ succession blooming cycles. With snow drops, hyacinth, and daffodils fading, colorful tulip blooms take center stage. And this year’s tulip time does not disappoint.
Tulip Time (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
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. (Source: Lily of the Valley Unfurling )
With especial thanks to my bride Susan Bacot-Davis for her moody photos, I offer you three intimate portraits of our current tulip time. Like festive gala gowns these goblets of pigmented petals dazzle and dare us to imagine springtime maturing into sizzling summer soon…
Tulip Time (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
So much confidence and coquetry in these precocious summertime previews. And yet these blooms are delicate, susceptible to swings in temperature and downpours.
Tulip Time (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
The tulips make me want to paint, Something about the way they drop Their petals on the tabletop And do not wilt so much as faint… (Source: A.E. Stallings, “Tulips”, Poetry Foundation
Exciting update from one of Rosslyn’s wildlife cameras when I awoke this morning. Not sure why, but I always get especially enthused when we document a Bobcat. The sequence of three images captured at 2:29am appears to be the same bobcat we photographed a few months ago. Still healthy. Strong. Well fed.
Bobcat, May 10, 2023 (Photo: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)
I’m struck by the fact that we capture bobcat photos and witness bobcat tracks, but I’ve never actually come across a bobcat at Rosslyn. Elsewhere, yes. But it would seem that our Lynx rufus representatives are especially stealthy, keen to avoid human encounters. Susan prefers it that way. But these photos do incite a persistent yen to meet — safely, respectfully — one of these regal neighbors some day.
Bobcat, May 10, 2023 (Photo: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)
Thank you, John Davis (@wildwaystrekker) and Tony Foster (@anthonyfoster335), for siting and creating this trail last winter. Susan and I thoroughly enjoyed our cross-country skiing outings on thus new loop back in February and March. And it’s abundantly clear that our wild neighbors are fans as well!
Bobcat, May 10, 2023 (Photo: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)
In this third photograph a small sapling appears to have sprouted along the downhill side of the trail. Do you see it camouflaging the front legs of the bobcat? It took me a moment to determine that’s what I was seeing. The disparity between the stout forward striding front leg and the strong but slender rear extended front leg — likely an incongruity exaggerated by the angle more than actual physiological discrepancy — initially drew my attention. But the darker mottling, especially on the forward leg, perplexed me. An injury? Atypical fur patterning? A skull and crossbones stocking?!?!
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!)
April showers bring spring aeration. Soggy conditions May not make for the postcard perfect moments conjured by the imagination, but they certainly make for more efficient lawn maintenance. Powerful core drills sink into the supple soil pulling earthy plugs up onto the surface where they will dissolve in the coming days. And perforated ground improves air circulation which fortifies root growth, holistically invigorating the health of the turf.
In keeping with our holistic approach to gardening, orcharding, and landscaping, we’ve come to rely upon… [aeration] to ensure robust lawns. Experience has shown us that a healthy diet of organic fertilizer, zero pesticide, and aeration nurtures not only an attractive ground cover, but a resilient heterogenous sod that rebounds quickly after drought, etc. (Source: Autumn Aeration – Rosslyn Redux)
After Aerating Lawn at ADK Oasis Lakeside (Source: Tony Foster)
In the photograph above Tony Foster captured a “portrait” of the lawn aerator (DR Power) posing proudly in front of ADK Oasis Lakeside. He had just completed spring aeration of all three properties, marking another noteworthy accomplishment. Hurrah, Tony! Thank you.
Holistic Lawn Care
Upon arriving at Susan’s parents’ home in Montclair, New Jersey one afternoon about a decade ago we found the lawn perimeter marked with small “Beware poison!” flags.
A passionate but shortlived skirmish about lawn pesticides later my bride and my mother-in-law yielded in deténte. Susan reminded her mother that we’ve never once used pesticides at Rosslyn. Shirley countered, “And that’s why your lawn’s covered in weeds!” I guess that they both one?
The fact of the matter is that our holistic approach to lawn care — from fall and spring aeration to biennial organic fertilizer (mostly bat guano), from hand weeding thistles and any other especially disagreeable invaders to resisting the urge to trim grass super close to the ground — have gradually evolved our lawns into a robust heterogeneous turf that feels comfortable underfoot, appears pleasant to the eye, endures and/or rebounds from fluctuations in weather conditions, and requires no irrigation or synthetic supplements.
Yep, that was a hypoxic run-on sentence bristling with braggadocio. Apologies!
Long story short, holistic gardening works. Especially when the inimitable Tony Foster is piloting the aerator!
Call it a 184-day streak. Or call it dogged determination. Either way I have 181 days to go until I reach my goal. And with each new post, each small victory, I am growing more and more confident that I will accomplish my mission of 365 posts, one complete year of daily updates beginning on August 1, 2022 and concluding on July 31, 2023.
So how to commemorate this midpoint milestone? With 6 months down and 6 months to go, it feels momentous enough to pause and praise my good fortune. But should this benchmark be acknowledged with a celebratory salute? A solemn ceremony? A toast, my first spirited sip after 31 days of teetotaling? (Yesterday marked the conclusion of my 7th or 8th, maybe even my 9th “dry January”.) Or perhaps a decadent dessert after a sugar free month? (For some sadomasochistic reason I’ve decided in recent years to add a sugar fast to alcohol abstention during the month of January, a timely recovery after the excesses of Thanksgiving-through-New Years…) A new month (ie. rabbit-rabbit) ritual transcending the delicious dinner I shared with Jim and Mark two nights ago at Juniper?
Slow Cooked Whole Rabbit: cumin, blood orange and smoked paprika glazed, corn tortillas, chimichurri, salsa fresca, refried beans (Source: Juniper at Hotel Vermont)
Maybe a romantic romp with my bride who suggested, upon retrieving me from the airport yesterday, that we celebrate a belated anniversary to compensate for the one we missed this past autumn when she was unwell. 17 years of marriage and 21 years together. I’m incredulous even as I type these numbers. Neither seems remotely possible. But my 50th birthday seemed similarly inaccurate this past spring, and I’m obliged to accept it.
Or how about we honor the 200th anniversary of Rosslyn’s front façade, ostensibly completed in 1823? (Apparently 3/5 of the building — the two window portion to the north of the entrance, as well as the entrance itself — was completed in 1820. The remaining 2/5, including the two windows to the south of the entrance and comprising the dining room downstairs, a guest bedroom and Susan’s study on the second floor, and another guest bedroom on the third floor, was most likely finished three years later in 1823, fulfilling the the architectural promise of this classic Federal home with Georgian and Greek Revival elements.
An auspicious confluence of milestones and anniversaries. I’m choosing to interpret this is a good omen even as I nevertheless acknowledge that I’ve meandered from my original mark, hoisting the flag at my halfway point, mid-journey in my post-a-day quest. I recall an earlier waypoint in this quest, an update I published on October 10, 2022 when I was still just shy of halfway to where I am today.
Yesterday marked ten weeks of old house journaling. Every. Single. Day. Two months and ten days back at the helm of this wayward, meandering, sometimes unruly experiment I call Rosslyn Redux. I emphasize the daily component of this benchmark because it’s been an important part of the goal I committed to at the end of July. (Source: Old House Journaling)
Then as now my emphasis on everyday journaling remains a top priority.
Over the last few years, Susan and I have scrutinized our hopes and expectations with Rosslyn. We have reevaluated our plans as they originally were in 2006 when we embarked on this adventure and as those plans evolved during the decade and a half since. It’s been an extended period of introspection, evaluating our current wants and needs, endeavoring to align our future expectations and goals with respect to one another and with respect to Rosslyn, and challenging one another to brainstorm beyond the present.
There’s no question but that our impromptu quarantine at Rosslyn during the spring and summer of 2021 catalyzed some of this soul-searching. But so too have the many life changes in recent years. Our gradual shift toward Santa Fe as our base and Essex as our getaway rather than the other way around. The loss of Susan’s mother. My parents’ retirement near us in Santa Fe. Our nephews and nieces growing up and expanding their orbits far beyond Rosslyn. A perennially postponed but driving desire to collaborate on a smaller, efficient, creative lakeside home of a different DNA altogether, an unrepressable will to imagine into existence the sort of slow cooked (albeit shapeshifting) and highly experimental homestead we originally envisioned in 2003-5 when we first began to explore our Adirondack Coast homecoming. And there is that hiccup in our 2006 original timeline, our 2-4 year vision for homing at Rosslyn until we’d managed to reboot and reground, until we were ready for our next adventure. Those naive expectations were eclipsed — willingly and joyfully — within the first year or two.
So what does this have to do with my daily Rosslyn updates?
Everything.
In committing to this daily practice last summer I was acknowledging that I had some serious work to do. In order for us to constructively sort through out collective vision for the future, to determine whether we’re too fond of Rosslyn to proceed with plans for designing and building the lakeside retreat we’ve conjured over the years, to honestly assess our willingness and our readiness to hand this sanctuary over to another family, both Susan and I are undertaking the sort of “deep work” that will hopefully enable us to make some decisions. I’m talking about 100% honest, prolonged consideration. Rosslyn has quite literally been a part of our family, and not just our nuclear family. Can we untangle her? Are we willing to let her go? Can we joyfully pass the privilege on to new custodians? Or are we not yet ready?
For me this daily practice, digging deep into sixteen and a half years of living and loving Rosslyn, is my time and place to work through these questions. To sort it all out. To find peace and confidence in my convictions. And six months in, I believe that I’m on the right path. Not all the time. There have certainly been some tangles and tangents that got away from me before I realized what was happening and reined them in. But the constant conversation — *internal* as I study, reflect, and compose these installments as well as *external* as I share these updates and then interact with many of you — is reinvigorating and reawakening Rosslyn from her comfortable slumber (and me from mine!)
So this midpoint milestone is a profoundly significant benchmark for me personally. It’s the tangible representation of my germinating confidence and clarity. It’s the measurable mean between a conflicted outlook and the conviction I’m hoping to discover over the next six months. In a real sense, it’s a halfway point toward the sort of rehabilitation that we’ve been undertaking with Rosslyn’s buildings and grounds since 2006, only in this case the journey is profoundly personal. Instead of historic architectural rehabilitation, it is restoration of my innermost wonder, my romantic dreams, and my idealistic hopes. With passion reawakened and a map forward becoming more apparent each day, I’m tempted to see this benchmark as the sort of celebration enjoyed upon finally reaching a base camp, a lofty peak viewable in the distance foreshadows the ambitious ascent ahead but also offers a majestic affirmation of the reachability and proximity of the summit. Today marks just such a halfway point, an opportunity to appreciate the accomplishments so far, and an incentive to forge ahead.
At the outset of this sprawling experiment I call Rosslyn Redux I needed a way to describe the vision (as much for myself as for visitors to the About page.) So, in the springtime of this journey I settled on the only real point of clarity: Rosslyn Redux would be the story of a house. I anticipated some of the interwoven elements (my still new marriage, our lifestyle changes, NYC-to-Essex pivot, etc.) that inevitably would find their way into the pages.
Rosslyn, November 8, 2004 (Photos: Jason McNulty)
Here’s a snippet from that early attempt to define my intentions.
Rosslyn Redux is the story of a house and the idiosyncrasies (and absurdities) of renovation, marriage and North Country life…
With 20/20 hindsight I’d likely replace “house” with “home” or “historic home”. Or even “homestead”. But in those naive early days I did not yet understand how profoundly my notion of home and “homeness” would evolve through my relationship, indeed Susan and my relationship, with Rosslyn.
In fact, with the benefit of time and perspective, there’s plenty that I would change in this preliminary vision, but for the moment let’s just dig a little deeper into the relationship and distinction between house and home.
Rosslyn, November 8, 2004 (Photos: Jason McNulty)
Old House, New Home
Per various accounts it looks as if the first phase of Rosslyn’s construction was completed and the property was occupied circa 1820. Records vary, and the succession of additions and alterations likely accounts for some of the confusion. But however you look at it this historic house and property is a couple of centuries old. at the heart of our journey was an effort to transform this old house into a new home.
Actually, in rereading that last sentence, I’m feeling uncomfortable with the idea that we have transformed Rosslyn. Certainly there is/was an element of transformation, but one of the lessons that we’ve learned with and through Rosslyn is the importance of reawakening a home rather than turning into something different from what it already was.
Rosslyn, November 8, 2004 (Photos: Jason McNulty)
Reawakening Home
Much of our early design and architectural brainstorming involved identifying and removing previous owners’ attempts at transforming Rosslyn. Layers of makeovers and alterations were carefully, slowly peeled away until we could simplify and integrate the design back into a cohesive whole. Cohesion and integration. Guiding principles for us even now as we undertake the adaptive reuse of the icehouse.
Aside from the somewhat arrogant and hubristic potential in setting out to transform Rosslyn, we’ve discovered that attempting to overlay newness, fashion, trends, and so forth onto four impressive buildings that have withstood the tests and temper tantrums of time misses many opportunities to learn from (and through) Rosslyn’s. It also preempts the potential for us to change and grow, allowing Rosslyn to inform and broaden and deepen our understanding of homeness.
Rosslyn, November 8, 2004 (Photos: Jason McNulty)
In other words, reawakening Rosslyn has been an opportunity to reawaken ourselves. (Still working on this idea, so I’m hoping for your forbearance as I learn how to better articulate this.)
In closing, I recommend a short film by Ann Magee Coughlin that I rewatched recently. Her story of a house is different from ours, but the richness and texture of history that can coalesce within an old home resonates with me in the context of our efforts to reawaken an old house as a new home.
I often refer to Rosslyn as a homestead, but I’m aware that might mislead some of you. No livestock. That’s probably the biggest deviation from most self proclaimed homesteads. No chickens. No pigs, sheep, or goats. No milk cow. No 160 acre land grant (though we’ve slowly grown Rosslyn’s acreage to more than a third of that historic sum.)
I’ve long longed for ducks. Hatchlings, then ducklings, then juvenile ducks, then mature plump ducks waddling around gobbling grubs and beetles and vegetable garden pests. Susan’s been a staunch bulwark against this homestead addition citing coyotes and hawks and an inadequately envisioned long term plan. Perhaps one day, some day. For now I celebrate wild ducks (“Common Goldeneye Ducks”) and safeguard the mallards (“Make Way for Ducklings” and “Mallard Jacuzzi”).
But ducks or no ducks, our homestead is not about livestock. There’s abundant wildlife, and our vegetable gardens and orchard provide plenty to eat for our family and friends. Throw in farm shares with Full and By Farm, plenty of supplementary victuals from Hub on the Hill, and nourishing ourselves offers bountiful satisfaction.
At Rosslyn, homesteading is less about producing everything that we eat and drink, and more about living as responsible stewards in a property presently and historically endowed with sufficient grounds and outbuildings for homesteading while honoring the homesteading tradition in as many ways as practical for us. I’ll revisit this idea soon, endeavoring to articulate more concisely our personal vision of Rosslyn as a homestead. For now I’ll shift to a few homestead haikus that might better — for their ample vantage despite minimalist format — illuminate what I’m trying to convey.
Homestead Highlights
Bookended between asparagus and apples: skinny-dips, bonfires.
Brookside Dissonance
While ambling brookside, celestial cacophony, a murder of crows.
Apropos Tomatoes
Green Zebras, Black Krims, early cherry tomatoes,… December daydreams.
Now about those ducklings… I might bring up the idea again this spring. Wish me luck!
Once upon a time—starting in about 2005 or 2006 and concluding about a dozen years ago, if memory serves—I was on the board on Historic Essex (formerly Essex Community Heritage Organization, ECHO). Todd Goff, a fellow director, Essex neighbor, and friend, took it upon himself to correct me, differentiating for me “historic preservation” from ” from “historic rehabilitation”. I no longer remember the context, but I expect I was updating him in 2006 or 2007 on our progress in the early days of our mushrooming renovation project. Armed with a keen mind (and master’s degree in preservation), I respected Todd’s knowledge and appreciated his clarification. I expect that I used renovation, restoration, and preservation interchangeably in those days, never stopping to consider the profoundly important differences.
I most likely had not used the historic rehabilitation at all prior to that point, and learning more about it opened my eyes, ignited my curiosity, and kindled my imagination. More on fanciful end of the spectrum anon. For now I’d like to delineate for you historic rehabilitation as I understand it. (And please note that if you, like Mr. Goff, are able to advance my instruction, please advise in the comments below. Thanks in advance.)
J.C. Coatsworth Residence (Antique Postcard)
Preservation vs. Rehabilitation
Less stringent than historic preservation, historic rehabilitation emphasizes maintaining the historic integrity of architectural heritage while balancing its relevant functionality for modern day use.
Both preservation and rehabilitation are sensitive to the imperative of preserving the historic character and value of a resource, but modern functionality weighs more heavily in the case or the latter. When an architecturally significant resource is abandoned or in advanced stages of disrepair, both approaches are viable means of saving and revitalizing the resource. Likewise, both can be complex, painstaking, lengthy, and expensive processes. In fact, sometimes the scope exceeds the means and/or justification for revitalizing a property, and all too often valuable architectural and cultural heritage is indefinitely neglected and eventually lost.
The potential for integrating modern functionality (and therefor relevance) into an historic property can be the difference between its recovery or it neglect.
Sherwood Inn (Antique Postcard)
Defining Historic Rehabilitation
Rehabilitation is defined as the act or process of making possible a compatible use for a property through repair, alterations, and additions while preserving those portions or features which convey its historical, cultural, or architectural values. (Source: U.S. National Park Service)
In short, historic rehabilitation (rehab) is the process by which an historic property is returned to a state of usefulness while maintaining its historic character. Starting out with a comprehensive analysis of the cultural and/or architectural heritage ensures a solid foundation for planning the entire rehabilitation process. Drawing upon the collaborative expertise of diverse professionals, rehab must be tailored to the unique character and historic significance. Ranging from minimalist repairs and overdue maintenance to more involved intervention such as modification to ensure structural integrity, installation and/or removal of windows and doors, and even construction of non-historic additions.
Boathouse with Coal Bin on Pier (Antique Postcard)
Rosslyn’s Historic Rehabilitation
From those early days as Rosslyn’s newest stewards, when Susan and I were still running on dreams, optimism, and a totally unrealistic sense for the magnitude of the project we’d undertaken, our twin objectives were to preserve the immense heritage we’d inherited while ensuring that our new home was a functional, energy efficient modern home attuned to our needs and lifestyle. Todd helped me understand that what we were undertaking was indeed an historic rehabilitation, and that paradigm shift that he initiated catalyzed a shift in my thinking not only about our revitalization of these four historic buildings, but indeed the entire ethos underlying our pivot from Manhattan to Essex and own own personal reawakening. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
Boathouse with Ruins of Pier in Foreground (Antique Postcard)
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 1-2)
Exactly three years ago on June 3, 2015, Old House Journal published an article about Rosslyn. Time for a flashback! Regina Cole’s story and Carolyn Bates’s photographs are entitled, “Beguiled into Stewardship“, and you can find their original article here. (Note: the print edition and the online edition differ slightly.)
If you’re unfamiliar with Old House Journal, — and if you’re renovating or rehabilitating an older home — I recommend both the print magazine and the online website and resources.
This site is the ultimate resource for owners of old houses and period-style homes, gathering information from Old-House Journal, Old-House Interiors, Early Homes, and New Old House. You’ll find inspiration, how-to info and advice, stories and photos of old houses galore and sources for traditional products. Whether you’re restoring your old house or searching for period decor, you’ll find help here. (Source: Old-House Online)
An Insider’s Glimpse
It’s worth noting that the article fumbles a few points here and there, but the gist is mostly on target. And the photographs are amazing!
Like many owners of important old houses, this couple never intended to become stewards of a 2½-storey neoclassical manse that spreads over more than 6,000 square feet. The building was originally just a three-bay, side-hall dwelling, but Rosslyn was expanded between 1835 and 1840 into its symmetrical five-bay configuration. Other buildings on the grounds include several barns and a very adorable, Eastlake-style boathouse added in 1898. (Source: “Beguiled into Stewardship“)
Eek! Adorable? Though my bride and I fell head over heels in love with the Rosslyn’s boathouse (really a “dock house” more than a boathouse) long before we succumbed to the home’s beguiling pull, neither of us would likely describe the quirky lakeside structure as adorable. Too cute, me thinks, for this weathered folly. But I’ll leave that judgment up to you.
A significant rear wing had been added to Rosslyn in the 19th century for domestic services—a kitchen and pantry, etc.—and servants’ quarters. Early in the 20th century, when the house became a hostelry called The Sherwood Inn, that service wing was renovated to accommodate guest lodging, a restaurant, and a tavern. When the inn ceased operation by the early 1960s, most of the rear wing was removed.
George and Susan used its remnant to create a large new family room. For symmetry and better flow, they also added two new wings, one to house a screened porch and one to create circulation between old rooms and new. The boathouse, of course, was a later addition, but its late Victorian style is so charming, they never considered removing it. It has been restored inside and out.
[…]
The front of the house is historic, but the rear had undergone numerous additions and subtractions over the years. George and Susan updated the rear with sensitive additions and a patio surrounded by a stone wall. George rebuilt the old stone walls that surround the property. They built a new fence, basing its design on one found in a Federal pattern book. (Source: “Beguiled into Stewardship“)
Mostly accurate, except I’ll humbly concede credit to others for the handsome stone walls. I did design/redesign/adapt them and figure out how to repurpose old stone salvaged from failed walls and long buried foundations, but virtually all of the heavy lifting was done by others. And we remain extremely grateful for it!
Okay, enough revisionism… On to the article.
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 3-4)
The opening spread showcases one of the handsome entrance gates designed and built by our friend, Tom Duca. And that interior shot of the front entrance door with side lites and fan lite? That challenging project was meticulously executed by Kevin Boyle.
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 5-6)
The front parlor and the dining room offer pigmented nostalgia bridges.
The pea green paint in the parlor is a nod to the previous owner whose paint choice perplexed us at first, but grew on us gradually, imperceptibly during our endless renovation. My bride elected to preserve and refresh it while I was away. It was the perfect choice.
And the light blue walls in the dining room recollect the dining room in Maison Margaux, a top-to-bottom renovation I shepherded in Paris’ Faubourg St. Germain.
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 7-8)
The kitchen and morning room (aka “the north porch”) are principle phases of our daily orbit. No finer way to start the day that breakfasting with songbirds!
“Beguiled into Stewardship”, Old House Journal, June 2015 Issue (Page 9-10)
Griffin, our Labrador Retriever, is the perennially proud protector of Rosslyn in general and our bedroom in particular. From his perch at the end of the bed he can monitor the deer and wild turkeys sneaking snacks from his vegetable garden and orchard. I suppose “protector” might be a mild overstatement.
Welcome to spring! It’s currently 43° at Rosslyn, on target to hit 46° shortly. Sun is out. Snow is melting. Bulbs are bursting. So many remarkable signs and suggestions that the vernal equinox may indeed have marked the transition from winter to spring (daffodils and daylilies perking up, an auspicious sunset cloud formation, a handsome Barred Owl encounter,…)
Let’s start out with our just-passed solar equinox and then work our way toward the Barred Owl (Strix varia) and some celestial special effects from Susan’s end-of-day walk with Denise.
Vernal Equinox: Rosslyn Sundown (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Vernal Equinox-ish
In 2023, the official first day of spring is Monday, March 20. This date marks the “spring equinox” in the Northern Hemisphere… at 5:24 P.M. EDT. This… is the astronomical beginning of the spring season in the Northern Hemisphere… (Source: The Old Farmer’s Almanac)
That was yesterday. In fact, this post was intended to be published yesterday. On time. Relevant. But, sometimes searching for poetry preempts timely updates. Sorry.
Despite the fact that today’s post is slightly out of sync with the astronomical calendar, I couldn’t resist the chance to subtly revise yesterday’s draft and share it anyway. There was simply too much resonance. Yes, I’m biased. But after yesterday’s candid peak into Rosslyn’s artifact-packed carriage barn (and into my mental morass where architectural salvage, historic rehabilitation, poetic introspection, and memoiresque storytelling commingle) it felt, well, almost logical. Bear with me? I find that spring’s arrival rarely follows a predictable schedule. Each year unique. And, in spite of the heathen thrill that comes with romancing celestial and meteorological rituals, it would appear that the vernal equinox is merely a symbolic approximation of springtime.
An equinox occurs twice a year, around 20 March and 22 September. The word itself has several related definitions. The oldest meaning is the day when daytime and night are of approximately equal duration. (Wikipedia)
I excerpted the tidy part, eliminating the inevitable diatribe about day and night not really being the same length. A debate for another blogger. I love rituals, even when they’re easily scoffed. Here’s a flip riff by Phil Plait (@BadAstronomer) if you’d like a quick scoff before we romance the vernal equinox.
Today is the vernal equinox, what a lot of folks think of as the first day of spring (though given the forecast, people on the U.S. East Coast can be forgiven if they’re rolling their eyes at that thought, assuming their eyeballs aren’t frozen to their eyelids). (Slate)
The omnipresent smell of mud hints at spring’s earth entrance, and that’s good enough for me. No. More. Snow. Please!
Tony and I were returning from the forest beyond Library Brook where we’d been blazing the next meander in Rosslyn’s ongoing trail building initiative. The brook was swollen and running wild. The trees were a-chatter with avian neighbors and squirrels riffing raucous against the riparian chorus. It felt like a page out of Dylan Thomas. And then Tony spied the owl.
“Do you see it?” he hoarse-whispered, pointing up into the trees.
I didn’t. He guided my gaze. But I couldn’t identify the big blob on a branch. Wrong sunglasses.
“It’s an owl,” he said
We walked closer. I fumbled with my phone, launch the camera app, zoomed in as far as I could, snapped a couple of images. We kept walking. The owl swooped away, an immense span of plumage, arcing through trees and branches powerfully, gracefully without brushing a twig.
Disinclined by temperament to observe overt omens and symbolism in the world around me, I’m nonetheless receptive to the “singing underneath”. Sometimes life rhymes. I try to exercise humility and wonder in these moments. I endeavor to hear and observe and sometimes to record the poetry that presents itself. I’ll leave conclusions to others. For me, for now, questions are plenty.
Vernal Equinox: Day Lilies Reawakening (Photo: Geo Davis)
Daylilies
With snow, still covering much of the ground, bulbs are bursting up, unwilling or unable to wait. The earthy array above are day lilies, among the thousands of green shoots reaching skyward below the stonewall that divides our lower lawn from upper lawn.
Perhaps overly precocious sprouts. I’d venture a guess that some more freezing nights, possibly even some more snow might challenge these daylilies. And yet, as in all previous years, they will flourish, foliage thickening, stout stems reaching somewhere between knee and waist by Independence Day when they’ll explode in joyful orange blooms. They will. And yet I can’t help wondering if they’re premature?
Vernal Equinox: Cloud Theatre I (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Sundown Skies
As if conjuring orange blooms is contagious, the day’s spring preview weather concluded with a dash of colorful drama and cloud theatre extraordinaire.
Taken by Susan while winding down the day with Denise and Carley, ambling Blockhouse Road, likely lost in conversation. Phone photography sure has come a long way!
Vernal Equinox: Cloud Theatre II (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
So beguiling and mysterious is that second cloud theatre image that I’m sharing a tighter, second perspective.
Vernal Equinox: Cloud Theatre III (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)
Welcome back, springtime. What wonders do you have in store?
A day after my bride’s “polar plunge” in still frigid Lake Champlain, I’m swimming and drifting in the warm waters of Antigua, enjoying a free ranging conversation with one of my nephews, allowing salt and surf and steel band sounds (drifting intermittently from further up the shore) to exercise the sort of deep relinquishing that comes from knowing a vacation has only just begun.
Before departing Rosslyn I handed off germinating spring starts (broccoli and cucumbers) to Pam along with various vegetable and flower seeds that will be sown before long. Among the latter, thousands of poppy seeds. Always plenty of Red Corn Poppy (Papaver rhoeas aka Flanders Poppy) seeds as well as Shirley Poppy seeds, a cultivar of Papaver rhoeas that reminds me of my mother-in-law, Shirley Bacot Shamel. As my affection for poppies has long since escaped the restraint of manly propriety, I’ll concede that one of my spring fever symptoms is an infatuation with poppy plants, poppy blooms, poppy seed pods. And, in the case of the Shirley Poppy blooms, there’s always the added excitement since variations allow for intriguing surprises.
So a sunset soak with Christoph, gazing back at the oasis that we’ve been fortunate to enjoy as a family for eight years, curiously preoccupied with poppies, and looking forward to wandering the grounds in the days ahead to inspect the vast array of tropical orchids cultivated at Curtain Bluff, it struck me that I needed to explore these connections in a poem. Perhaps a Shirley Poppy poem?
Perhaps, but not today, as it turns out. The words that wanted to be written were driven in large part by a connection to place. This section seems to be headed in an interesting direction, for example.
Upon arriving,
a warm Wadadli welcome,
a breeze mellowed sun,
familiar phrases,
cadence, laughter
lilting,
lulling,
returning us
to the leeward lap
of ease and comfort,
a simple sanctuary
bursting with blooms
and recollections.
A bit decadent and overwrought still probably, but I am pleased to read it aloud.
But where am I hoping to go with this?!?! I can’t seem to see my way from tropical orchids to Shirley Poppy blooms. Nor am I certain that allowing my perennial passion for place, indeed for the poetry of place, to kidnap this still evolving verse is advisable.
Instead I’m curious how place, right now this perfect place nestled unassumingly into the hilly shore of Old Road, as well as the memories conjured by returning here, especially memories of my late mother-in-law, somehow a little more present when we’re here, connect. And why are they bleeding into my anticipation of a bumper crop of poppies back at Rosslyn?
Hhhmmm… Sometimes it’s wiser to admit defeat. For now. But stay tuned; I’ll try again.
