Later!
It’s been a long time since I’ve been wooed.
Though, to be honest, the ever-present beckoning of chocolate anything can make my glands go Pavlov in a nanosecond. On a magazine assignment Saturday I drove north more than 60 miles in lightly falling snow. The itinerary’s bonus was the chance to sample my French heritage. The objects of my desire lay at Le Rendez Vous Bakery in Colebrook, NH. Real French. From France. Not only did I buy the day’s last baguette (for a sardine sandwich for dinner - yum!), but I purchased three-madeleine bags of Proust’s most famous memory-inducer: the traditional lemon flavor, mocha, hazelnut, chocolate and dark chocolate.
The rare come-hither of a social libation, especially if it’s pink and fruity, is another spell-caster. A year ago my childhood friend Gail Kimball who owns Advanced Graphic Communication in Littleton and I attended the festive Christmas networking party hosted by the Women’s Entrepreneurial Network, WREN, at its Local Works Gallery in Bethlehem, NH. It’s the best locavore showcase around; Gail and I are returning this Sunday.
Last year, among the deer pate, artisanal beer and flatbread crisps was cranberry wine from LaBelle Winery in Amherst, NH. No one can make a watermelon martini like they do at Moonstruck in Asbury Park, but LaBelle’s cranberry wine margarita is a celebratory-worthy alternative. The guests at my January going-away party drained in minutes the pitcher mixed by Tim O’Shea. The bottle I brought to Gail’s Thanksgiving table ws similarly emptied.
The longest simmer of woo, though, belonged to my desire for a new home. It began in the summer of 2011 when I put my New Jersey house up for sale, and continued after I signed a rental lease for an unsold house in the middle of quiet Monroe, NH. The 1975 ranch came with an attached two-car garage, one-and-a-half baths, and endless panels of knotty pine.
I was cavalier about the clause that said realtors couldn’t show the house until May 1. Who’d look at real estate with three feet of snow on the ground? Well, it appears northern New England's infamous seasons of snow are fading into memory, and by March the ranch sold. The new owners wanted me gone when the lease was up.
New deadline. New round of woo. Now somewhat known in the Upper Connecticut River Valley, I stood a better chance at finding a house with a story, and was successful. Built in 1907 as a summer camp, it was the last house standing on Old County Road before you plunged down hill to Moore Lake, the 3500 acres of water covering Upper Waterford and the family farm. They say you can’t go home again, but this was damn close.
The converted camp was two stories, had 3 bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, a chipmunk who lived under the closed-in porch and a relative who busily tunneled the front yard. The location came with roaming deer, red squirrels, wild turkeys, a humming bird, owls hooting in the night, hawks wheeling overhead during the day, one bear cub, and cider-feathered hens that periodically escaped from a neighbor I couldn’t see. I didn’t care there wasn’t an attached garage. I LOVED it.
Except when:
The high beams of revelers coming back up the lake road at midnight bathed my ground-floor bedroom with enough light to read by;
The 3 a.m. megaphoned order to “Step away from the car!” from state troopers patrolling I-93 somewhere beyond the tree line and the murmur of interstate traffic on Friday nights and Sundays that reminded me of the Jersey Shore;
Initially, it didn't bother me to load the SUV with garbage and recyclables every Saturday for the 7.5-mile drive to the dump well before noon so I also could squeeze in a stop at the post office to pick up my mail; I took my camera and got great shots on the scenic loop.
Or that rain poured off the front-door overhang and down my back; I’d haul in, or out, only when the sun was shining.
Or that field mice occasionally wandered up from the dirt cellar and out from under the gas stove only to be hunted and killed by the rescue kitties (I rationalized this as the trade-off for not letting them outdoors where they would be prey).
Or that there was only one grounded outlet, prompting me to snake an orange utility cord across the kitchen, up the stairs and to the power strip that held all my computer equipment. When Tim came to visit, he eliminated the morning limbo contortions with cup hooks he screwed into the ceiling.
Or that mopping up spider poop from the walls and framed glass was a near daily chore (see July's blog post).
As the summer wore on, though, the charm of slanted floors and tilted stairs wore off; only the young can truly appreciate old houses. Despite ruthless sorting of possessions, the cozy rooms never seemed to have enough empty space. Then came the end-of-summer dialogue about prospecting for someone who not only would plow, but also shovel the 60-foot asphalt walk to the front door.
Could this Jersey Girl survive winter in Waterford?
I was resolved. In the name of the family. My feminine honor. Our combined professional reputation. A Jersey Girl could survive an off-road move to the North Woods.
Then the unexpected happened. Labor Day weekend came an unbidden offer to view another rental property. Instead of the heavily freighted ancestral village, it was two miles down river to the Lower Waterford of my own childhood where every summer we stayed for a couple of days at the Rabbit Hill Inn , the doppelganger of the old Pike Tavern in Upper Waterford. We’d visit the Davies Memorial Library across the street. Tour the inside of the Congregational Church. Say hello to Arthur and Dorothy Morrison who ran the post office out of their home down on Maple Street. And generally be satisfied this pilgrimage was the closest homecoming experience the Pike Family could go back to Jersey with.
From my weekly drive-bys through Waterford, I knew the house had an attached garage and was all on one level. The landlords live across the road. They go to the dump. They mow. They plow. I could help myself to the vegetable garden and the apples in the orchard below the living room deck. There are sunrise and sunset views from the house he designed for his parents in 1985. Didn't I want to see the beach from where they launch their boats on the river?
Poach me!
Though, to be honest, the ever-present beckoning of chocolate anything can make my glands go Pavlov in a nanosecond. On a magazine assignment Saturday I drove north more than 60 miles in lightly falling snow. The itinerary’s bonus was the chance to sample my French heritage. The objects of my desire lay at Le Rendez Vous Bakery in Colebrook, NH. Real French. From France. Not only did I buy the day’s last baguette (for a sardine sandwich for dinner - yum!), but I purchased three-madeleine bags of Proust’s most famous memory-inducer: the traditional lemon flavor, mocha, hazelnut, chocolate and dark chocolate.
The rare come-hither of a social libation, especially if it’s pink and fruity, is another spell-caster. A year ago my childhood friend Gail Kimball who owns Advanced Graphic Communication in Littleton and I attended the festive Christmas networking party hosted by the Women’s Entrepreneurial Network, WREN, at its Local Works Gallery in Bethlehem, NH. It’s the best locavore showcase around; Gail and I are returning this Sunday.
Last year, among the deer pate, artisanal beer and flatbread crisps was cranberry wine from LaBelle Winery in Amherst, NH. No one can make a watermelon martini like they do at Moonstruck in Asbury Park, but LaBelle’s cranberry wine margarita is a celebratory-worthy alternative. The guests at my January going-away party drained in minutes the pitcher mixed by Tim O’Shea. The bottle I brought to Gail’s Thanksgiving table ws similarly emptied.
The longest simmer of woo, though, belonged to my desire for a new home. It began in the summer of 2011 when I put my New Jersey house up for sale, and continued after I signed a rental lease for an unsold house in the middle of quiet Monroe, NH. The 1975 ranch came with an attached two-car garage, one-and-a-half baths, and endless panels of knotty pine.
I was cavalier about the clause that said realtors couldn’t show the house until May 1. Who’d look at real estate with three feet of snow on the ground? Well, it appears northern New England's infamous seasons of snow are fading into memory, and by March the ranch sold. The new owners wanted me gone when the lease was up.
New deadline. New round of woo. Now somewhat known in the Upper Connecticut River Valley, I stood a better chance at finding a house with a story, and was successful. Built in 1907 as a summer camp, it was the last house standing on Old County Road before you plunged down hill to Moore Lake, the 3500 acres of water covering Upper Waterford and the family farm. They say you can’t go home again, but this was damn close.
The converted camp was two stories, had 3 bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, a chipmunk who lived under the closed-in porch and a relative who busily tunneled the front yard. The location came with roaming deer, red squirrels, wild turkeys, a humming bird, owls hooting in the night, hawks wheeling overhead during the day, one bear cub, and cider-feathered hens that periodically escaped from a neighbor I couldn’t see. I didn’t care there wasn’t an attached garage. I LOVED it.
Except when:
The high beams of revelers coming back up the lake road at midnight bathed my ground-floor bedroom with enough light to read by;
The 3 a.m. megaphoned order to “Step away from the car!” from state troopers patrolling I-93 somewhere beyond the tree line and the murmur of interstate traffic on Friday nights and Sundays that reminded me of the Jersey Shore;
Initially, it didn't bother me to load the SUV with garbage and recyclables every Saturday for the 7.5-mile drive to the dump well before noon so I also could squeeze in a stop at the post office to pick up my mail; I took my camera and got great shots on the scenic loop.
Or that rain poured off the front-door overhang and down my back; I’d haul in, or out, only when the sun was shining.
Or that field mice occasionally wandered up from the dirt cellar and out from under the gas stove only to be hunted and killed by the rescue kitties (I rationalized this as the trade-off for not letting them outdoors where they would be prey).
Or that there was only one grounded outlet, prompting me to snake an orange utility cord across the kitchen, up the stairs and to the power strip that held all my computer equipment. When Tim came to visit, he eliminated the morning limbo contortions with cup hooks he screwed into the ceiling.
Or that mopping up spider poop from the walls and framed glass was a near daily chore (see July's blog post).
As the summer wore on, though, the charm of slanted floors and tilted stairs wore off; only the young can truly appreciate old houses. Despite ruthless sorting of possessions, the cozy rooms never seemed to have enough empty space. Then came the end-of-summer dialogue about prospecting for someone who not only would plow, but also shovel the 60-foot asphalt walk to the front door.
Could this Jersey Girl survive winter in Waterford?
I was resolved. In the name of the family. My feminine honor. Our combined professional reputation. A Jersey Girl could survive an off-road move to the North Woods.
Then the unexpected happened. Labor Day weekend came an unbidden offer to view another rental property. Instead of the heavily freighted ancestral village, it was two miles down river to the Lower Waterford of my own childhood where every summer we stayed for a couple of days at the Rabbit Hill Inn , the doppelganger of the old Pike Tavern in Upper Waterford. We’d visit the Davies Memorial Library across the street. Tour the inside of the Congregational Church. Say hello to Arthur and Dorothy Morrison who ran the post office out of their home down on Maple Street. And generally be satisfied this pilgrimage was the closest homecoming experience the Pike Family could go back to Jersey with.
From my weekly drive-bys through Waterford, I knew the house had an attached garage and was all on one level. The landlords live across the road. They go to the dump. They mow. They plow. I could help myself to the vegetable garden and the apples in the orchard below the living room deck. There are sunrise and sunset views from the house he designed for his parents in 1985. Didn't I want to see the beach from where they launch their boats on the river?
Poach me!