For the extended Presidents Day weekend (in the case of one child it extended across two weekends, with a whole week in between — oy!), the kids and I joined three other families for four nights in a rented farmhouse that was 40 long and winding minutes from a ski mountain. Also known as a knitting mountain, because that’s mostly what I did while helping to oversee the equipment and feeding issues involved with taking a bunch of kids (eight! ocho! huit! children!) skiing in freezing weather.
On the Third Day, Mom skied. For two hours. Whee! Must do that again.
No matter whose GPS was calling the shots, we traveled back roads on our morning and twilight drives to and from the ski lodge. (It’s not clear that there were any front roads.) On these daily trips I saw enough artfully (but artlessly artfully) peeling clapboards to inspire a lifetime of quilts and blankets. A few decades of declining population do wonders for the wabi sabi aesthetics of an area. One thing is clear: when times are hard, housepainting is the first thing to go. As the layers of pigment wear away unevenly, the house’s history sometimes appears, for some reason, in stripes. Mr. Noro would have a field day up there. The color that most surprised me was peach. You don’t think of farmers or village shopkeepers painting their houses peach, but there is evidence that some of them did. Also, much poignant gingerbread. (Collective sigh.)
This freshly painted barn/shed was an exception to the reign of decay. The color reminded me of your aubergine shed in Monteagle, a bit greyer but with a mulberry undertone. I still haven’t painted anything aubergine. Must do better!
The general store in Medusa, New York 12120. For reals. We saw many small post offices in the hamlets we passed through, but this was the only one too small for a Government-issue sign.
All this architecture was the perfect accompaniment to knitting on my blissfully immense Albers Shawl. I am grooving on this project so hard I almost can’t stand it. People keep asking me what it is and I don’t know what to tell them. Can’t they see that it’s the sort of thing you make for the sake of making it?
Back home, in the land of overheated apartments.
P.S. You May Be a Child of Mine If:
….you take pictures of the books in a rental house. Found this on the camera when we got back.