The Leaf Pile

 

 

The Leaf Pile

Article appears in the current issue of FOLK Magazine, Fall 2013.

Autumn is pure excitement!  As an adult it means cable knit sweaters and well heeled boots can come out of summer slumber.  Fall means sipping hot spiced cider while browsing quaint Main Street shops as holiday goods make their debut.  But as a child, autumn meant a new season of magic as nature’s leafy curtain fell open to reveal bone like branches, fiery colors falling from the sky, the grandest sight of all: the leaf pile.

To kids in the Northeast, autumn officially arrived with the first fleck of orange on the maple tree, regardless of the calendar date.  It would be only a matter of weeks before the ground was covered in crunchy oranges, reds, and browns- the perfect blend for leaf piling!  Neighborhood kids would assemble with rakes and hoodies prepared to work hills of fun in fallen foliage.  Most of us were content with a medium sized pile, about waist high, close to a wooden swing.  The first jumps were slow, just a few gentle swings to test our bravery and be sure the rocks sifted to the bottom. Before long we were pumping our legs to go higher and smiling wide as we leapt from safety to land leaf covered, laughing at the awkward whooooosh!  A quick raking to reform the pile and it was time to launch again.
But there were some among us who pushed the limits of the pile and toppled wheelbarrows full from deck edges to create a monster pile!

Over the rake’s gritty scratching, we could hear them.  They were there, again, just like the years before!   We could hear their triple dog dare taunting and hoots and hollers. The middle-schoolers! They were more experienced, had already broken bones, and were massing a mountain-high pile granted by the largest oaks on the block.  We couldn’t help but be lured in by the promise of danger.  My friends and I would line up along the white picket fence separating the street from the twelve foot drop to the yard below.  There it was: the mammoth leaf pile of doom! It was higher than the garage door and centered eight feet out from the second story deck railing: the ledge of legends.  One by one, the older boys would perch atop the wooden railing and pitch themselves into the pile, burying themselves completely and emerging from the pile base with a victorious “Yeeeeeeeeehaaaawwww!”  The leaf pile so well constructed it needed no re-raking.  One boy, a tall scrawny blond with a bicycle mishap scar down one arm, launched off the railing followed, without warning, by another boy who landed right on top of the blonde head.  A howl escaped as the boys tumbled down the side of the pile in mock fist fighting.  Brushing themselves off with laughter they headed back up the deck steps for more.

My friends and I stared on in awe, boasting we would swan dive that pile if only they would let us….. secure in the knowledge we wouldn’t get the chance.  It would be years until we were in middle school; until we were cool like that. In those days we were content with our mini leaf pile under the swing.  When we were done jumping we sat in the pile eating sunflower seeds, boasting about our Halloween costumes and promising to be the best of friends forever.

 

A Restoration Life

After my recent visit home, many people have asked about living in an old house.  Here is my article published in FOLK Magazine's Summer 2013 issue.  Because the issue was only digitally released, it missed many of my usual readers. So here it is in its entirety. 

 

 A Restoration Life

 

The gem of New England architecture is undoubtedly the iconic colonial home.  Stark lined salt box houses wrapped in primitive color clapboards. Stoic and serene, their simplicity speaks to their origins in an austere new world. New Englanders and visitors alike marvel at these beauties, sometimes voicing how cool it would be to buy one for themselves. But ask anyone who owns such a beast and has attempted a quick fix-up project and they will tell you there is nothing simple about these homes.  Ask the maniacs who devote their lives to restoring these confounded structures, and they will weave a tale like that of an early whaling expedition. (Using my best sea captain voice…) The waters were rough, often unfriendly. Many a foe were encountered.  At times it seemed all would have to abandon ship, but in the end the whale succumbed to the will of man. Reluctantly.

My parents were two such restoration maniacs.  They possessed the Yankee ingenuity, the iron wills and perseverance necessary to spend fifteen years restoring their 1759 Connecticut colonial.  My brother and I would be the unwilling deckhands in their quest for historical accuracy.  Weekends were not meant for relaxing when I was a kid.  My friends knew not to call or knock for fear they too would be drafted into service.  On any given morning, I could wake to the sound of a buzzing table saw sometime before sunrise.  The battle cry of the “Great Restoration” declaring another Saturday would be spent holding up sheet rock, hauling debris, and sweeping up dust held captive for centuries.  This scourge for preservation would last throughout my childhood.  It was a war my parents appeared to enjoy, much to my dismay. Though I didn’t know it at the time, the days working with my parents would build a strong foundation for my future.

When I was in elementary school I regarded my home like a dangerous lair with wide planked floors, low plaster ceilings, and skinny staircases leading into dark crevices.  Any visitors taller than six feet left with a cramped neck and a bruised forehead from a low flying beam.  One bedroom’s floors sloped so badly my brother and I could roll from one side of the room down to the other.  At times we had to watch our feet as we navigated repairs between the bedroom floor and dining room ceiling.  Complaining was not allowed.  If we fell through, it was because we weren’t watching our step. There were no hallways.  Each room connected to the next and the only bathroom was the very last room on the second floor.  Anyone needing to use the toilet, had to go through my room to get there. Privacy was often a luxury surrendered when one wishes to live authentically in a colonial house. Our home was in a constant state of architectural chaos as one by one, each flaw was corrected.



Cerberus, as I affectionately referred to my childhood home, was also pure magic.  For every wall that came down, or floorboard pulled up, treasure waited to be found.  Colonial coins, papers, signatures on wooden beams spelled out the mystery of the home’s earliest residents.  Digging foundation supports or gardens yielded thick old glass bottles, clay tobacco pipes, flatware and discarded pottery.  Part of our backyard was an 18^th century dumping ground.  As a child, summer hours were whittled away under the oaks, trolling away layers of dirt on archaeological digs.  Using giant old antique encyclopedias, my parents and I would research china patterns and coins to identify my finds.  It was like growing up in a museum.  Every day was an opportunity to learn from an artist, an expert in hands-on history.

My father hand-planed fireplace panels, plastered walls, wood shingled the roof, re-wired, re-plumbed, and restored original floorboards.  Wooden planks too far gone were re-purposed into period furniture and trinket boxes which remain in the home today. Only when the chimney needed to be replaced were outside professionals brought in.  Otherwise the entire home was meticulously restored by my family.  

 

My mother weaved her own baskets, participated in a quilting circle, dipped her own candles and strung miles of greens into wreathes and garlands for holiday celebrations.  I remember years of watching her hands work small tools around a white painted banister until the original finish was revealed- a deep maple syrup brown flecked with age, smooth from centuries of hands securing their steps down the narrow stairs.  These same steps would carry me through seventeen years until I was ready to leave for college. 

My life would take me far from my beloved home, but I am lucky that my parents still live there.  I can go home and see their years of hard work still standing strong.  Somehow I also still here that distant whirr of a table saw! The lessons I learned in the restoration years have become my own guiding principles.  The beauty is in the details.  Never do shoddy work thinking no one will notice.  Every small stitch is vital, every hand forged latch necessary.  Never turn away from your heart’s desire, no matter how daunting the road to attainment. Never quit what you have started.  Know it is okay to ask for help. Most importantly, never underestimate the power of teamwork.  With the right people by your side, even the mightiest of whales can be captured.

To read the original article and see more from FOLK Magazine click on the link below.

http://issuu.com/folkmag/docs/digital_folk_summer

 

LOVE  &  RESTORATION!

FOLK Summer 2013 Preview!!

 

FOLK Magazine~ the perfect summer companion!

FOLK Summer 2013 is due to hit the stands in the coming weeks and it is alive with the spirit of New England! Perhaps it is because summer lasts for such a short time in the North East that the towns and people of this region burst into life, welcoming natives and tourists alike to take in the birthplace of American freedom and ingenuity.

Visually stunning (as always), FOLK lays out the North East from every angle.  Veteran FOLK writers walk the reader through the two biggest cities, New York and Boston, while FOLK readers have submitted their takes on other popular destinations such as Portland, Maine.  Vacation memoirs, reader's photos, and essays on iconic New England life fill the nooks and crannies of FOLK Summer 2013. 

Take in the artists of the North East as FOLK introduces artists such as, Johanne Cassia and leads a tour of her beautiful Ipswitch home. Stitch up a treasure with Trudy Honeycutt's complimentary primitive doll pattern.  Meet the creative minds behind jewelry innovators JuNxtaposition and Bel Monili.  Be tempted by the food sirens as well!  All hail the berry in this summer issue which includes mouth watering recipes for strawberry jam, cherry butter, blueberry sundaes, and fresh fruit parfait! 

Though FOLK Summer 2013 focuses on the North East, the constant theme of Homegrown America burns brightly.  In an ever-growing global community, FOLK unites people striving to rekindle Main Street America.  By sharing stories of family traditions, local history, and heirloom recipes, the fabric of the future is weaved with the past.  By spotlighting current retailers grounded on American made quality, consumers find the rewards of shopping local.  By reviving Main Street as a commerce destination, the dream of those early New England colonists' remains strong: an authentic life based on freedom and ingenuity.

If you haven't subscribed to FOLK Magazine yet, the Summer 2013 issue is the perfect time to start!

 

LOVE  &  LIVE AUTHENTIC!

The Creaky Step of Time

This staircase creaks something awful!  There are boards I know by heart that used to be a dead giveaway to my teen-aged curfew violations and though I am now 43, I still avoid those steps with cat-like agility. The sturdy banister is time worn and softer than cashmere, it's surface sanded by countless hands over two centuries. Steep steps that befuddle those not raised in an old house.  I can still hear the missed steps of visitors clutching the banister to steady their climb.  I still feel my own bruised tailbone from flying too fast down the stairs in socked feet, bouncing my way to the bottom.

 

Communion dresses, Confirmation dreses, prom dress after prom dress and eventually my bridal gown were carefully lifted so my toes would touch each step to avoid any mishaps. Shoes were always put on at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't realize then that my life would take me thousands of miles away from these creaky old stairs.  As the years passed I made it back home for holidays.  Tiny shoes of my daughter, new nieces, and nephews could be heard thundering up and down followed by the standard calls to be careful- though, remembering my own falls, I knew that the first careless slip was usually the last! And now those toddler steps are the lazy lunkering of teens on the verge of their own  high school proms.  So fleeting is time.

Sitting in my parents' house I realize I am on the threshold of change in my life. Until recently I have lived for everyone else- as all moms do.  I have made many school lunches, helped with homework, balanced a string of careers, maintained the home, fed a bazillion pets, and put 100,000 miles on my car just running errands and kids around town. But today, on vacation back in Connecticut with my only child on her final high school spring break, I realize that my soon to be empty nest is full of possibilities.

 

 

That man I married the day I carefully descended these steps with my fistfuls of lace, now travels the world and has afforded me the chance to travel with him.  Working full time for myself, I can spend more time visiting family whom I have missed so much over the past 20 years.  The greatest reward in life is family.  Having my daughter roll her eyes at her grandfather's jokes and crouch through the tiny corridors of this old New England house are priceless memories in the making.  Seeing my daughter skip the same stair steps that I did at her age, I hear her exclaim, "God, this stair CREAKS!".  Seeing her full grown, walking the stairs behind her grandmother, I can't help but think, "Yes, this stair creaks something beautiful!"

 

LOVE  &  TIME

FOLK Spring 2013 Issue Review

****WIN a FREE subscription to FOLK! Read my review here and post a comment letting me know what interests you most about FOLK Spring 2013!  One lucky winner will be announced Tuesday, March 4th at 8 pm Central time!

Every now and then something comes along when you need it most.  In today's market of same old- same old country magazines with content disappearing under loads of medical advertising and non-country themes retold in color palettes that induce more yawns than inspiration, a new star is on the rise.  FOLK magazine is challenging the old publishing standards, creating a fast following, and giving the readers what they want: connection and authenticity.

 

 

The Spring 2013 Issue is a prime example of why Ben Ashby and Hillary Lewis are becoming household names.  From the sweetest lambs on a Cape Cod farm to a Nebraska man whose antiquing passion spans more than three decades to fresh takes on ice-pops that would make an Alaskan resident crave a cold treat, the Spring Issue of Folk is a page turner that does not disappoint!  Vivid photography highlights the lives of people whose work employs age old traditions, drool-worthy recipes, and storytellers who bring to life vignettes of country spirit. 

 

Articles in this issue seem to interact with one another- an organic mushroom farmer in New York,  a ladies' retreat luncheon in Napa Valley, a young fashion designer in South Africa, and an Florida artist who turned her love of vintage clothing into a fulfilling career.  The characters could easily be assembled into a cast of a day in a more simple life.  But as we all know simple does not always mean easy. The people featured share their honest truths. Folk's Spring Issue illustrates that not all authentic living has to happen in rural settings.  Interviews with Leann Rimes, Sara Hertell, and Greg Sczebel, allow the reader to see how successful artists stay true to an authentic life in the midst of high profile careers. 

 

 

This is by far my favorite issue of FOLK to date! There is something for every artist, every dreamer, every person seeking a deeper connection to an authentic life.  If the Spring 2013 Issue is a sampling of the future of FOLK, then there is nothing short of greatness yet to come.  Get your FOLK subscription today and become part of the modern wave of country living!