reflections of an extraordinary summer

It’s been a peaceful, relaxing two weeks in London since our return from Red Gate Farm.  I am always astonished at how different our two lives are – one lived in the out-of-doors in stifling humidity, surrounded by the bright colors of our American life.  As my family always mock me for raving, there is “the green of the grass, the red of the barn, the white of the fence.”

The house itself is perfectly normal in size, but I always experience the interior as a bit of a dollhouse, a precious, small space filled with objects that I love intensely.

There is a quality to the light at Red Gate Farm that is almost like another color, or another object.  Each room is filled with long memories, now nearly 15 years of memories, of people we no longer have with us, of lavish and delicious meals, of family and friends, holidays and parties.

Every summer we walk through the house when we arrive and move things on the walls from place to place, so we continue to see the beautiful artwork, so that our environment escapes that trap of being so familiar that it’s unseen.  This summer, the “somebody’s ancestors” portraits that we’ve always had above our bed migrated down to the stairwell, to join a portrait of my mother that hung for many years in my dad’s office.

We always joke when we lock up the house that it’s a bit silly to do so – the house is filled with things that are valuable only to us. But they are so very valuable.  This summer, a truly precious object came to live at the farm.

This piece of wood began life as a tree on our property, several hundred years ago, and then became the lintel of our beautiful woodshed, then to be infested with grubs and bugs, to be replaced by our brilliant master carpenter friend Mike.  But did he throw it away?  Of course not.  He polished it and invested it with depressions filled with votive candles, to light our dining table.  We love it so much.

This summer we decided to tackle the horrifyingly spidery contents of The Big Red Barn, left there by the movers when we transplanted to London in 2005.  One rainy day, we opened the door and ventured inside.

In box after box we discovered a whole history of art history, suspended in amber from about 2000, when I last taught a course.  It was painful, but probably necessary, to pack them up in the car and take them to Goodwill.  Everything has changed since then, but still it was a bit of an emotional wrench.  Much more fun was the stuff to save.

It turned out that one of the sad losses of our move to London was not a loss at all!  We found Avery’s museum-quality collection of felt (if there is a Museum of Felt)!

Everything is technicolor at Red Gate Farm, as if you’d hit the “enhance” key in your laptop’s photo application, over life itself.

Of course what really makes life in Connecticut so magical, so heartwarming and exhaustingly rich, are the people.  Family!  Jane is taller than me now.

Molly broke her wrist!  But it doesn’t hold her back.

Jane is the star of her softball team, naturally.  We turned up one warm, buggy evening to cheer her on.

John’s shirt has a story.  One Christmas he turned up at a dinner at Jill and Joel’s decked out in it, and Joel raised an eyebrow.  “Flowers?”  I defended him.  “This brand of shirt is very popular in London!”  A pause.  Then Jill said, “Yeah, well, in LONDON.”  John managed, through assiduous laundry planning, to wear it every time we got together, this summer.

We got our kitty fix, with Snowball, although he’s really Joel’s cat, full stop.

Neighbors, as always, make Red Gate Farm what it is.  Lauren and Mike share their gorgeous kids with us very generously.  There was brownie batter for Gabriel!

Brownie batter and a dollhouse for Abigail.

And of course the trampoline always pleases.

A lawn full of new grass for Elizabeth.

Kate-From-Across-The-Road made time for a cooking lesson as well!

What fun to hear all about her adventures in ballet, with proud Anne and Dave looking on.  She has grown up so much since Christmas.

Whenever there was a quiet moment, I turned to my domestic projects.  It turns out, I am a terrible knitter.

I bothered Avery with endless texts showing my latest emergency, and she tried valiantly to help from her vantage point in NYC.  But sometimes there was nothing for it but to drive up the road to Judy.

She provided me with my very own basket to hold my various projects, and threw in some needles, thimbles, knitting books and advice.

Most excitingly, she gave me a ball of yarn made from sheep she raised herself, and taught me to purl with it.

Well, I say she “taught me to purl.”  She tried valiantly.  Avery tried.  Lauren tried.

I haven’t given up entirely, but in the face of these kind people, each of whom patiently unravels my rows and straightens my stitches whilst churning out fingerless gloves, hats and sweaters seemingly effortlessly, I decided I might be better at something else.

I went to work on John’s frayed shirt.

It was a very satisfying project, so I moved on to another one.

Facing a challenge is important, so I turned to the sadly damaged sofa and did my best.

Joel says I’m obsessed.  Not at all!  Well, maybe a little.  In a rare reversal of our roles, Lauren turned to me for help, which was very exciting.

With perhaps two dozen holes, including a completely worn-out elbow, it was a real project.

How I worked!  Avery pitched in, managing to re-knit a few stitches together, but mostly it was a matter of weaving, with a collection of 100-year-old silks from Cornwall.  Finally it was finished.

She was thrilled.  I love Visible Mending.

When I wasn’t Visible Mending, I was watching the dissolution of my marriage as we tried to build our new grill together.  A present from Jill and Joel, its beauty wasn’t immediately apparent.  Exactly 26 parts, one for every letter of the alphabet, conveniently.  Would they have had to add one more wrench if there were a 27th letter??

What a project!  Worth it in the end, although we did have one horrendous moment, having come home from dumping the 85 pounds of cardboard and styrofoam that had protected it in its box, to fear we were missing one crucial screw.  But all was well, finally.

This summer, whenever life threatened to become peaceful or relaxing, I jumped into the car, drove to Katonah, got on the train and found my way downtown to our exhibit, to show everyone around.  One visit happened, however, on a Monday when the gallery was mercifully closed, and I coaxed Avery, her fabulous historian boss Anne, and Anne’s daughter Julia downtown for lunch at the Odeon.

If only Avery and Julia could run the world, we might actually survive.  Brilliant conversation, and salmon tartare.

From there, Avery and I raced uptown for a precious hour with my Aunt Mary Wayne and family, all the way from Kentucky for a Yankees game!  We have a lot to learn about the art of the selfie, but you get the image.

Another outing to the city occurred on the most fiendishly hot day of the summer.  Simply drowning in sweat, I was forced to buy a package of frozen Chinese pancakes just to carry them around with me, pausing now and then to hold them against my neck.  Kathleen, Cici and Avery made their way to a delightful Argentian restaurant owned by one of Avery’s school friend’s mother.  We had a sensational time, ending with a brilliant studio visit to see Kathleen’s new work.

Before that long, hot, hot day was over, Avery and sauntered over to the Woolsy, site of the exhibition after-party, to meet Catherine for a fancy, expensive cocktail and just the best conversation.  It pays to be friends with a novelist.

I brought out my Visibly Mended jumper to show Catherine, and as she unfolded it on the bar, she fingered the label inside.  “I went to high school with this guy.”  Connecticut upbringings never cease to enchant me.

Eventually, too soon for her, Avery’s summer job ended and her stint in her beloved New York City was finished.  We raced down to the city to get her, and on the way home chanced upon her grandmother at the cosy little Westchester airport and brought them both to Red Gate Farm.  Another milestone in “what makes a summer” had been achieved.

What our summer really needed was frequent visits to the kitten shelter, so we did.  Every day we went, kittens had come and gone.  Their turnover is incredible.

We were desperate to bring Priscilla home with us, but were lucky enough to be there when she was adopted by a father whole told the staff straight up that she was a post-divorce bribe to get his son to come visit more often.

Olimpia and Tony made their traditional trip to see us, for a splendid, relaxed luncheon full of friendship and curried chickpeas.

It was the most beautiful day of the summer, as we delved into the past of our long friendship and the fun of these visits, hearing about Olimpia’s Italian roots, her emigration stories, her fabled relatives.  Delightful.

Avery and I cooked together!  In fact, it was the first occasion of three-generations cooking together (one with a camera!).

Nonna with her traditional garlic-chopping job, me finding ingredients for Avery, Avery reducing courgettes from Lauren’s garden to beautiful little cubes, to saute and serve with pasta and plenty of grated cheese and hot peppers.  A delight.

Mom’s long-awaited birthday celebration came along, to be marked by a trip to Boston for Jill and me to get her, probably the most time I have spent alone with my beloved sister since we were about 12 and 18 respectively!  Then home for dinner at hers, all of us together for the first time in a year.

The next day it was our turn for a party.  The yellow balloons never disappoint.

Ready for dinner on the terrace.

Everyone arrived in a flurry for an afternoon and evening of conversation, cocktails, corn on the cob, family, friends.

Don’t you love my new napkins?  Courtesy of Nonna.  I love, love the color, especially with my prized ceramic artichoke centerpiece from the V&A!

There were lemon bars for dessert.

As some wise philosopher said, “Happiness is not something you experience; it’s something you remember.”  I try so hard to experience it, with my family all around me.

Three generations.

We had planned to take Mom into the city the following day to see the exhibit, but she was not terribly well, so we reluctantly left her behind with Jill’s family and plunged into NYC yet another time, to see the show for the last time.  This time, were joined by Becky’s family, all the way from Charlotte, NC., to tour the show and then repair to an old favorite neighborhood restaurant for an Italian feast and an absolute festival of conversation.  It’s not easy to catch up with four of my most beloved people – best friends from our original London days with little Avery.  Everyone is a proper grownup now.

We managed to overlap with Becky’s youngest – in my mind she is permanently about 8, so this was a shock.

We all wandered contentedly around the neighborhood, telling tales of Avery’s New York upbringing, the events of September 11, my gallery.  I am in completely denial that it is a greeting-card shop.  Check out the fake wood floor, the purple walls.  It was such a beautiful space, back in the day.

Our New York adventures ended for the summer, we drove one last time up the highway to arrive at Jill and Joel’s new country club!  One more birthday dinner, one more celebration.

It was time to say goodbye – to our mothers, to our friends, to Red Gate Farm.  An overwhelming summer had to end.  Avery and I may curate another show someday, but this first one of shared glory, added to all the usual joys of a Red Gate Farm summer, was unique.  Goodbye, August.