We Paid Our Money!

Now let's have some scenery...

If you are sitting in Troy, Vermont (the town in which the Last House is located) and you are pondering what might be the furthest point away from you, while still remaining in the State of Vermont, I think the answer might be "Bennington". I am on the Canadian border and Bennington is almost on the Massachusetts border.



Last week, I had to go to Bennington for work. This meant a great horking long drive, but the benefit was that I got back into Bennington, a place I really haven't been in about 20 years.

There is a part of Bennington that is so postcard perfect it is like a movie set of New England. This is Old Bennington, where the First Congregational Church is at one end of street lined with enormous ancient maple trees and federalist-era houses and the Bennington Monument is at the other end. On Friday last week when my hearing was over I had an hour before I had to get home and a chance to prowl the place with busloads of tourists. Literally, busloads. They, I mean, "we" got a perfect afternoon for it, too. I blended right in. No one would know I wasn't from New Jersey.


Every foot is historic; the Catamount Tavern was a revolutionary hotbed. Ethan Allen lived on this street for awhile.


Hitting this little stretch, this living tableau of a Vermont Life cover, must be for the busloads like striking a particularly rich vein of cookie dough in their pints of Ben & Jerry's. Not just plain vanilla New England. This is the good part. No need to look over the strip malls and gas stations to see the color on the hillsides. This is the part Mrs. W. was promised when she leafed through that last-year's copy of Yankee at the dentist's office in Teaneck.





Pure...

I recalled that Robert Frost was buried in the graveyard at the First Congregational Church, so I thought I would pay my respects (among other happy digital snappers, but at least I didn't have to rush to get back on the bus). I was fascinated by the graveyard. I guess 20 years ago I didn't have much of an eye for graveyards. Boy, has that changed. It was all I could do to tear myself away...


The current, earthly residence of the great Robert Frost & Family


And veterans of the American revolution among the uber-Protestant great and good of Old Bennington





Feeling a little flat?


Even the gift shop at the BM (that's "Bennington Monument," ahem,) was adorable.

Several of the old houses along the street between the Church and the BM were for sale... I suppose living on the street le plus touristique in Vermont and in a house that predates the founding of the country might not be so great... But, no, well, it would be. It would be great.

What's That Wet, Cracking Sound?

No, not the fallen branches underfoot in the woods this time of year - something else...



Oh, it's the first of October and that sound must be the hearts of those millions of northeasterners who have decamped to Florida and Texas and Arizona and similarly horrifying places over the last couple of decades.


Places with climates congenial to achy joints, and also to man-sized reptiles and hand-sized biting insects.



Places famous for poisonous snakes and developers; flat, flat places with shallow-rooted vegetation that does not change color in the fall.



If I had been born in another century, and on the other side of the sea, I think I would have been the sister who stayed: Bridie, alone, by the peat fire in the cottage. The letters would come back full of the marvels of New York and Boston and Milwaukee and Toronto and I would look at the green grass and the mist and think, "I still would not trade."



My brother in Dallas will ask again this winter, when I am complaining about making no money, and driving over an ice-coated road through the dark in a sideways snow storm, why I don't move to a real place? My sister in Florida will tell me in February about 82 degrees and no humidity.



But they don't have Fall, a proper Fall, in Texas or Florida and I couldn't bear to give it up. Nor spring for that matter. And while we're on the subject, winter is hard here, but it has its rewards (bright days, hunkering down during a quiet snow storm, snowshoeing and skiing through a world altogether different from what it will be six months later) and our Summers are like gold. And in the Fall, of course, at least for a few weeks, just about every place you look is so beautiful... Maybe that sound is my own heart breaking for sight of it.

I Am Glad I Got Those Gloves

What would I do with 32 pairs of size 6.5 to 7 ladies gloves (a size too small for me), in various colors? I haven't worn gloves since my mother put them on me for Easter in 1968 (I was three). Nevermind. They are inherently good and interesting objects. Each pair was neatly pinned with a tiny gold safety pin, pressed and cleaned. My left-bid of $10 got them for me at the auction last Sunday.

The Understudy and her friend got into them on Friday (fine, of course) and summoned me to a fashion show. I loved it and dragged the Understudy and her stylist outside for one of our periodic fashion shoots. I knew those gloves were worth the having.

More Outdoor Contemporary Art; The Union Jack Flies Over Vermont

Hey Woolfoot. What did you do today?

Glad you asked. It was Sunday, and an auction day. Luckily, the Understudy was invited to a birthday party in Morrisville. Westfield, home of my beloved Degre Auction House, is en route to Morrisville. Great. Cover for at least partial auction attendance. (Whusband disapproves, why?) The party didn't start til noon and the auction got rolling at 10 AM. The Understudy didn't get word of the plan to "swing by" the auction til she was in the car, and belted in.

Do we have to?!

Yes!


The Understudy 20 minutes into the bidding this morning

By the way, two weeks ago I took Shackleton the auction. He attended voluntarily and had a great time, urging me to bid on all kinds of stuff. He wound up with some old trophies we both loved. Here is his artist's rendition of the auctioneer, done as a live study.



He actually announced, when we got home, that we had a great day at the auction. Note to self, bring Shackleton to the next auction and let the Understudy stay home.

I left a bid on a box of Jackie Kennedy-era ladies gloves at 11:30, the only bidding I managed, and hied it down to the Birthday party. After depositing the Understudy with her friends at the ice skating rink I was off to Stowe, where I hoped to catch at least part of the English Car Show. This event seems to be growing year by year.



Unfortunately, most of the MGs and Triumphs and Jaguars and what have you that I saw were driving down the Mountain Road on their way out of town. Just a few tents coming down and the odd car remained at the show by the time I arrived:


Hey, that's a Rolls Royce, isn't it? No, no, the one up-top, by the tents, not the Mini down below.



It wasn't time to get the Understudy from the party yet, so I walked along the lower section of the Stowe Rec Path. I know, I know, I'm sorry for taking you back to the Rec Path. Maybe someone will have to fine me before I'll really stop blogging about it and photographing it.

Thing is, this is a part of the path I don't usually get to because I think of it as crowded, ending in the village as it does. Well, it wasn't crowded this afternoon and, I soon learned, the Contemporary Art Show that I wrote about a few posts back has straggled off the site of the Helen Day Art Center in the village and many pieces are now on display on this section of the path. So, I wasn't just walking, I was visiting an exhibit. Some of the art was fabulous. This teapot I just loved. I am going to find the artist and send her fan mail.









Isn't that cool - (the wrapped tree-trunks). Derivative of Christo, I suppose, but I liked it. The artist calls it "Chippendale." There was a sign nearby that said the trees would not be harmed by having their trunks wrapped in vinyl for a time. No, just kidding. I made that up. I am sure people are wondering about that, though. This is still Vermont, and Stowe, no less. The trees matter a lot, especially the trees along the Rec Path.

This one, (below) was the only real clunker I saw. Remember that Simpson's Episode where Marge discovers she's actually a great painter? She enters an art show and wins? I recall that one of the other entries in that show was a painting of a unicorn standing on a hill over a smoky, dirty city. A single tear runs down the unicorn's cheek and a thought bubble above his head asks, "Why"? This mini graveyard, with the names and dates of conflicts fought "in the name of religion", goes in the crying unicorn category as far as I am concerned.



By the way, we got the gloves. Ten bucks for 32 pairs - beautifully kept by some woman all the way through the Cold War, all pinned together, perfectly pressed. The Understudy got a pair and so did her friend. She didn't complain about that.

These Are A Few of My Favorite Things...

This line occurred to me this AM when I saw this:



A tree, a rock, ferns, leaves and BONUS, moss, all within about one square meter.

Maisy and I got up and out for a walk on Jay Peak this morning, where one can see trees and rocks in wild abundance. The walk was, as usual, beautiful for these small details and the grand views it afforded of the top of Vermont.



And doesn't Maisy look fetching in the raking light of the morning?







She knows now that when I steal down the stairs before anyone else is up and move around as quietly as I can, get my water bottle and hiking boots it means we are in for a nice long walk. She jumped right in the car.



We were out for about two hours, which represents a considerable effort for me in my middle aged semi-collapsed state. If only I could manage such activity about four times a week. Oh well.

Thinking about trees and rocks and ferns as a "few of my favorite things" (I am singing that line to myself mentally as I type) reminded me of a fresh (for me) source of glee; finding a source for super cheap old record albums.

That source is the Burlington recycling-for-social-good-center, a junk shop with high ideals called "Recycle North" It's a great institution that recycles appliances, computers, building materials and household goods. In the past I have mostly rummaged their building materials center. They have all these great old windows, bathtubs, doors, light fixtures etc. We bought 8 sets of real wooden, louvered shutters with their hardware, probably from the 1940s last summer for $100 - total. The plan was to dress up the facade of the Last House. Another summer project that didn't quite get started. Well, still.... About two weeks ago while I was all on my own in Burlington, I stopped in to the household goods repository to see if they had any nice old plates or pottery. Instead, I discovered that they sell old record albums for 25 cents apiece. The result was predictable.


NOT Digitally Remastered



I was born in 1965. It wasn't until I was in college that people began converting from vinyl to CDs. I was one of those people, of course, and I have never looked back - that is, until I was wandering through the household goods at Recycle North.

You should know that, owing to Whusband's Great Age and long years of adulthood before he had children (i.e., years with disposable income), he accumulated an extensive record collection. For that reason, we actually have several turntables here at the Last House. Only one is ancient, from Husband's audiophile days in the cretaceous period.

Of course, LPS and turntables never completely bubbled under, in the way of the Betamax or 8-track tapes - probably because DJs in cool clubs in the 80s still wanted something to scratch. You can still buy turntables and we have several. In other words, unlike most modern Americans (I imagine), we can still actually play records, though we don't do so often. Husband's collection (almost all classical) is stowed in a giant wooden box that also serves as a kind of coffee table. Clearing it off to get to the records is a big production and not one we often undertake.

At Christmas we pull out some old LPs of carols that I like - choirs of angels stuff, and I am particularly fond of a collection of turn-of-the-century music hall favorites that we play during dinner parties. Seeing all these LPs with (for me) their tempting titles suddenly renewed my interest in vinyl.

I won't be getting rid of iPod anytime soon. Despite the fact that I am half deaf I still appreciate great sound, what I can get of it anyway. Hmmm. Maybe because I don't hear that well I am now a good audience for analog recordings.

Here's part of what $2.00 or so procured:





I knew Mary Martin was a famous Broadway star back around the time of the Flood, as I recalled. The central fact I had stored about her was that she was the mother of "Master" (Larry Hagman) from "I Dream of Jeannie". Anyway, I had never heard her sing, and I didn't realize she had starred on Broadway as Maria in the Sound of Music, before Julie Andrews put her enormous stamp on that whole thing.

Listening to this 1966 recording, with Martin reading the story and singing the songs, has converted me into a big Mary Martin fan. Her voice has such a wonderful tone and timbre - even on vinyl. And check out the great 1960s illustrations that accompany this "Disneyland" recording. We have listened to this at least half a dozen times this week.



Maybe there should be a law that requires us to listen to Carole King on vinyl. It is so echt 70s; digital provides a false experience. Ah, the AM hits of childhood... Not one scratch on this copy either.

In case you have forgotten (or never experienced it), there is something sort of wonderful about dropping a needle down on a record, especially when you are at about eye-level with your turntable - looking for that little blank space between the tracks, watching the arm bob a little when the album is a wee bit torqued. Something satisfying about it. I guess you can see a little better where that music is coming from; mysterious as any recording process remains for me, at least with vinyl you aren't dealing with a laser in a drawer...



My sister and I and the Hulchanski kids next door used to sing "Consider yourself at home, consider yourself --- part of the fam-i-ly" when I was about six. Now, I own the record.







As I was rummaging around the stacks of records, one of the Recycle North guys asked me if there was anything special I was looking for. I wanted the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever.

"Would that be "soundtrack" or "pop" or "rock"? I asked.

He wasn't sure, but he noted that their soundtrack section was particularly strong. Yes. True. Couldn't find SNF, but nice copies of original cast recordings ofWest Side Story, Gigi and My Fair Lady were plentiful. I guess the people who bought SNF 30 years ago haven't died yet. It was pretty clear that Recycle North has inherited the record libraries of people who would be about 80 now, if they were still living.

The same guy told me that there are "a lot of young people" in Recycle North shopping the vinyl. I didn't take offense. Interesting though, isn't it?



I have loved Masterpiece Theater since high school. This is a collection of themes from MT, from the twilight of the vinyl age in 1981. Probably this one was safe from "the young people."

One last amazing fact. If you buy 20 or more records, the price drops to 20 cents a piece. I am going back soon.

Oh. I also picked up a made-in-England bone China plate, featuring a partially hand painted picture of Ann Hathaway's Cottage, for another 25 cents during my vinyl shopping spree. What a good day that was

A Dog, A Boy, House Paint, Caramel Syrup and a Kitchen Floor - Does this Title Even Need A Verb?

At the risk of channeling Erma Bombeck, I just had to share a little domestic experience that we enjoyed here at the Last House this afternoon.

Let me begin at the beginning. We got this dog back in May. She is a cute dog. Her name is Maisy.



Maisy, in a good moment, earlier this summer

Maisy spends a lot of time on the ugly porch that was appended to the Last House by the previous owners, sometime back in the 1970s. I think they added this aquariam-inspired structure around the same time they removed the proper, original porch and front door - sort of like a face removal and horrid, wrong, replacement.

In any case, the ugly porch ("U.P.") has windows facing south and east, creating an environment alternately boiling and freezing. It also has an ugly brown indoor-outdoor carpet. We enter and leave the Last House through the U.P., so there is no avoiding it.

Since adding Maisy to the family, I have noticed, particularly on warm days, that the ugly carpet gives of the scent of dog pee. Uh oh. The U.P., like every other room in our house, is filled to bursting with stuff: to wit, toys, shoes, no fewer than seven oil lamps, winter coats, a security system, balls, bats, books, a kerosene heater, an electric heater, three rocking chairs and a small cast-off kitchen table. You get the picture. Cleaning the ugly carpet is not a simple proposition. It has not been done for YEARS.



A particularly honest and unlovely view of the house, with the porch featured prominently

Nevertheless, the other day, goaded by that smell of dog pee, I rented a steam cleaner. Yesterday, I removed every shoe, chair, videotape, gew gaw and thingamjig from the U.P. and spread them all over the lawn. I then cleaned the ugly carpet. However, in removing the aforementioned rocking chairs from the U.P. I managed to scrape and otherwise nick the paint around the door frame. Also, since adding the dog, muddy pawprints and scratch marks have also been added to the door frame. "I must touch that up", I thought yesterday, at cleaning hour 11, as I was putting the last shoe back into the clean porch.

It was a beautiful warm day today and so, upon returning to the Last House from School and work, in an usual display of follow-through, I got out my foam brush and the can of Glidden exterior flat white.

The kids were occupied with visiting friends as I painted. When the Mom of the visiting kids arrived to collect them, I hastily put down my foam brush and left the open can of white exterior paint on the dryer in our kitchen. Yes - the dryer resides in the kitchen, just next to the door to the porch. The dryer also serves as counter space (think, old farmhouse with hideous farmer-brown-DIY kitchen). The dryer is the repository for a collection of spices and our cappucino machine. Perched on the back of the dryer is a stereo speaker (don't ask) and a pair of old coffee pots full of utensils. It is normal for us to leave all kinds of things, including open cans of paint from time to time, on the dryer.

Did I mention about the caramel syrup? Not to long ago, I came home with some caramel syrup for making home-brewed caramel macchiatos. Yum. It came in this elegant bottle, sort of like a wine bottle, though made of clear glass.

Finally, you need to know that on the menu tonight was Kraft Dinner, no, "premium" Kraft Dinner. (The Understudy asked what the difference between premium and regular Kraft dinner was and I told the premium costs three times as much). Whusband, the family chef and food snob, is away and when he is not around the culinary standards slip, shall we say.

Upon learning that we were having this suitable-for-a-bomb-shelter cuisine (a too rare event from the kids' point of view) Shackleton jumped for joy. He landed hard, right near the dryer.

Result: the stereo speaker on the back of the dryer came down. It dominoed into the open can of paint and the glass bottle of caramel syrup. Both caroomed onto the wooden floor. Oddly enough, the third item to hit the kitchen floor was an open bottle of off-brand Windex (still out from the previous day's porch cleaning). It made a separate, bluish puddle, not too far from where the caramel syrup and white paint combined in ghastly kind of cleaning nightmare concoction, sprinkled with shards big and shards tiny of broken glass.



Just a little evidence...

Cleaning this up (a five-bath-towels-into-the-trash job) made me glad we don't have hurricanes here. Galveston, I feel your pain. Maisy, our dear, I guess we have you to thank for one clean carpet and one clean area, at least, on the kitchen floor.