MOONLIGHT IN VERMONT, Part 3

The drive from the Love Nest to the nearest Vermont Village was a quiet one.  Since Google maps hadn't furnished street views for this area, I had no idea what to expect, but a childhood of reading National Geographic magazines had convinced me that our Vermont Village would be a lovely spot with colonial homes lining the streets, a courthouse square shaded by two hundred-year-old hardwood trees, and at least one white clapboard Congregational Church complete with steeple.   

Since this is Part 3, I'm sure you've already guessed that our Vermont Village had never been photographed for National Geographic.   So, just for a moment, imagine the worst small town in western Kansas or Oklahoma that you've ever driven through, take away the grain silos and BINGO!  You've just visited our VV.  From the filling station on the south to the grocery/fishing store on the north, the Village was depressed and depressing.  We had plopped down sizable bucks,  flown 2000+ miles and driven eight hours only to find we'd arrived in the anteroom of hell. 

Fortunately, the grocery/fishing store was still open so we rather tentatively walked in.  It certainly could have been worse and we found, mixed in with the fishing bait, licenses and lures, hardware items, anti-freeze and snow shovels, a pretty decent selection of cleaning items and groceries.  We quickly gathered up every Scrubbing Solution we could fine--the stronger, the better--then milk, bread, orange juice and coffee. As we turned toward the final aisle, we were stunned by an inordinately extensive selection of wine and frozen pizza.  Maybe, just maybe, this would prove to be only purgatory.

It was a fleeting redemptive thought, however, before I remembered we had also included sheets, mattress pad, pillow cases, etc...on our shopping list.  This was not the store nor the Village for those items.  So, downhearted but determined, we soldiered back to the Love Nest with our purchases.  We carefully placed our few items in the refrig avoiding the worst of the mold and began to study the bedding situation.

Much to our surprise, we found sheets tucked away under other items in a storage closet, but imagination or experience made me question their cleanliness.  We balanced the choices...dirty floor?  Dirty bed?  Dirty floor?  Dirty bed?  We gingerly held the sheets by their edges, placed them on the bed, washed our hands, poured the wine, devoured our small horde of SW Airlines peanuts and Plane Crackers and settled in for a long night.
   

  
 

 

MOONLIGHT IN VERMONT, Part 2

If BC is anything, he is relatively mild-mannered, and I felt strongly that the next few minutes would either prove or disprove that virtue because, oh heaven help me, he was at the door.  I stepped aside as  he walked in.  He was very quiet as his eyes flew over the room--very, very quiet and, perhaps, a bit tight-lipped besides.  This was his view from the door:

Even with my stubby little legs, five steps into the Love Nest and I would easily be up against this miniature claw-footed tub which, at that moment, was home to three Daddy Long Legs giant spiders.  Smack, Smack, Smack...I hate spiders!  I had known the cottage contained a bathtub in lieu of a shower and that (all the better) it was an antique footed tub.  I, however, had not thought to ask if the antique footed bathtub was in a bathroom...or even if there WAS a bathroom. Then I began the inevitable slide into hysteria as I realized I didn't see a toilet.  I'm sixty-six, I pee all day and all night and I didn't see a toilet.  However, as I ripped open a curtain in frustration and sheer despair, I found the toilet...actually in a  corner of the kitchen but for a strategically placed curtain which, unfortunately, now lay crumpled on the floor. 

To the left of the bathtub, separated by a thin partition, was the kitchen/bathroom sink...something of a sink for all seasons and purposes under heaven.  It was tiny and a bit on the dingy side--but it had running water with only a faint hint of lake aroma wafting from it.  Smack!  Damn, I hate spiders.   

It was now time to apologize, plead, and throw myself on BC's mercy.  I desperately began to point out all of the positive features of our little home away from home for the next two weeks.  The Love Nest had appliances: a tiny greasy stove shoved tightly against a small moldy refrigerator, plus a badly stained Mr. Coffee (never buy a white coffee-maker of any brand) with a goodly supply of mugs.  And, the best thing going, the walls were covered with shelves containing dusty books, pictures, knick-knacks, cobwebs and a tiny working radio.  That was the Writer's Retreat area of the Love Nest--yet another attractive feature for me but not so much for "less is more" BC.  And now, to our left, the bedroom.   

The bedroom! It had been so cute in the pictures.  Shutters on the windows with sweetly ruffled curtains.  An attractive bed with cottage-y spread and colorful pillows artfully tossed about.  Perfect little bedside tables with perfect little lights. But, whoa, yet again!  As we looked on in sheer horror, we realized that somewhere between the staging, the photo session, the advanced Photo Shop applications and our arrival, the curtains and cutesy bedside tables were gone, replaced by not so cutesy substitutes.   The bed was erased right out from under the box spring and mattress leaving them plopped on the floor. It was a very simple, if not stark, room.  No bed, no bedspread, no curtains, no sheets...No, no, noooo...Smack!

BC stared at me, struggling to move his tight lips and mumbled, "I think we'll go to town now and buy a few groceries, cleaning supplies and sheets."   It was dark, it was raining, it was cold, it was late, but somewhere between the Love Nest and the closest village I  prayed there would be a miracle.  

MOONLIGHT IN VERMONT, Part 1

BC and I have just plopped down a bit of green for two airline tickets to Ireland later this summer.  We've decided to go on our own, rent a tiny car, wander the countryside and stay at charming B&B's which we will select during the next few weeks using a variety of websites.  We must be fools!

Late last summer we fulfilled a life-long dream of mine.  We rented a cottage (billed as a Love Nest) on the shores of Lake Champlain in Vermont.  We went on our own, rented a tiny car, wandered the countryside and stayed in that tiny Love Nest chosen, from among many others, on a website.

Our trip began in a promising manner--lovely flight, nice hotel, convenient car rental agency, sunny skies and cute little Mazda with built-in GPS.  I immediately popped in "Shortest Distance" when requested and we headed for the southern reaches of Lake Champlain.  Eight hours later it had become a long day.  The sun had gone down...or maybe it was just the heavy clouds hiding the sun's rays; clouds that at that exact moment cracked open and began pouring buckets of rain on us.  We were on a dirt road and I was screaming at the GPS and, occasionally, at BC.  It's a bad habit brought on by extreme anxiety, because we seemed to be lost.  Wholly, completely, upside down, inside out lost.  Wait--I just saw a road sign with a familiar name on it--Witherall Road.  We may have been saved!

We turned left onto a narrow dirt road which was quickly becoming muddy.  We turned right onto a narrower dirt trail.  But--I could see a house here and there--mostly there.  Then, through the trees I spotted the Love Nest.  "Turn here!" I ordered.  "Where?" asked BC looking a bit confused.  "Here!" I said again, this time a bit testily.  "This is it."  He looked to his left as I pointed, hit the brakes and with a shocked look on his face turned slowly to me and said, "You've got to be $^!&&!*# me."  He has never in his life said, "You've got to be $^!%%!*# me" to anyone.  I was a bit taken aback.

"Remember, I told you it would be a bit rough on the outside--the picture wasn't the greatest.  But, the inside is wonderful!  It's absolutely charming and quaint, and just...just perfect!"  I had looked at those e-mailed pictures for hours imagining quiet evenings reading books, breakfast on the deck, BC fishing from the included rowboat, all of the magic that a Love Nest on Lake Champlain might conjure up.  I leapt out of the car, grabbing the largish bottle of wine as I cleared the door, and ran to the cottage.  As advertised, it was unlocked (no need for keys in Vermont), opened easily, and I was stopped cold.  I looked left, I looked right.  I looked left and right again, then I looked up and down.  It was the cottage of the pictures, but strangely it was somehow different.  The landlord had my dreams and our money, and in return, he'd just taught me the power of Photo Shop.

MAPS ON THE WALL

This most lovely of pictures is page three of Pottery Barn's February 2011 catalog.  I love Pottery Barn catalogs, look forward to receiving Pottery Barn catalogs, and devour them at the first opportunity.  With great anticipation I opened this issue--which obviously exposed page three immediately and exclaimed, "Holy Cow!  Maps on the wall!"  Then I mused, "Maps on the wall..."  Finally I shouted to myself, "MAPS ON THE WALL!!"

I know about maps on the wall.  I know all about maps on the wall.  Back in the early 1970s I pasted maps onto the wall of our little dining area.  National Geographic maps in my case (free with the magazine), not "old nautical maps and illustrations" as recommended by Pottery Barn, but maps nonetheless.  I was gutsy in those days, but now I'm extremely concerned as to when I lost that fearless creativity and began to quiver each time I consider changing our paint color from light beige to medium beige.  I'm absolutely paralyzed with anxiety that I will totally screw up, and it seems impossible that I did what I did over the years to my houses, and never lost a minute's worth of sleep.

Now, just in case you're thinking "Yeah sure, you put maps on your wall and were creative at some point in your life"--here's proof.  I believe this photo was dated April 10, 1974--Daughter Denise's twelfth birthday.  Take a look...

These were the days when Denise was known as "Denise the Great" by her two younger sisters--Mickie on the left and Kristi.  But, ignore those cute young children for the moment, and please note the maps, the two "nautical" pictures hung at "navel" (get it?) level.  Maps...ships...blue accents!?!  I was good in those days--coordinated in those days and--Oh, Good Lord--I was preggers in those days!

As silly as it sounds, this situation is really a serious concern for me.  In 1974--actually, even a few years before--I could have worked for Pottery Barn, had there been a Pottery Barn.  It truly bothers me that I've lost that spark, that daring, that confidence.  We're going to keep this issue on the table and work through it...for some reason, this seems important!

SISTERS, SISTERS...

This past weekend my three daughters flew in for a long-awaited First Annual Sisters Weekend--No Husbands nor Children Allowed.  We were all excited for the opportunity and, considering the midwest winter temps and snow amounts, they were more than eager for sun, temps in the high seventies, sun, bike rides, sun, and lazy time on the patio...sunning.

Yes...on this patio.  As we all remember, sun and '70s were scarce this past weekend.  But they quickly adapted to Plan B: Gathering the old albums and photos, reclaiming them from the garage, sifting, sorting, a bit of scanning, dividing and organizing!  (My favorite word--I say it often, do it seldom.)

We exclaimed, laughed, sighed, and "oh my goshed" our way through much of one day as we remembered life on the farm, old boyfriends and prom dates, first bikes, hot pants and go-go boots (I looked pretty darned good!), a series of Ford Pintos, frightening clothing styles and hair-dos...It was great fun!

Now, reward time for Work Well Done.  An evening at Pizzeria Bianco--the best pizza anywhere.  Even Oprah and Rachel Ray say so!  First Rule for an evening at PB...Arrive early because many other people want to eat there also.  4:00 p.m. is good (that's when the bar opens), but 3:30 is better.

If you run into traffic problems (What do you mean the 101 is closed???) and arrive at 4:30 p.m. you will be met by a line of mostly happy people many of whom you will know well before the evening is over.  This was our line--61 persons ahead of us.  That's not a lot...the restaurant, after all, holds 40.  However, this being a republic, we quickly realize that each person in line represents a number of other persons.  He/She is part of a couple, a family, a group, a gaggle, an out-of-state convention.  Sixty-one in line is problematic for some, but for me it just adds to the charm/experience/panache of the place.  (I'm so good I'm believing my own statements!)

My girls are nothing if not problem solvers, so Mickie (the youngest) is quickly elected to placehold in the line.  Here she is with her new BFF from California, who in turn is placeholding for her spa group...you see how it goes.

While Mickie makes friends, Denise and Kristi jog into Bianco Bar, a charmingly restored little house just next door to Pizzeria Bianco and a requisite part of the experience.  The girls found a table, ordered wine and became our table holders.  They are warm, Mickie is cold and a bit damp--but she does seem to be holding two glasses of wine so I think she's OK.  At 5:00 the restaurant opens, quickly fills, and placeholders are entered on the waiting list (in order of arrival).  Mickie rejoins her sisters and the wait, mitigated by appetizers and more wine begins.  After two plus hours, great conversation and lots of laughing, our name is called and we move next door to the pizzeria.

Clockwise from left:  Mickie, Denise, Kristi, and moi.  We have reached hallowed ground and we're ecstatic, if not a little glassy-eyed.  Suffice to say dinner was delicious.  Biancoverde proved to be the favorite although I'm still a Wiseguy fan.  We scored a free Margherita which psychologically became pretty darned good, too.  Great Anti-pasto.  Now--"Show us the way to go home..."

BUT IT'S A DRY COLD

In the ten plus years we've lived in Arizona, our fountain has frozen twice.  Each time it froze, it looked a little like this...The water in the fountain was covered by a thin sheet of ice while the decorative ball was encased in sparkling ice crystals. The pump continued to spew out water and the frosty fountain event was over by early afternoon.  That is, until the Great Freeze of 2011.

Yes indeed, while the midwest, southeast and northeast were shivering and scooping, Phoenix was encased in ice.  We also got to participate in this year's weather game of  "Can you break all low temperature records of all time in just one week?"  Here's our attempt on February 2nd:

It's beyond my ability for description, but if I look long enough and don't blink I can see a bald headed old man whose face is entirely surrounded by Chihuly-like designs of ice.  His eyes droop and his stare is either incredibly wistful or completely forbidding.  Wait, now all of a sudden on the right I can see two tiny lower legs sticking out of the ice, and on the left...   Oh, never mind.  

However, our little birds who winter here still enjoyed the cold, cold water.  Their feathers were a bit fluffed for warmth, but they're right on schedule for their morning drink and bath.  Then, the next day brought this:

Whoa!  This strikes me as a not terribly attractive pile of gray ice.  It was definitely colder on February 3rd than on February 2nd, but the fountain continued to pump out little drops of water. 

Our little friend is back, but his mate or wife or girlfriend or significant other, obviously sensing the seriousness of this situation, has flown the coop and is on her way to the southern reaches of Mexico.  She is no fool.