Sunday, September 17

We’ve spent the weekend getting ready for our housepainters, who will arrive with the sun Monday morning; Philip has been polishing up the details on our newly converted porch. We’ve called it so many things since the project began back in the spring: summer kitchen, mud room, sun room, keeping room. And the vision has evolved with the name. What began on paper as a utilitarian space has become yet another concession to beauty and peaceful reflection. It’s facing west, commanding a splendid sunset view—in summer down across the pasture to the north, and in winter kindling behind the thick pines on the southern end. And so, instead of a washing machine and dryer, it will contain a deep window seat, cushioned wicker chairs and a sea grass rug. There will be shelves for Wellies and garden tools, a sink for washing vegetables and eggs. But the primary pursuit in this room will be dreaming. Drinking tea and reading. Good conversation. Rest. Of that I am sure.


We’re so pleased with how it’s coming. We replaced the screens with wonderful old salvaged windows from a lost building downtown, eight-over-eight with wavy glass and great big pulls. (The actual tale of how they came to be in our possession is a story in itself, and one I’m not sure I’d like to revisit! πŸ˜‰ If anyone is familiar with the notion of ‘dumpster-diving’ they will get a pretty good idea of what we went through to get them.) And yesterday, Philip and his dad finished setting in the old French doors we found for a song. It’s so exciting to see a project come together like this. I never cease to be amazed at what my husband can do! He is a true craftsman and I love what he fashions with his mind and his hands. When it’s all finished, inside and out, I will have to post pictures just to brag on him a bit.        

And so, the weekend winds to a close tonight with a gentle sunset under brooding clouds. The hens have wandered home to roost and have been shut up tight for the night in Fort Poulet. Four cats are prowling about giving me the eye and a hungry dog is awaiting his dinner. Philip is making the final rounds as the dusk gathers, making certain that all is in readiness for tomorrow. (Long-time readers and friends will remember that this house-painting venture has been a saga of almost two years’ duration…)

It is the calm before the storm. In the morning the peace of our farm-in-the-city will be temporarily shattered. But it’s happy to think how beautiful this old lady will be when they’re done with her. A regular face-lift. My painter told me she’d look like Gone With the Wind. πŸ˜‰ I feel quite certain that he is referring to the book and not the film, for while the latter is admirable in itself, it bears but occasional resemblance to Margaret Mitchell’s masterpiece. And nowhere does it diverge more seriously than with Tara itself, perhaps the central character of the book. What Mitchell portrayed as a typical Georgia plantation, modest, sprawling, almost spartan in many respects, was represented in the movie as one of those flamboyant belles along the Natchez trace. Gorgeous in her own right. But not Tara. So, of course, I may assume that my painter has no intention of adding Corinthian pillars and wrap-around verandahs. No frills and furbelows here. Just simple, honest lines, unpretentious contentment with herself and with her surroundings. That’s what I first loved about this place from the moment I saw it. Which is another story, too…   

Such a rambling post! But I am glad to be back, and glad to hear from so many of you dear folk in the past few weeks who are kind enough to drop in to see what I’m thinking about…thank you for your beautiful words and comments. πŸ™‚

God bless you all this week!