Images Left Behind

Two thousand one hundred seventy-three: Miles driven on our road trip.
Fourteen days: Time we were away from home.
Memories: Countless

     Our road trip has sadly come to an end. In retrospect, we played in mountains, sea, and cities. We saw some old friends and much of our family. We enjoyed time alone as a couple and we enjoyed time among thousands of strangers. It was perfect in every way.
     The final leg of our trip took us to our New York home. As I've mentioned before, my third cousin Matthew bought my parent's house. It is right next door to his parents' house (who would be my second cousin). My mother and two of her sisters first built in that neighborhood in 1952. One of the sisters is Matthew's great grandmother and her sister was my mother. The generations now continue  living there through Matthew and his children. Last week the cousins invited me and my sister over to see the renovations Matthew did on the house. It's still a work in progress and so far it's a beautiful a transformation. Most of the work has been exterior and structural and the entire exterior of the home now looks new. However, when we entered the kitchen it looked the same as the day we left it one year ago. It felt as though my mom might walk in at any moment and I had to pause to think of her and give my sister a hug. Otherwise we were thrilled to see everything being updated and restored.  
     What shocked me the most was when we saw the basement. My cousin had gutted all the paneling, shelves, and partitions that my dad had built over a span of fifty years. The basement I grew up with had been divided into four 'rooms' with various sorts of paneling covering all the walls. That basement was an extension of our home and we played down there for endless hours during our childhood.We had a wood stove to heat the area in the winter time so we could play down there year round. Now, what we saw was an empty shell and our eyes were able to scan the basement in its entirety. As we walked down the stairs and adjusted to the space, our eyes were drawn to colorful paintings on the foundation walls. Slowly turning, we saw not one wall, but three walls all painted in a mural. I couldn't believe the endless scene that spanned three walls of the basement! As I stepped closer, I saw paintings of bomber planes and paratroopers dropping over snow covered mountains. I realized it was a scene from my father's war. I was in shock. I had never seen this mural before, nor had my sister. Obviously the magnitude of what he saw in the war was forever embedded into his mind's eye. From what I've read, this scene depicts one of the biggest drops into battle during WWII. I'm sketchy on the exact history, but I thought they were dropped into France, not Italy as this painting implies. It was a scene he could not forget and felt compelled to paint onto his basement walls. And then cover up. My mind tried to calculate when my father could have painted this. The best I can figure is that he painted it sometime between 1953 and 1961.
     My father is no artist. He was a musician and a creative man but, his painting skills were  untrained. In his retirement years he took up painting as a hobby. His older sister, my Aunt Isabelle, owned an artist supply store and she kept him supplied in canvases and paints. He had a good time painting things to hang around the house and he and my mom enjoyed them. This mural is a good example of his painting technique. His impetus was to get his idea painted and not so much on how he did it.
     My cousin said is going to leave the mural there. I admire him for the respect he has shown for my parents throughout this past year when he purchased the house and now in its renovations. He's a great guy and I am proud to call him family.

The Road Trip Continues: Jazz Festival, Saratoga Springs, NY

     We said goodbye for now to Chelsea and Simon in New Hampshire and continued our road trip across their beautiful state, into Vermont. Along the way, we stopped at The Dorr Mill Store in Newport, NH to shop for wool fabrics and rug hooking supplies. I was overwhelmed by the size of their store and the variety of woolens. They had everything from bins and barrels of wool scraps for one dollar, to fat quarters, to yardages. They had patterns, hooks, books and backings, and so much inspiration. We spent close to two hours exploring the store and I made a few purchases of wool for  rugs I would like to make over the winter. It was a little hard to accept that this store is so far away from where I live and I won't be able to return to it any time soon. They have everything online to purchase, but it's so much nicer to see and feel the wool in person. Anyway, I am grateful to have even this one visit and I hope for a return visit one day.
     We stopped overnight in Vermont and continued on our way the next morning to Saratoga Springs, New York for the annual Jazz Festival. Saratoga Springs was our home for a couple of years in the late 80's and it is a city we love to return to when we can. It boasts the famous Saratoga Race Track for horse racing and it is the summer home of the New York City Ballet. It is also steeped in history. Because of this, it is a vibrant, beautiful city with many ongoing cultural events.
     The Jazz Festival runs for two days every year and folks come from states away to enjoy the music and the atmosphere. It's a fun, party-like weekend where everyone is friendly. One example of this is the lady we met who offered two large thermos coolers with free drinks in memory of her late husband. He came to the festival every year until he was shot and killed in a random terror attack. His framed photograph sat atop one of the coolers. One cooler held vodka and lemonade (his favorite jazz festival drink) and the other had Sangria. We stopped and chatted with her for a bit and I accepted a taste of the Sangria. It was very good. Steve is the jazz lover in our family and the festival is really his thing, but I enjoyed the live performances and I had a great time throughout. I was particularly amazed by the Joey Alexander Trio. Mr. Alexander celebrated his thirteenth birthday on the day of his performance here.

We had tickets for inside seating but we spent most of the day in our beach chairs in the shade or walking around between venues. There were all kinds of foods being sold including a spit with a roasting pig and Ben & Jerry's ice cream. There was an indoor air conditioned bar and even a cigar shop. Below is a clip from another band I particularly enjoyed.

 

We lived out of the backpack from noon 'til night except for our little excursion to downtown Saratoga where we dined in an air conditioned restaurant for dinner. It was a very warm day and the cooled air was a welcomed oasis.

Canterbury Shaker Village

     I'm a romantic... and most definitely an idealist. Walking the grounds at the Canterbury Shaker Village in New Hampshire gave me a longing to live in a utopian society. The Shakers, correctly known as The United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing, built at least eighteen communities in North America and are best known for their beautiful furniture and simple, communal lifestyle centered on worshipping God. They were considered one of the most successful utopian societies, having survived for over two hundred years. Their deserted villages remain intact, preserved by historical societies and museums. Visiting one of their villages is like taking a step back into time. As we strolled along the grounds at Canterbury, Chelsea and I tried to work out how we could make this simple, pure lifestyle happen. Steve quickly burst our bubble, realist that he is.
     The Canterbury Shaker Village in New Hampshire is the third Shaker village I have had the opportunity to tour. (The previous two being New Lebanon Shaker Village in New York and Hancock Shaker Village in Massachusetts.) Their website suggested allowing three to four hours to tour the grounds. We spent six hours there and still didn't go into every building. It was purely fascinating. 
 

A beautiful allée of Sugar Maples leads to the Meeting House

The only intact, first-generation Shaker Meetinghouse, built in 1792

The Sugar Maples are ancient and so big!

Soapstone tubs in the laundry building.

 

In 1942 only a handful of sisters remained in the village so they bought a Maytag and closed the laundry building. We're told the soap has remained there since that day.

 

I liked these interior sliding window shutters

 

Their handwork was the finest, including these wool socks.

Simple, clean lines

  

Rear view of the village from the herb garden

 

Oh, if only...

Happy Summer Solstice from Maine!

No Words Needed

Concord, New Hampshire and Franconia Notch

     Last week we headed to parts north! Aside from the patience-testing drive which should have taken twelve hours, but took fifteen, each day has been great. The main purpose of the trip is to see Chelsea and her family. They live in such a beautiful area that our trip will include mountains and sea. While we're up this way, we'll extend our visit to see family in New York, too.
     Our first day was spent walking to downtown Concord. It's the state capital, so there's a very nice downtown area with every little shop and eatery you could want. We browsed the shops, checked out the architecture of the state buildings, and found shady courtyard areas to enjoy a coffee break.

     On our second day, we drove about an hour north to Franconia Notch State Park. We hiked/walked two miles to the Flume Gorge and then we took the tramway up Cannon Mountain for a 360 degree view of the White Mountains. The weather was perfect to be at four thousand feet with the visibility at seventy-five miles. Across the valley we could see the Appalachian Trail skirting along the ridge line where Chelsea walked two years ago.

Heading into the Flume Gorge at Franconia Notch

Hugo was a happy hiker.

The covered bridge was built over a giant fir tree that had fallen in the early 1900's across the gorge. 

The Appalachian Trail follows the ridge line from the center of photo to the left.

Views of New York, Maine, and Vermont

Time to Reflect

     As my family knows, I can be a fussy person, prone to anxiety and worry, and easily agitated. As a doctor once described my mother "always like a racehorse at the starting gate", so am I. It takes a great deal of peace and sanctuary to counterbalance the stress I perceive in life. Even preparing for the enjoyment of travel will kick me into compulsive mode, as I am now. Knowing this about myself has made me realize one of the reasons I have been so taken with rug hooking. (Knitting or crochet or other such hand crafts would work equally as well, I think.) The reason being, I expend an exorbitant amount of energy into hooking that rug. While I am hooking, my mind is free to wander and think and pray, and work stuff out. It's a beautiful thing. An hour will go by without my even realizing it and during that time I've accomplished multiple things... mostly in my head of course. There is the added outcome of a pretty hooked rug to show for it as well. : )
     This weekend, I hooked a lot. I also sewed, mowed, laundered, ironed, cooked, gardened, and vacuumed. I told Tess that I destroyed a lot. (This, in noticing that a lot had to be destroyed in order for something to be created. I'll think more on this another time) ... and I did a lot of thinking. The shocking terror attack in Orlando left everyone speechless...for a minute anyway. After that, everyone had something to say and the sheer volume of opinion overwhelmed me and I felt compelled to switch to radio silence on the subject. I needed time and space to have my own thoughts form. When I resurfaced, I read an article our pastor shared. I appreciate his gentle shepherding and I admire his heart. Here are two beautiful and very true quotes to ponder:

"Let’s make sure that God’s kindness is tasted not only on the pages of Scripture, but through our lives and through our loving. Because the more we are into Jesus, the more conservative we are in our belief that every single word of the Bible is right and good and true, the more liberal we will be in the ways that we love."  -Scott Sauls

"As Dostoevsky wrote in The Brothers Karamazov, love in practice is a dreadful thing compared to the love in dreams. But the real and messy love—the kind that leads us to maintain conviction while communicating love and compassion and empathy to those who might not agree with our convictions—is better than the love in dreams, which is a sentimental love that has no roots. The real and messy love, not the love in dreams, is the love that Jesus entered into. And we must follow."
     

Thinking it out.

Sunday Singing, Times Two

Tess taught me how to put music on my iphone. Woo hoo! I've got a whole new musical world at my fingertips. On the way to church we listened to one of my all time favorite songs.




In church, our voices harmonized beautifully on this song. To me, it sounded just as beautiful as this choir. : )