Summer Journal: The Mount

Earlier in the summer, I read a historical novel called, A Lady of Good Family, by Jeanne Mackin. It was about young Beatrix Jones Farrand, the first female American landscape architect.  In the novel I learned that Beatrix Jones was Edith Wharton's niece and had spent time at her aunt's country estate, The Mount, in Massachusetts' Berkshire Mountains. Edith designed both the house and gardens at The Mount, and I imagine she must have been an important influence on Beatrix.

While traveling through the Berkshire Mountains one weekend, we stopped at Lenox, Massachusetts to visit The Mount:

Edith loved European gardens and architecture. You approach The Mount by entering a walled courtyard--the first room of many, as Edith envisioned life as a series of rooms and designed her home to reflect her vision:

"But I have sometimes thought that a woman's nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawing-room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting-room, where the members of the family come and go as they list; but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned; no one knows the way to the, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes." ~ from The Ghost Stories of Edith Wharton

We toured the gardens first:

After descending a beautiful, wide double staircase to the garden, you encounter the first garden "room": an impressive alle of pleached linden trees known as a "lime walk":

At the end of the lime walk, to the left of the house is the French flower garden. It is a sunny, open garden featuring a central dolphin fountain and pool that is surrounded by mixed beds of colorful perennials and annuals.

Inside the house, Edith favored symmetry and natural light, which you can see in this photo of the gallery. This room was used as a waiting area for guests before they were received into the drawing room.

Edith disliked socializing and detested "small talk". She had an intimate circle of close friends, among whom Henry James was counted.

The drawing room still features the original plaster work on the ceilings--it is gorgeous. However, most of the furnishings are historically accurate reproductions, which means that visitors are truly invited in to Edith's world with no need to stand behind velvet ropes.

Through the doorway in the photo above, you find yourself in Edith's library, the only room with original furnishings (we had to stay behind the velvet ropes).

My favorite room in the house was Edith's bedroom. She did all of her writing in bed on a lap desk. Guests and household staff knew not to expect to see her until noon each day. She stayed in bed writing until 11 am. As she completed each page, she let it drift to the floor.

Edith began her writing career at the age of thirty-one with the publication of a non-fiction volume called, The Decoration of Houses. She went on to write forty books in forty years and was the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize. She was awarded for her novel The Age of Innocence.

The view from Edith's bedroom window. I need white dotted swiss curtains for my bedroom and that soft blue-gray for my walls. : )

Breaking with tradition, Edith preferred a round dining room table with limited seating. She believed a dinner party should be an intimate affair, ultimately a gathering of equals, as this was most conducive to excellent conversation. 

We enjoyed our lunch on the beautiful wide terrace that wraps around the back and sides of the house:

Our favorite part of  The Mount was Edith Wharton's "secret garden", a sunken, stone-walled, Italianate garden. We visited the estate on a mizzling day, and the secret garden was several degrees cooler and veiled in silvery mist:

All of the flowers in this garden are white: astilbe, climbing hydrangea, and jasmine. The effect is wild peace.

Thank you for reading!

Love and roses,
Sue ♥

We ended up with about a foot of snow from the storm on Tuesday. As far as winter storms go, it really wasn't so bad. The rest of the week was fairly cold and sunny with beautiful skies. Although the landscape is white and wintery, about half the snow has already melted.

My Christmas cactus has been providing me with constant blooms and cheer since the end of October. I do believe this is the last blossom--it almost made it to Easter!

On the day of the storm, daughter no.1's work was cancelled, so she got to stay home and bake gingerbread cats and bears from this recipe--oh, so yummy!

My 85 year old writing desk. This year I am using an A4 size planner for my daily diary. I've written in it faithfully since the day after Christmas. Each morning I write down my thoughts about the day before. Here is my entry for yesterday, March 18th:

A beautiful day weather wise-45° + bright sunshine. There is still a ton of snow, but its slowly shrinking, and I can see a tiny patch of grass on the Lunds' hill. I did the bills this morning, and then the girls, L and I went to the movies! We had free tickets to a private showing of the new Beauty & the Beast, complete with a breakfast buffet, courtesy of one of our doctors.. The movie was entertaining. L rated it 6 out of 10. However, if I was a little girl, it would have frightened me; the imagery was grotesque-- but not the Beast; he was beautiful. Liz sent me a lovely card. She is worried that I'm sad. Am I? I don't know. Just out-of-sorts I guess. We watched Poldark last night + Francis died. In the past few months I have felt surrounded by death. Perhaps it is always here, but I'm just now more aware of it.

The moon this month has been particularly lovely, large and luminous. Now it is waning, but I still step out into the cold to look for it every night.

The gentle lilac light of the eastern sky at sunset sometimes holds my attention longer than the dazzling brightness in the west.

Daughter no. 2 made delicious, fluffy bread on Friday. Warm out of the oven with a bit of butter, it tasted better than cake.

No matter how much I dislike March, its skies are gorgeous.

Last night I had to rip back 12 rows on my nap blanket because I was one stitch off in the pattern. One stitch weirdly skewed the whole thing. So. Frustrating. But, I am no less determined to finish the project despite the constant set-backs. In fact, I really wish I would have used different colors for it. I have in my mind a solid gray background with color shifting leaves in the "lake front" colorway (Knitpicks' Chroma yarn) so, a second afghan may be in my future. : )

I read a thought-provoking essay this week by Phyllis Theroux on the topic of 'home'. She included a quote by Dag Hammarskjold which caught my attention:  

"To have humility is to experience reality, not in relation to ourselves but in its sacred independence."  

This is an idea I have contemplated often over the years, especially in becoming Catholic, which was a bewildering decision to many of my friends, but thankfully, not to my family since they are used to me doing things they don't understand: abandoning my 'career', having 'too many kids', practicing extended breastfeeding, bed-sharing, home schooling, having too many animals, living in a too-little house, etc., etc. My friends, however,--several of whom I lost over this decision--could not come to terms with why I would enter into a religious tradition historically steeped in scandal and which included some things I did not fully comprehend or embrace. The priest who gave me my first sacraments was confident that I understood and believed all I needed to in order to enter into full communion with the church. "The rest will come in time", is what he said. 

I stopped protesting the Catholic Church when I began to 'experience reality in its sacred independence'--when I began to acknowledge that if I really wanted to know a person or thing I had to relinquish my attitudes and beliefs and see it as it really is. It didn't happen overnight. It took about three years of inquiry, study, prayer, and living before I took formal steps to enter the Church. I can admit that fourteen years later there are still things about the Faith I don't understand or fully embrace (just as there are things about my husband I don't understand or embrace . . . but he is thee, and I am me, and together we are We). But I can also admit that it was only when I began to see God as having a will and life outside of my will and life--as sacred and independent--that I understood reverence, and my heart was stirred to the longing necessary for be-longing. 

Ms. Theroux writes about 'home' as a place in time. She identifies 'home' as the 'center of our universe', and the places where we live as "circles within circles" in time. She goes back to the place of her childhood where she "knows and is known by people whose memories are long enough to tell you how much around the eyes you look like like your grandmother" and who provide "a deeper context than you can give yourself." She writes about a beach that is the place of many important memories in her life. But, midway through her visit back 'home' she feels the pull of the place that is currently the center of her universe and longs to return to it. "I have sometimes viewed my house as a kind of exterior brain cavity, my thoughts contained within the folds of the curtains, leaves of the books, and dents in the sofa cushions." 

At the end of her essay Ms. Theroux asks, "But tell me this: Is the circumference where you grew up or where you're growing now?" This is an interesting question to me because it supposes a forward trajectory of growth in the human person. I don't want to make anyone's head hurt, but having experienced significant set-backs in the last two years, I just don't know if human development works that way at all. In every age I see myself trying to make sense of what I hear and see and feel while attempting to love and live peacefully with those around me. Sometimes I do all right, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I think I did better in another time and place than I am doing now. There were certainly times in my life when things seemed clearer to me. But, oddly, despite my uncertainty, there has never been a time when I have felt more at home. 

Until next week. ♥

The last couple of days have been cold and gray with temperatures in the forties. It's good weather for staying indoors and reading and writing. (I've knit a little, too, but not that much.) In the stories I write, one of my favorite themes is perception. Every minute of every day we make judgments based on what we see and hear. We think we know people. We think we can trust our senses. Let me ask you: is that fog up ahead in the woods or is it smoke?

Would you ever have suspected that it was the spray from an open hydrant? (That's what it was!) How often are we wrong about the things we think we know without ever realizing it? And what does this say about our "reality"?

My three young men

Family History

 

In my last post I wrote about a family mystery that cannot be solved. No matter how hard I gaze into the mists of time, the stories of those people will never come into view. And it is a great loss, because I know that the truth is more intriguing than anything I can imagine.  

In contrast, my mother's people have been in North America since the 18th century. My grandmother's people were Irish and my grandfather's people were French Canadian and Scottish. There are some photos, legal and church records, newspaper reports and stories. 

The photo above is my great-great grandfather Joseph Bresette. He was a handsome man; my grandfather, uncle and mother bear some resemblance to him. His is a story worth remembering and telling, one that strikes me as deeply romantic in its truth:

St Lawrence Republican - May 21, 1913 News of the death of J Bresette of Heuvelton reached this place recently which occurred April 8th after a long and severe illness from a complication of diseases accompanied by old age. He was born in the town of Brasher and lived there until his coming to Lisbon where he was married to Martha Dashnaw, which took place March 2, 1858. He was known as a good man, a good neighbor, a kind husband and a tender and loving father and was well respected by all who knew him. He served his country as a true soldier. On the 10th of September he enlisted in the 60th Infantry and served one year. He then re-enlisted in the cavalry and served three years until honorably discharged. He was a prisoner in Belle Isle and Libby Prison. His health became impaired from the sufferings there and never a well man after. A few years ago he sold his farm near Mount Alone and bought a home in Heuvelton where he lived until his death. If he was once your friend it was hard to be otherwise. He disliked to lose confidence in a friend. He was a true Republican and always took a great interest in all that concerned the Republican party. He was a well-read man and could converse in the topics of the war and of political affairs for hours and was much interested in the affairs of foreign wars and countries. His age was 77 years 3 months and, four days. He leaves his aged companion, 73 years old, and two brother and three sisters and five children; Henry Bresette of Dekalb, Theodore Bresette of Ogdensburg, Mrs. Margaret Lalone, Mrs. Martha Creighton; Mrs Lettie Chambers and number of grandchildren to mourn his departure. He has answered the last roll call, the lights are out, he has gone and the flag he so valiantly fought for still waves over the land of the free and the home of the brave. The funeral was from the R. C. church at Heuvelton; interment at that place; services by Rev. Father Kitts of the R. C. church

This is a photo of his wife, my great-great grandmother Mary Martha Dashnaw. She is not a pretty woman, but as I study her photograph, I get the impression that she was a woman who smiled easily and often. I have a feeling that smile transformed her, and I think in that I bear some resemblance to her.

Family Mystery

 

We visited the greenhouses yesterday. Inside it was as warm and bright and verdant as summer. I felt like skipping, but I restrained myself for my children's sake.: ) There is still lots of snow outside, but today is the third day of 40° temperatures and it is all soft and melty like whipped cream.

I opened the stack of new notebooks I received for my birthday back in January. I keep a diary and regularly fill them up. Each morning I record the date, the weather, my blood pressure (I struggle with hypertension; I am, unfortunately, a sensitive, nervous sort) and little quotes, notes and daily happenings.

I have always been intrigued by my family history, but it is nearly impossible to learn anything beyond the names and dates of the people who came before me. How I wish that some of them would have kept a diary, or the letters they received, or even a kitchen receipt book! On my father's side of the family tree there is nothing. We do not even have a true name. My maiden name (Nodzo) is an invention. It exists nowhere in the world except upstate New York. My great-grandfather Jacob Nodzo came to the United States from the Kingdom of Galicia in 1909. He and his family were musicians. He had two brothers and two sisters and each of the three Nodzo "branches" has a different telling of our family's origin. One branch talks of a noble Austrian heritage, another says Hungarian, Jacob identified himself as Ukrainian, but his daughter, my great aunt Helen told me that her father was Jewish. So who knows? (My father has a rare autoimmune disease that primarily effects people of Eastern European Jewish descent, so the Jewish thing makes sense to me, but Dad insists his grandfather was Ukrainian Catholic)  As for me, I plan on leaving behind enough notebooks and letters to satisfy any of my great-great grandchildren's curiosity about their ancestor.

Really wonderful fountain pens $3.30 each: Platinum Preppy

All of the comments on my last post gave me loads of encouragement--thank you so much for your good, kind thoughts! My first lesson in becoming an optimist is to wake up each morning and decide that no matter what happens it is going to be a good day, one in which I will accomplish all that I set out to do: pray, write in my journal, complete lesson work with Luke, Em, and Amy; keep the laundry going, write at least one page of my manuscript, work on my knitting, and attend to my usual household tasks (meals, shopping, pet care, etc.). So far, I am having a really great week. I feel good and I am still smiling. : ) I will admit that there have been a few times when I have had to remind my kids that I am an optimist now, and therefore will not be tempted into negativity. And, Zachary has taken to calling me Optimus Prime, which is rather hilarious. But, the wondrous thing is how much more productive I am with a positive outlook--I really do feel a bit like a superhero.

I am about half finished knitting the first sleeve of the Zest cardigan. It looks a little weird, a little oddly shaped., a bit too short (I'll need to add some extra rounds), but I know that I followed the pattern directions correctly, so I am going to be optimistic about how it will all turn out. In fact, I expect it will be beautiful. 

I have fifteen rows left to knit on Clue #1 of Ysolda's Mystery Knit Along. I have to say that it is really fun! I've decided to begin with option B for the first clue and am loving the results. Usually when I start a new project, I find myself second guessing the yarn/color I have chosen, but this time I am very happy with my selection--the color looks just like sun-dappled meadow grass, and I think it will be totally wearable and go with almost anything it's paired with: navy, yellow, red, purple, blue, . . .

At the moment, I am not reading anything but am waiting for a few books I've placed on hold at the library: Under The Wide And Starry Sky, by Nancy Horan, I Shall Be Near To You, by Erin Lindsay Mccabe, and The Vanishing, by Wendy K. Webb. I wonder which one will arrive first.

What are you knitting and reading this week?