tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58889496354342576242024-03-05T02:10:25.672-05:00historic travelerHistoric Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-84692384485336371362010-10-24T09:48:00.018-04:002010-10-24T10:19:57.636-04:00Ain't Life GrandIf you're going to name your hotel The Grand, you'd better make sure that you live up to the name.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0dkcMHs0icx69IO9T5Sq_IYxLE1JvhD1shJU_-DTlurThegvQVTzkA53BJ-CUOyPH4t4tmHlQ6O12PEslFKL5vMDpTJPNwtsouWYSDhF4L0IM-ntCZkdNM09jpN5VmJ_gDWdYZ5G3IFmN/s1600/Mackinac+-+Canon+177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0dkcMHs0icx69IO9T5Sq_IYxLE1JvhD1shJU_-DTlurThegvQVTzkA53BJ-CUOyPH4t4tmHlQ6O12PEslFKL5vMDpTJPNwtsouWYSDhF4L0IM-ntCZkdNM09jpN5VmJ_gDWdYZ5G3IFmN/s320/Mackinac+-+Canon+177.JPG" /></a>To the Musser family, current owners of The Grand Hotel in Mackinac Island...you've got nothing to worry about. Your little place fits the bill to a "t". </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The Grand Hotel (<a href="http://www.grandhotel.com/">http://www.grandhotel.com/</a>) is located on Mackinac Island. It sits on top of a great hill (you could call it a grand hill, I suppose) on the East Bluff of the island.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The Grand was built in 1887, and even then it was a tony place, with rooms renting from $3-5 a night. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">1919 was a big year, because young W. Stewart Woodfill was hired as a desk clerk. He wasn't just good at checking people in, he was also good at checking accounts, because he purchases the hotel in 1933. (Now THAT'S an American dream).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In 1951, Dan Musser joined the staff. He would be named president of the hotel (it's a pretty darn grand hotel that needs its own president) in 1960, and then he purchases it in 1979.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Today, Dan Musser III is president. I hope he's counting his pennies. I'm not sure that you can buy this place on a clerk's salary anymore.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This *isn't* the Grand Hotel. It's a private residence on the western bluff of the island. They call it the "Baby Grand." I have a feeling they're a fun group of people to drink with at sunset.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Here *are* some photos of the Real Grand Hotel. (They're all grand except one).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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(Note: this is not the face of someone who just played a "grand" game of bocce. As I recall, I kicked his butt).<br />
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There are 2500 geraniums planted in 260 window boxes along the 660 feet porch. (That's more numbers than this English major has thought about in a long, long time).<br />
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</div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-10705652795245466992010-10-23T18:09:00.000-04:002010-10-23T18:09:46.392-04:00A Quick DetourLast blog, I told you about our new bed and breakfast in old St. Augustine.<br />
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And then I climbed into a virtual hole on the internet and haven't been heard from since.<br />
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At least, I'm sure that's what it looks like to you. But, in fact, I've been writing about the new venture over at <a href="http://www.stauglog.blogspot.com/">http://www.stauglog.blogspot.com/</a>. I hope you'll swing by and check it out.<br />
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In the meantime, I will continue to post updates on this site. In fact, I just found some great photos from my last trip that I never got online. I'll be posting them in the next day or two.<br />
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In between cleaning 15 bathrooms, of course.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-78579519751608273322010-09-11T16:48:00.000-04:002010-09-11T16:48:05.579-04:00Our New Baby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJWEvOQPvftUyJFGHjEar3xfrDHFes3ehBmjp4BmwwBGYn980nsHw5B2jJ1ZlqFt5iSTkBAD9HNRkgw_IyRmIXvf5VQepm6Lmbs7YkEmI-QUW0eoWmYBCCXPZ7zuEO6dSQF7eWUS65DSU/s1600/deck-bay-view_000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJWEvOQPvftUyJFGHjEar3xfrDHFes3ehBmjp4BmwwBGYn980nsHw5B2jJ1ZlqFt5iSTkBAD9HNRkgw_IyRmIXvf5VQepm6Lmbs7YkEmI-QUW0eoWmYBCCXPZ7zuEO6dSQF7eWUS65DSU/s320/deck-bay-view_000.jpg" /></a></div>So, netties, yesterday I told you that the hub and I finally stopped yapping about buying a bed and breakfast and we actually did it. Finally.<br />
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Today I'd like to tell you a little more about our new baby. And by new baby, I mean ancient baby, because the building dates back to the 1700's. Which is older than any building that we've ever owned before.<br />
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The building that now makes up the Bayfront Marin House is actually several buildings that stretch all the way from Marine Street to Avenida Menendez (that's a whole block, folks). The oldest building is in the back, a colonial structure at 47 Marine Street. It dates from the Second Spanish Period. The first recorded notice of a house on the property is in the Roque map of 1788, which shows a wooden building. Francisco Marin, one of the members of the Minorcan colony who had taken refuge in St. Augustine acquired the house and the lot in the 1780's. <br />
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Although it was built 200 years later, the building clearly shows the original owner's knowledge of the early regulations for building that were laid out by the King of Spain in 1573. It stated that in hot climates, the streets should be narrow and "all town houses are to be so planned that they can serve as a defense or fortress against those who might attempt to create disturbances or occupy the town." <br />
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Ready for any kind of disturbance, the house is built right to the street line, with masonry walls extending north and south from the facade, as if it was enclosing a compound. Entry is not from the street (too easy for ne'er-do-wells to just walk in, I suppose), but instead through a door on the south side. This door is now the entrance to our aptly named Francisco Marin room, a guest room that still shows off some of the original coquina walls (please note: the electric fireplace is for modern ambiance, not historical accuracy. I don't believe Senor Marin had an electric fireplace during his ownership). Here's a picture of the room, in case you'd like to request it when you come visit:<br />
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This room is one of my favorites, not just because it's the oldest, but because the horse and carriage tours still go by it on Marine Street. You can close your eyes, sink back in a pillow, and imagine you're an 18th century princess. One who had the foresight to install air conditioning, of course.<br />
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But back to the Bayfront Marin House. Almost a century after Francisco Marin bought his little piece of the American dream, Captain Henry Belknap decided to purchase a little Victorian Cottage that is now the front of the Bayfront Marin House (it's the King George and Marie Antoinette rooms, which face the bay). Here are those two rooms (please note: I had nothing to do with the decorating. I was lucky enough to purchase the inn at the END of its restoration for once, rather than the beginning. So any compliments truly belong to the old owners, the Graubards).<br />
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After Captain Henry moved in, he must have decided he needed a little bit more room for when his family came to visit, so he purchased a cottage owned by Andrew Burgess in 1893. It was located just north of the Marin House, but the good cap'n moved it to his property and just attached it to the back of his own home. We named Room #3, the Hopkins Cottage, after him.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUpUpHsy4aC-j0dcztcI-r55iDO_rvVP5fK4AVkIjTsUYIEp_PcoJ2VsorDchho-fv_zEmmAuc62c8g61wMULh2kzOwlLf56GeEEV8pdV8aR37naT5r0gp0iiyacj2Jmpp8Ynx8v7XaiY/s1600/guestroom-hopkins-bath-sm_000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUpUpHsy4aC-j0dcztcI-r55iDO_rvVP5fK4AVkIjTsUYIEp_PcoJ2VsorDchho-fv_zEmmAuc62c8g61wMULh2kzOwlLf56GeEEV8pdV8aR37naT5r0gp0iiyacj2Jmpp8Ynx8v7XaiY/s320/guestroom-hopkins-bath-sm_000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Soon after marrying these two houses together, Captain Henry bought the remodeled coquina Marin house (the one I mentioned first in this blog) and began to make wooden additions to it. So he combined the three structures--ranging in period from the colonial era to the Flagler period--to make the rambling structure that we now know as the Bayfront Marin House. <br />
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Alas, Captain Henry died in 1909, and it was sold to John Campbell. Mr. Campbell turned the big building into apartments, running it until Beulah Robinson Lewis of Virginia bought the place in 1932. Beaulah's family owned it until 1988, when the guy we bought it from bought it with a partner. He opened the Bayfront Marin House Bed and Breakfast in July 2003.<br />
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And the rest, as they say, will be history.<br />
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I'll be sure to tell you how it goes!!<br />
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</div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-85001424025210124192010-09-10T12:16:00.001-04:002010-09-10T13:27:14.008-04:00Historic Travel Girl Does Something Truly Historic (For Her and the Hub, Anyway)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbeqq454A8FrdBe7ADONj2pNzvFggsIv4m7EQj6970ilqTRyIDdX71nseTVkvgVVTZYXYf1JelNSYDJmcONrjcSdEvQHqAKABju7L8BxnpFJ-yfwtd50ykwO2LwBT1FTEpqOeaEu0G-f_v/s1600/front+with+porches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbeqq454A8FrdBe7ADONj2pNzvFggsIv4m7EQj6970ilqTRyIDdX71nseTVkvgVVTZYXYf1JelNSYDJmcONrjcSdEvQHqAKABju7L8BxnpFJ-yfwtd50ykwO2LwBT1FTEpqOeaEu0G-f_v/s320/front+with+porches.jpg" /></a></div>Okay, netties, so in my last blog I plugged a bed and breakfast in Saint Augustine, the <a href="http://www.bayfrontmarinhouse.com/">Bayfront Marin House. </a>Here's a picture of it, with all of its great porches and happy looking yellow umbrellas.<br />
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You may have thought that it was just a random reference yesterday, just me suggesting an obscure but beautiful place to stay in one of the most beautiful cities in America. After all, I do that a lot.<br />
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But this time, it was more than that. This time, it was a carefully calculated marketing ploy designed to make you want to stay at this <em>particular</em> bed and breakfast.<br />
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Why would I care where you stay when you come to Saint Augustine?<br />
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Because the hub and I just bought the place.<br />
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Yes, after 14 years of talking about our five year plan to own a bed and breakfast, we finally bit the bullet/took the leap/lost our senses and Did It.<br />
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(insert fist-pumping and wild jumping and unintelligible yelling here)<insert and="" fist="" here="" in="" insane="" jumping="" pumping="" screaming="" speaking="" tongues="" unintelligible=""><br />
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Ho-ly <strong>crap</strong>. You would think that I would be used to the idea by now, after 14 years of yammering on about it endlessly to my friends, but in fact, I still don't even feel like it's ours. I'm on the weekend shift at the bnb, and my job is to wander the courtyard and say hello to the guests, and thank them for staying with us. Tough stuff, I know. And absolutely critical for the future of this lovely place (note: that's sarcasm. I have never felt so useless). <br />
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Still, when I can't find a parking space and I get there 10 minutes late, I'm always worried that someone on the staff will yell at me.<br />
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I guess I'm not really owner material. I'm more late-night-shift, on call to unstop-up the overflowing toilets material.<br />
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But, speaking of material, this new gig is going to give me plenty to write about in this little blog. And <em>technically</em> it all fits into my mission of helping the hapless traveler find a cool historic place to visit.<br />
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It also supports my other mission--which is to pay the massive mortgage every month.<br />
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So, netties, welcome me to Saint Augustine. Prepare to hear lots of insider insight on what to do and what to see in America's oldest city. Not to mention where to stay...which is, of course, the <a href="http://www.bayfrontmarinhouse.com/">Bayfront Marin House</a>. In case you're interested, we're running New Owner Specials through the end of September!!!Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-61371201278075544312010-09-04T17:16:00.000-04:002010-09-04T17:16:38.775-04:00Happy Birthday to the Oldest City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31HDBcu9c6302R0l8xBHpKGEtdKasV2gsgm1oq17SrmNUrpHlarX8j91pbNhe-z2JhIklQ35ev0HRsbihelFtRc9hyphenhyphenyxqJ1sF-pqLiInDi_3w3bXT5l29FR_7RO5ULeVxf7_Ii7eMCVlD/s1600/st+augustine+jan+10+141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31HDBcu9c6302R0l8xBHpKGEtdKasV2gsgm1oq17SrmNUrpHlarX8j91pbNhe-z2JhIklQ35ev0HRsbihelFtRc9hyphenhyphenyxqJ1sF-pqLiInDi_3w3bXT5l29FR_7RO5ULeVxf7_Ii7eMCVlD/s320/st+augustine+jan+10+141.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Today marks the third day of festivities for St. Augustine, Florida's 445th birthday celebration. (Note: if you haven't made your reservations yet for the big bash in 2015, you might want to book a room at <a href="http://www.bayfrontmarinhouse.com/">http://www.bayfrontmarinhouse.com/</a>.)<br />
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St. Augustine was officially declared a city on September 8, 1565 by Don Pedro Menendez de Aviles. That makes it the nation's oldest city. <br />
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It also makes it the nation's most European city. The hub and I started coming here a couple of years ago, when the Euro was so strong that we could no longer afford to buy a Toblerone bar in Charles de Gaulle airport. Saint Augustine, on the other hand, was very affordable. At one of our favorite restaurants--The <a href="http://www.columbiarestaurant.com/">Columbia</a>--you can get two great entrees and a pitcher of sangria for around $55. It's just like being in Spain, although the traffic is about 400 times better.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamhdKHmDmU4dWO5g3B2sdDNqz92mpQZS_YllKvZ2lKKdpd6tLXv4NDm5wb0aiPRAGccf_Nye6sQ98vVRx32Lva1EJuA726Cn62viO6BlmQw6ygTXI50ul1UG8DeRCfXZFgLsBE946JbGN/s1600/16thCenturyCookedit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamhdKHmDmU4dWO5g3B2sdDNqz92mpQZS_YllKvZ2lKKdpd6tLXv4NDm5wb0aiPRAGccf_Nye6sQ98vVRx32Lva1EJuA726Cn62viO6BlmQw6ygTXI50ul1UG8DeRCfXZFgLsBE946JbGN/s200/16thCenturyCookedit.jpg" width="200" /></a>Speaking of food, there's a long history of great eats in this town. Long before the Pilgrims sucked up to the generous Indians in Plymouth Rock for a free meal, the Timucuan Indians had already invited the Spanish settlers of St. Augustine over for a dinner. Today, the last day of the birthday shenanigans, the St. Augustinites celebrate that tradition with a 16th century cooking contest. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In fact, I'm headed over there now. I'm not sure what 16th century food was like, but I'm hoping that there will be birthday cake at the end of the buffet.</div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-78393721155248275852010-09-03T16:24:00.001-04:002010-09-04T09:19:28.635-04:00She Knew You Way Back When<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPBrRUtwZfDfEWhqgBjzFkuN-jWDyifPa78aqOjgymQJbkvullDAznwjeZlFdcp4S-gvRd9nqy69dWfFizjhrl4UM6dD0HzHHm7wEE3m9-yrYXS0JNcfGnPl6rQRXa_-3i6yBcWf6NYBl/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPBrRUtwZfDfEWhqgBjzFkuN-jWDyifPa78aqOjgymQJbkvullDAznwjeZlFdcp4S-gvRd9nqy69dWfFizjhrl4UM6dD0HzHHm7wEE3m9-yrYXS0JNcfGnPl6rQRXa_-3i6yBcWf6NYBl/s320/Texas+April+2010(2)+413.JPG" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As some of you may know, the hub and I restored a house in Galveston Texas a couple of years ago. (And by "restored", I mean we bought a house in good shape, watched it fill up with nine feet of water during Hurricane Ike, and then "restored" it to its original good shape. With a couple of upgrades like a new kitchen and awesome draperies).</div><br />
Earlier this week, I got a call from Marschall Runge, of North Carolina, whose mother grew up in the house. He just happened to see the house and wanted to see if there was any way they could walk through it (we rent the house and have a sign in the front yard advertising that fact and telling folks how to reach us).<br />
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It just so happened I was in Texas this week. While they were there. Which gave me the magical opportunity to walk through the house with people who knew it "way back when."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NySX0ugNuVt8-x-8uCiR7QqS_aKEflxk7TvRhZhOxF9gh4O1v3tF59bHLZ3WnDMsFKCKHvt5HmedNPi3PlVoTDY2X7UsCF5ceah4ha3-j5V6ta6Y9ArclPF7UbDew0kRvYyebnA2pTSg/s1600/LR.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NySX0ugNuVt8-x-8uCiR7QqS_aKEflxk7TvRhZhOxF9gh4O1v3tF59bHLZ3WnDMsFKCKHvt5HmedNPi3PlVoTDY2X7UsCF5ceah4ha3-j5V6ta6Y9ArclPF7UbDew0kRvYyebnA2pTSg/s200/LR.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Gretchen Herrmann Runge is a beautiful woman, with striking white hair and a face that lights up when she has the chance to share a story. She lived in the house in the 30s, and moved out in 1947 when she married. She said those nuptials in my living room, facing the bay windows. The room had a window seat then (the hub and I have talked about putting one there!).<br />
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The reception was in the room that's now the library/downstairs bedroom. "We didn't want a lot of people," she told me. And I laughed, because I said the same thing when I got married. I think the reason that a lot of brides and grooms are nervous is because they don't know half the people in the room. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKn-Vxn1BbZTeFK7i7hKTz7LCDt8wvQ5pl38B_Xua1cKZsnAH62MBH4No59X8Ix78Y76A-BxlKDZINJeq2xp7sDMIKeaw9G8bpFRYy4Am0KXXGqF-XV7CrUJz8URUEe4mh67YeQEIrBg1R/s1600/Galveston+-+August+2010+062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKn-Vxn1BbZTeFK7i7hKTz7LCDt8wvQ5pl38B_Xua1cKZsnAH62MBH4No59X8Ix78Y76A-BxlKDZINJeq2xp7sDMIKeaw9G8bpFRYy4Am0KXXGqF-XV7CrUJz8URUEe4mh67YeQEIrBg1R/s200/Galveston+-+August+2010+062.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>Gretchen also told me that the fireplace tiles in all of the fireplaces downstairs (there are three) had all been replaced since she lived in the house (there are two tiles in the dining room that show signs of the zodiac--those are the only original ones, she said). This may not be an interesting detail to my readers, but it was huge for me. After Hurricane Ike, many of these floor tiles cracked as the water seeped out of the house. I was heart-broken that they had been destroyed on my watch, so I haven't replaced them. Now that I know they're imposters of the originals anyway, I feel much better about tearing them out. But that's a job for another day.<br />
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Mrs. Runge's father, George Herrmann, sounds like quite a card, as they used to say. He called the house "The Herrmanntage", like Andrew Jackson's Hermitage in Nashville. <br />
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George was married to a woman named Anna. I didn't know Anna, of course, but in 1981, when the house was on Galveston's Tour of Homes, Anna was quoted in the tour's guide book: "The house is home to my children," she said (one of those children was my new friend Gretchen!). "At Christmas they were laughing about the time I came home to find them sliding down the steps on my cookie sheets. I sat down on the last step and used my shoe on them...it was a happy home."<br />
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I have a copy of the guide book in our kitchen, so that guests can see the "before" pictures of the house (it was the Renovation in Progress in 1981, then was back on the tour in 1999 as a finished piece). I've always showed visitors that quote because it cracks me up. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyDoAQdwqRZB3JWm_Xw-uzZ5h9PtbI5qdyAmlk-vGR19EOqRMn1yx31gbF647q4mkA8ev1N3t3ZaEIA6r8fAKs0NKl88YBxaqLfKHXZt9Lgnb2tPrPIm8JYLpfTztHpcusddUGqin9j_G/s1600/Galveston+-+August+2010+042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyDoAQdwqRZB3JWm_Xw-uzZ5h9PtbI5qdyAmlk-vGR19EOqRMn1yx31gbF647q4mkA8ev1N3t3ZaEIA6r8fAKs0NKl88YBxaqLfKHXZt9Lgnb2tPrPIm8JYLpfTztHpcusddUGqin9j_G/s200/Galveston+-+August+2010+042.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>Mrs. Runge did not remember the beatings on the bottom of the stairs, but she laughed when I showed her the quote. She also told me that the newel post at the bottom of the stairs was original, but the shade is not. "The original shade had a cyclamen on it," she remembered. "My mother gave it to one of the granddaughters."<br />
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Gretchen was a lady who paid attention to details. Here are just some of the other things she remembered about the house:<br />
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Her family bought the house in 1933 from Mabel and Violet Keiller, the daughters of the previous owner, Dr. Keillor, who passed away in 1931. There is a state historical marker in front of the house about Dr. Keillor, even though Gretchen's sons--Marshall and Val, who accompanied her on the trip this week, along with additional family members--said they always thought that Gretchen's father, Dr. Herrmann, was a more impressive doctor. (Dr. Herrmann was a cardiologist at UTMB, and was a pioneer in the field. He stayed at UTMB--and at 1409 Market Street--until 1973, when he entered private practice with his son in Del Rio).<br />
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While I'm on a doctor's visit: a quick note about Dr. Keillor: Gretchen says he had tuberculosis (there is no mention of that on the historical marker, so that was news to me. Note to self: wash hands). The doc had an incinerator in the house that he used to burn things that he touched. Gretchen's parents finally took it out a few years after they moved in.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYXN8wz82C4N3pgr9u0k8cJQycUfH8x0hndggKCM1eB0uMzct2y6Cby7sCGPmZ8tS0W18MS0XJXtjF27s-BIbhK9SjY-NlP01DnuCkOq3lTKiKZl6QBkgoxX70rIeMZgucMS-RErRPpOy/s1600/Galveston+-+August+2010+081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYXN8wz82C4N3pgr9u0k8cJQycUfH8x0hndggKCM1eB0uMzct2y6Cby7sCGPmZ8tS0W18MS0XJXtjF27s-BIbhK9SjY-NlP01DnuCkOq3lTKiKZl6QBkgoxX70rIeMZgucMS-RErRPpOy/s200/Galveston+-+August+2010+081.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUAUj9jVx2bxlzopm9NN5MQ33F-2ztBLfXyOxApcHU1Kfo5GLZMWrvdsFdxjrpffNNaa9etRk_Mt4XcVbIp4T34yRiTzu2vR3_3K0QINoTac1go56bP2B5mfIFWbur-CJAn-HLGs-bqi1/s1600/Galveston+-+August+2010+082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUAUj9jVx2bxlzopm9NN5MQ33F-2ztBLfXyOxApcHU1Kfo5GLZMWrvdsFdxjrpffNNaa9etRk_Mt4XcVbIp4T34yRiTzu2vR3_3K0QINoTac1go56bP2B5mfIFWbur-CJAn-HLGs-bqi1/s200/Galveston+-+August+2010+082.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>When Gretchen was a girl, the upstairs master bedroom and bathroom were actually two separate bedrooms (which explains why there is a fireplace in the bathroom--it used to be a bedroom. Another suspicion of ours confirmed). They were separated by pocket doors, and the kids slept in the front room, and her mother slept in the second room. Her father, who apparently snored, was banished to a bedroom down the hallway (now our pink room).<br />
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There was a back staircase that led from a small covered downstairs porch (now part of our kitchen) to the upstairs bathroom. It was for the help to use. Gretchen says her family always had one or two people working for them, coming in every day except Saturday to help her mother with the meals and cleaning. She says that during the Depression she suspected that they came more for the free food than for the small amount of money her family paid them. <br />
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She says she was particularly close to an African American woman named Serena, who was just a tiny thing (she held her open palm about shoulder height as she told me that). I should point out here that Gretchen wasn't that tall herself. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfJLSwphrlFB5qrK_eOCK2w-GiDkrSJF37_lhyphenhyphenraYo0eoV1CsRG5kzlsptibjRsUXa2BJENXytygNwfsDfspYyhsvKHq0k1lmbCC36RD-qim454ItvPPZAR3nTaYdjr2hbf21rZY7VzQN/s1600/Galveston+-+August+2010+076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfJLSwphrlFB5qrK_eOCK2w-GiDkrSJF37_lhyphenhyphenraYo0eoV1CsRG5kzlsptibjRsUXa2BJENXytygNwfsDfspYyhsvKHq0k1lmbCC36RD-qim454ItvPPZAR3nTaYdjr2hbf21rZY7VzQN/s200/Galveston+-+August+2010+076.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Speaking of that staircase that isn't there anymore, Gretchen said that her mother loved ferns and had a whole bunch of them hanging on the first floor of the porch (underneath the staircase that led upstairs). They had a cat, too, named Susquehanna, that liked to hang out there. (We have an orange cat that is not ours but hangs out there anyway. We call him Sunset. He may be a descendent of Susquehanna for all I know). The two photos at the left show what the downstairs porch looks like today.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeQzb52jE_HK7pGsywWJU3n-iS4m8hqpMt1B4UuLZ4nzbb6mEJCI-J0er0G3mCQh4Ec6XAK1oU-8U6C8-UPIEcLWprAU68-syrAgAz13IDa40rac8dUcQJjCz5hP2XIv3UxJDSQc2j8Hs/s1600/Galveston+-+August+2010+078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeQzb52jE_HK7pGsywWJU3n-iS4m8hqpMt1B4UuLZ4nzbb6mEJCI-J0er0G3mCQh4Ec6XAK1oU-8U6C8-UPIEcLWprAU68-syrAgAz13IDa40rac8dUcQJjCz5hP2XIv3UxJDSQc2j8Hs/s200/Galveston+-+August+2010+078.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>By the time Gretchen moved out of the house, her parents had decided to enclose the small front porch upstairs (the house has a lot of porches) and turn it into a bathroom (it's since been turned back into a porch. And the cycle continues...) She said the paper boy liked to throw the paper on that upstairs porch, and her Dad just went out there to read it every morning.<br />
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Gretchen told me that in the forty years her parents owned the house, they never had water in it. That makes me feel good, and makes me hopeful that Ike truly was a 100 year storm. Of course, they did have water from above: after a strong storm, the ceilings in the living room and library collapsed. They had been incredibly ornate ceilings, made of Italian plaster. <br />
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The ceilings may not have lasted, but a lot of the other details have. And that's something of a miracle in itself. Much of the woodwork in the home is intact, and a lot of it is rare curly pine. When we bought the house, one of the Realtors told us that another couple had looked at it (allegedly--I seldom believe anything that Realtors say) and the wife said she would lighten the place up by painting the woodwork. He said he escorted them out of the house right then (allegedly).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYIGy70sQgQRNyBKXLvRJ3lW-g0xrcoKAFIiUlGZsqlqhUrHomEhheORT3hCdGOHATims4CeZAzUScjKL6p_h6s_saxs752fRTqI_vCu1xuxGv3HFCmR5icUNqp6nUIjwfwPi2ecqDABw6/s1600/Galveston+-+August+2010+057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYIGy70sQgQRNyBKXLvRJ3lW-g0xrcoKAFIiUlGZsqlqhUrHomEhheORT3hCdGOHATims4CeZAzUScjKL6p_h6s_saxs752fRTqI_vCu1xuxGv3HFCmR5icUNqp6nUIjwfwPi2ecqDABw6/s320/Galveston+-+August+2010+057.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>After surviving this unnamed couple, much of the woodwork was torn out of the house by the gorillas that ServPro employed to clean the house after the storm. They just threw it on the sidewalk like it was just another wet disposable item from the house. Thank goodness our friends (who stayed on the island during the storm, a little adventure they have sworn that they will never ever do again) walked by and yelled at the gorillas, then carried all of the wood back into the house (well, everything except the pile that another neighbor STOLE and MADE INTO BOOKCASES. And yes, he told me about the bookcases himself). <br />
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Anyway, according to Gretchen, a lot of the house is intact. And that made me happy.<br />
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I know a lot of times my blogs go to the snarky side. There is no snark here--other than the references to the bookcase bozo--and it's because I truly felt lucky that I was in town on the right day so that I could meet this wonderful, story-filled woman.<br />
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Thank you, Gretchen! It was wonderful talking to you!!!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivIqd2vXCJHkidoWJMehxBKTEHhD_w_IOcGPdAoJpzOJxkLJRpVvrq84O-c_gQUwstYoORoHyofHgsMluGT0o3qoUDiPldsNZEOXxbDiOOWRYJ7LAfR7yezwtZl91jykQ4jkW_NLpujJaj/s1600/Galveston+-+August+2010+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivIqd2vXCJHkidoWJMehxBKTEHhD_w_IOcGPdAoJpzOJxkLJRpVvrq84O-c_gQUwstYoORoHyofHgsMluGT0o3qoUDiPldsNZEOXxbDiOOWRYJ7LAfR7yezwtZl91jykQ4jkW_NLpujJaj/s320/Galveston+-+August+2010+003.JPG" /></a></div><br />
(Shown in the photo: Gretchen Herrmann Runge, on the right. Then, from the right, it's Val (who works at UTMB), John Runge (Gretchen's Grandson, who was on his way to college in Austin) Marschall and Susan Runge (Gretchen's son and daughter-in-law).Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-62420762430920074392010-08-26T23:43:00.000-04:002010-08-26T23:43:35.783-04:00The Star Drugstore: A Lot of Firsts, and a Good Place for Seconds!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jC5bsQUONdbAAKt2RRMzci4xKIarD180TfrNIaEpNd4Zlp2szbOPF2QsXqas0aQ0_52NB67mnW6eRq93HER5TbwZsaOpwGUOVjFts5TdgKaF_sZKWH8lnpIC7-MuroVY1zzXhpXfXVpR/s1600/masthead+star+drug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jC5bsQUONdbAAKt2RRMzci4xKIarD180TfrNIaEpNd4Zlp2szbOPF2QsXqas0aQ0_52NB67mnW6eRq93HER5TbwZsaOpwGUOVjFts5TdgKaF_sZKWH8lnpIC7-MuroVY1zzXhpXfXVpR/s320/masthead+star+drug.jpg" /></a></div>I had lunch today at the Star Drug Store in Galveston (<a href="http://www.galvestonstardrug.com/">http://www.galvestonstardrug.com/</a>). <br />
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It's a great little historic place. They claim to be the oldest drug store in Texas, and it's a pretty sincere and non-falutin' place, so I'm inclined to believe that their research is correct.<br />
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The history doesn't end there: the porcelain Coca-Cola sign is one of the oldest around, too, and it's been beautifully restored (as has the entire building). Star was also the first lunch counter to be integrated on the island, by George Clampitt back in the 50's. <br />
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Speaking of integration, I quickly integrated a bacon, lettuce, and avocado sandwich into my hungry belly this afternoon. The hub had today's special, an italian sub on great french bread. My sandwich came with a side of dill potato salad, which was warm and seemed a little more like mashed potatoes. But it was GOOD, once I stopped expecting crispy cold potato pieces.<br />
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Star serves homemade ice cream (made just up the street in Santa Fe). We actually wanted to order some, but our waitress never returned to take our order. We took that as a judgement, like we didn't <em>need</em> ice cream, and we headed out without dessert. Luckily, Galveston only had about 30 other little places that were more than happy to add to our calorie count for the day.<br />
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But bad waitressing aside, I love the Star Drug Store. I love all of the stuff for sale in the display cases around the dining area, and I love the little list of historic tidbits that's printed on the back of their ice cream menu (like, the hilarious David Schwimmer movie Breast Man featured a quick glimpse of the Star's exterior, as well as a shot of the phone booth that used to be in front of the building. How did I miss that movie on the Oscar list?) <br />
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And I love the cute pink t-shirts that they sell for just $15. I got mine a little big, to hide that ice cream belly fat.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-27843330644891755082010-08-25T17:21:00.000-04:002010-08-25T17:21:59.150-04:00The Serial Killing Gardener: Back to School EditionThere are those gardeners who are trainable. They make mistakes, they learn from them, they improve. They are in a constant state of evolution to a higher-functioning mind. And a better looking garden.<br />
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I'm <strong>so</strong> not one of them.<br />
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Case in point: as I write this, the heat is still sweltering. The corn in my county looks like fields of pineapples, and the grass sounds like a bowl full of Rice Krispies when I walk through the yard.<br />
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And what did I buy two weeks ago? A beautiful planter to put on the little patio outside of our cellar entrance. Salvia splendens, a bright red flower, really perked up the outside of our basement apartment. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLlG1LZSi-jZcR69Xyuu3BUp3hM6Dr4gUG6WvLpJ6fNfDfUinsWhftfov9ZStNsHXuOgchWQCjqF6WYcvVYFQ_1gup9uwbqz-pYQ5oOPvtyKaNS8Df1BevL6nOoeir7Mt7ioayTGCJ__M/s1600/dead+plant.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLlG1LZSi-jZcR69Xyuu3BUp3hM6Dr4gUG6WvLpJ6fNfDfUinsWhftfov9ZStNsHXuOgchWQCjqF6WYcvVYFQ_1gup9uwbqz-pYQ5oOPvtyKaNS8Df1BevL6nOoeir7Mt7ioayTGCJ__M/s320/dead+plant.bmp" /></a></div>How many plants do I have now that I'm a cellar dweller? Uh...just the one. The Salvia splendens. Which is now just a plastic pot filled with shriveled crackly dead things. Not so splendens anymore.<br />
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Why do I do this every year? Why do I fall for the marketing at the big box stores, luring me to buy the bright bushy red flowers? Why don't I remember to water these damn things once I buy them?<br />
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After all, I know that it gets hot in summer. My birthday is in July, and for 40-some years now, I have never worn a sweater to blow out the candles on my cake (there are those wags who will say that those candles are at least partially responsible for global warming, but there is no real evidence of that). And I know that plants put underneath porches (like this one) seldom (read: never) get any rain, even when it's a big storm.<br />
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And yet, no matter where I'm living, I buy beautiful outdoor flowers, only to see them die.<br />
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I am a serial plant killer.<br />
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The kids are getting ready to go back to school, and I'm ready to learn something myself. I'm moving to Florida later this week, and it's hot there all year. As I pack up the last of my clothing (and throw out most of my socks!), I've vowed to learn something this year: when I get to Florida, I'm not going to buy plants that I will forget to water. In fact, I may not buy any plants at all once I get there.<br />
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I'll let you know how that goes.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-79046626217339139952010-08-24T19:16:00.000-04:002010-08-24T19:16:09.721-04:00Work Stay of the DayLast week was my company's strategic planning session.<br />
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We strategically used the facilities at the Mount Washington Conference Center, strategically located in Mount Washington, just a few minutes from downtown Baltimore.<br />
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Mount Washington is a cute little area, lined with serious looking Victorians and well cut lawns. Of course, you'll only see that if you go there during the day because Mount Washington is the darkest neighborhood in the city. As I mentioned to my boss last week, as we stumbled through the parking lot looking for the pedestrian exit, Mount Washington is like Iowa on a cloudy night.<br />
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When the sun came up the next day, I had a great view of this building:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9Eba1ooBdhvdlyKjZstJLLanIyhFrAjMPQSbDSeWr2qdSFeAzsbRSSx8c713mtRAmn4-1SXeGC5KeRIvFwJ6hJtl7spbXjVuB0omHizPaj4UKnBaY_zpkJ9R2gORlrEIup06OQD8sYuG/s1600/octagon+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9Eba1ooBdhvdlyKjZstJLLanIyhFrAjMPQSbDSeWr2qdSFeAzsbRSSx8c713mtRAmn4-1SXeGC5KeRIvFwJ6hJtl7spbXjVuB0omHizPaj4UKnBaY_zpkJ9R2gORlrEIup06OQD8sYuG/s320/octagon+house.jpg" /></a></div>The Mount Washington Octagon was built in 1855, under the direction of the Reverend Elias Heiner of the German Reformed Church. It was used until 1861 as the Mt. Washington Female Academy. <br />
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After the Civil War the college failed and the building was bought by the Sisters of Mercy, who opened Mount St. Agnes College. <br />
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My father-in-law remembers hazing freshman in the building's steep parking lot when he was a senior at Loyola High School. (They made the froshs take their school jackets off and tie them around their waists like skirts. Oooh. Nasty.)<br />
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In 1971, Mt. St. Agnes merged with Loyola College and moved from the Mt. Washington site. USF and G then bought the property, and did a bunch of renovation to the Octagon. Today, Hopkins owns the place.<br />
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They have not added any lights since the original building was finished in 1855, as far as I could tell.<br />
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Incidentally, the building was <strong>never</strong> a private home. This is historic fact even though someone on our management team--someone who acts as if s/he knows such things--confidently told one of our directors during the second morning that "Yes, it was private originally." Really, if anyone is going to answer those kinds of questions, it should be Historic Travel Girl. Non-historic senior management dude/dudette should stick to answering questions about tax codes and annualized earnings. Or whatever it is that s/he really does know about.<br />
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I srategically kept my mouth shut.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-1470225504084122142010-08-21T20:30:00.000-04:002010-08-21T20:30:23.880-04:00Photo of the Day: Mackinac IslandI'm not a photographer. I don't understand light, F-Stops are as confusing (and useless) as video games to me, and composition always has and always will mean writing.<br />
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The most artsy thing I do when taking a photo is to put the subject off-center. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2AKgE-U6LhWfmcbJiy8UOrR-Dp6IlkVlAk5RKSBUTAOgMS6bbZGDD4EY2xVgCpxVnbMCLEcbE6dhK43-o4MlOrgz8DNmEdjecIG9vxsRtgtDlMW_TWbyMcAIZB7Ezw9bahQBfnnNFV7l/s1600/Mackinac+-+Canon+171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2AKgE-U6LhWfmcbJiy8UOrR-Dp6IlkVlAk5RKSBUTAOgMS6bbZGDD4EY2xVgCpxVnbMCLEcbE6dhK43-o4MlOrgz8DNmEdjecIG9vxsRtgtDlMW_TWbyMcAIZB7Ezw9bahQBfnnNFV7l/s320/Mackinac+-+Canon+171.JPG" /></a></div>But some days, the PhotoGods shine on you and give you a shot that captures the feeling of your vacation.<br />
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I know this isn't an award winner. But when I look at it, it takes me right back to Mackinac Island. And that's a winner in my book.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-31106708271724468502010-08-16T22:43:00.001-04:002010-08-16T22:54:53.165-04:00Trying Anything OnceThey say that nothing is perfect. But imagine, for a moment, that the second that a particular activity was imperfect, it would be banned forever.<br />
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This no tolerance policy would change our world forever.<br />
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Sushi restaurants would close, of course. Most hair stylists would be out of business (at the very least, they would never give a perm or try to dye anyone's hair red again). And...let's be honest here, folks..sex would almost certainly be a thing of the past.<br />
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But apparently, one bad experience is all it took on Mackinac Island in the Michigan Straits. According to local legend, in 1898 one of the residents drove his nice new horseless carriage into someone's lilac bush or something, and the town big wigs said That's Enough. No more cars in Mackinac.<br />
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And they've stuck to it. For 112 years now.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdRaCLGQPr7tY5bcswThf2G76QDClpcKUH_dy3DEeu9Stmz4HuJ2-ow0Cl6HvBCsM9aCIHzoZXTRjudFCORUIqhj3sBdTx6945s0HoMEtclbx9nvpxtYTHFvlLE8lB0eI4UkdHljAGoJ6/s1600/Mackinac+-+Canon+165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdRaCLGQPr7tY5bcswThf2G76QDClpcKUH_dy3DEeu9Stmz4HuJ2-ow0Cl6HvBCsM9aCIHzoZXTRjudFCORUIqhj3sBdTx6945s0HoMEtclbx9nvpxtYTHFvlLE8lB0eI4UkdHljAGoJ6/s320/Mackinac+-+Canon+165.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>If you want to get around, you have to take a horse (they rent them for $38/hr at Cindy's) or you can bike, walk, or whistle for a horse and carriage. <br />
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It changes the environment considerably, and I'm not just talking about the smell of equine waste, either.<br />
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When horses are the only means of transportation, you have to slow down. Whether you want to or not.<br />
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Case in point: the hub and I were in Mackinac (said Mackinaw, just fyi) a couple of years ago. <br />
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One day, around 12:15, we decided we wanted to go to a restaurant a couple of miles away. We went up to the bell captain, and asked him to call us a horse. "Where are you going?" he asked amicably. (Everyone in Mackinac, for the record, is persistently amicable.) <br />
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"Woods," we said, referring to a restaurant owned by the Grand Hotel in the middle of the woods. <br />
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The bell captain looked at his watch. "I don't know," he said dubiously (yet amicably). "They close at two."<br />
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Confused, and slightly less than amicable, I said, "And???"<br />
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He amicably explained that it was over 80 degrees that day (it was about 81), so the horses were on "walking orders." It would take a horse at least 25 minutes to get us, then 30 minutes to get us to the restaurant. That would be approximately 1:10, assuming everything went perfectly. And the restaurant closed at 1:30.<br />
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Now, had we been in Baltimore, that little vein in my forehead would have been throbbing at full mast. I would have said something that questioned the bell captain's intelligence, or his ability to read a digital watch, or mentioned that his mother smelled like horse butt.<br />
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As it was, I said, "Okay. We'll walk into town." I may have even sounded amicable myself.<br />
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All of this is simply more evidence that a stay on Mackinac is truly life changing. Not to mention personality shifting.<br />
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Two weeks ago we decided to spend another couple of days on the island. It was a chance to get out of the cellar, and perhaps our last chance to relax before taking over the hotel. (Speaking of hotels, we stayed in the beloved Grand for the first few days of our stay. I'm new to the whole hotel ownership thing, but I think we can write our stay off as research. Or something like that).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYrcPEfM_iy4EvoLnesQJ8ur_UbA_phcpmSv11sw56aXmKSgHOzdkBMeStfAsHz0tkfBT4WekAjBVKAhNodBSq7Ftc2rb8TsXUf75EoMJonFWh_-ky-_YeaLZy_GEai4R4ouz-ZAGwg76/s1600/Mackinac+-+Kodak+080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYrcPEfM_iy4EvoLnesQJ8ur_UbA_phcpmSv11sw56aXmKSgHOzdkBMeStfAsHz0tkfBT4WekAjBVKAhNodBSq7Ftc2rb8TsXUf75EoMJonFWh_-ky-_YeaLZy_GEai4R4ouz-ZAGwg76/s320/Mackinac+-+Kodak+080.JPG" /></a></div>Mackinac was as beautiful, and serene, and soul washing as I remembered. (This is rush hour in Mackinac's downtown. These are the carriages that are used to move people--but there are plenty of flatbed wagons, too, carrying boxes of vegetables and cases of wine to the hotels around town. It looks just like the wild wild west). <br />
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There have been one or two cars on Mackinac since 1898. Like the one that Christopher Reeve drove in the 1980 movie "Somewhere in Time." (See more about this in my upcoming blog on the Grand Hotel). <br />
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But other than that, and an ambulance or two since then, the town elders have stuck to their guns and kept their resolve to keep horseless carriages off the island. <br />
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Thanks, guys. I needed that.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-74413340709568910952010-08-10T11:51:00.008-04:002010-08-16T21:59:18.644-04:00Grandma Knows What She's DoingMike's Grandmother turned 96 yesterday. <br />
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If you haven't met her in my blog yet, please check out my favorite post about her <a href="http://historictraveler.blogspot.com/2009_10_22_archive.html">here</a>.<br />
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Incidentally, she is still trading on the phrase "I'm old and I don't know what I'm doing." But she knows. Oh, she knows.<br />
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What she's doing right now, for the record, is living with Mike's parents. Yes...these are the same parents that the hub and I are having dinner with. Every night. While we live in their basement like rebellious teenagers in the 1970's (do teens still want to convert the rec room into a bedroom?)<br />
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A few weeks ago I promised some background as to why we have become cellar dwellers (besides just loving the dark and hating the hassles of homeownership). The short story is that we've bought a house in St. Augustine (yes, that St. Augustine), and the appraiser decided that it needed a bunch of work before we could settle. So, we're currently painting the house (yes, we're painting it...the seller refused to), and living with Mike's parents while it's being done. We hope to settle on it by the end of the month.<br />
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We painted a discarded door in the new colors...I hope they will look okay in a larger scale. Mike still isn't sure if he likes them...but I love them.<br />
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This door was taken from Mike's parents house. I think they took it out of the basement as they prepared for us to move in. I don't see any missing doors, though, so I could be wrong.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8YvhxG18VIWgovl-_rN_ZruYwEWyV10NN51LbUOhhuLYf-qDGEXI35i_XJir2hkLy4TXOPikY4TlnExC7cH77IZkWyCPOWmOj1TbPWpobhl7BwAfCgUibtfhK5vZ0821mx50SHU742vl/s1600/Door+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8YvhxG18VIWgovl-_rN_ZruYwEWyV10NN51LbUOhhuLYf-qDGEXI35i_XJir2hkLy4TXOPikY4TlnExC7cH77IZkWyCPOWmOj1TbPWpobhl7BwAfCgUibtfhK5vZ0821mx50SHU742vl/s200/Door+002.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><br />
With me and the hub hanging downstairs, and Grandma living in the guest room, Mike's folks are officially at 100% occupancy. Which is pretty good for Baldwin, Maryland this time of year--because it's definitely low tourist season in Harford County. (That little bit of hotel-speak will become more evident in the next few weeks as Mike and I embark on our Next Big Venture. Which involves buying a hotel. But that's another blog for another time.)<br />
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Anyway, all of this is to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDMA. For the record, I think that you're young, and that you always know EXACTLY what you are doing.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-90641549619161436502010-07-27T10:33:00.001-04:002010-07-27T11:00:10.566-04:00For Better or For WorseWe interrupted the first weekend of living with our in-laws to attend a wedding in Newton, New Jersey. (Why are they living with their in-laws, you may ask? Tune in next week for the whole unbelievable story).<br />
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Back to<strong> this</strong> story: we had this out-of-town wedding for two people that I had only met once. The hub thought we should go (he is big on doing The Right Thing even when it is also The Hardest Thing), despite the fact that we had been packing boxes until two A-M the entire week, getting ready to move. <br />
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So I agreed to go.<br />
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Have you ever noticed that the trips that you don't want to take are often some of the best ones?<br />
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For some reason, HTG thought that Newton sounded like northern Jersey. That's the Jersey that everyone thinks about when they make fun of the Garden State. They picture barges of trash and loud-mouthed girls with orange tans and overly white French manicures. They think that every street corner has strip clubs full of guys that look like Tony Soprano. (Note to New Jersey's tourism board: you can send my check to "Cellar Dweller in Baldwin, Maryland...care of her In-Laws").<br />
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Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised when our trip took us to central New Jersey, through some of the prettiest country roads I've seen for quite some time. This is why they call it the Garden State.<br />
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Newton is in Sussex County, a county which famously had more cows than people until the 1950's or so. Its original name was Tockhockonetcong, but the surveyors in 1715 thought that wouldn't look too good on a t-shirt (nor would it fit on the map they were drawing), so they opted for the more marketable Newton. Today, Newton sits on the Tockhockonetcong River; if you can say it, you must be a native. Or drunk. When I've had one too many, I've found that everything I try and say comes out as "Tockhockonetcong."<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">You can learn more about the town's history at <a href="http://www.newtonnj.net/">http://www.newtonnj.net/</a>. <br />
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We arrived at the Yellow Frame Presbyterian Church in Newton a little early. My husband informed me that--even though the invitation said that the wedding started at 3:00--it wasn't going to start until 3:30 because "it's a Chilean thing." (The bride is from Chile). So we hung out in the parking lot and took a couple of pictures, while I listened carefully for music that would suggest the whole "Chilean thing" was just a rumor. I hate going to weddings late.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM53IMf2OyT5RR4676bbSVpGigNQSkRPVSAxuI3KyoXIH6iZGcxKsKfUklzZHvLdKfMQi3P5-sysrgurr7-qTYh6FgNIOhpBgVFXvQoGw8O33txFM8gKkw5YTj6j__EUKHfA_jTxVPB6E4/s1600/100_1888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM53IMf2OyT5RR4676bbSVpGigNQSkRPVSAxuI3KyoXIH6iZGcxKsKfUklzZHvLdKfMQi3P5-sysrgurr7-qTYh6FgNIOhpBgVFXvQoGw8O33txFM8gKkw5YTj6j__EUKHfA_jTxVPB6E4/s320/100_1888.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-ZW4drqBQ0gK7mphKYhXDWnpXfefh6dWhgWHjZtaXc2tfZm_hrMjegr1zX58RtyL4D7ScU1nJwlFQI64ozvVaLsHv9lkh7trGx7zlgNUP8EHGOEzofGvWYdcXD3o8MWBCxXvh2lU3Hiq/s1600/100_1865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-ZW4drqBQ0gK7mphKYhXDWnpXfefh6dWhgWHjZtaXc2tfZm_hrMjegr1zX58RtyL4D7ScU1nJwlFQI64ozvVaLsHv9lkh7trGx7zlgNUP8EHGOEzofGvWYdcXD3o8MWBCxXvh2lU3Hiq/s320/100_1865.JPG" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
While we lingered, I noticed that there was a large fan--the kind we used to keep the cows cool--in the front window of the church. I began to suspect that the chapel was so historic that it didn't have air conditioning. (As much as I love old buildings, I do not love old buildings without a/c or heat. Really, I'm a historic traveler, people, not a re-enactor). </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQFPeIMJtNKd0AfAolY74jthMHTMsrAkUXj1yVv9oidpyerSccNbMzAC7__ubwP-EBIEr6MiPabQxp-ChZT2qlYEnepE1-l46jHYOlu4dlvqIxeqznw0tkhxsYn1TwO0Iel16aXJZKpd6/s1600/100_1876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQFPeIMJtNKd0AfAolY74jthMHTMsrAkUXj1yVv9oidpyerSccNbMzAC7__ubwP-EBIEr6MiPabQxp-ChZT2qlYEnepE1-l46jHYOlu4dlvqIxeqznw0tkhxsYn1TwO0Iel16aXJZKpd6/s320/100_1876.JPG" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The church was a Queen Anne structure, my favorite architectural style. That meant that there were lots of great details everywhere--from the hardware (see left) to the stained glass above the unsightly cow fan. And there was a wall full of photos of the church's ministers over the years, going back to 1750.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Speaking of details, the bride and groom thought of them all--including cute paper fans that their ushers handed to all of the guests as they entered the church. Between the historic church, and the flapping fans, the whole day had a nice old-fashioned feel.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After the wedding was over (in a record 23 minutes--if that's a Chilean thing too, I may love Chilean weddings as much as I love Chilean wine), the hub and I lingered a bit longer, checking out the historic cemetery across the parking lot, as well as some of the other picturesque areas around the grounds. (Note to self: plant more cosmos next year. And get a mailbox).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgspQGAy2KApHhHTjITqDuWpHiK7N2OgQGwtseBQ2CfIUoXEJSicXJooJaM83aqywU_48KaofKkoywI2m3ToEMn-G9APwZpdRVZAzgZC9X0MHtbBoLhqFyR29l8jSMWFGjtuY2dVNjHlDwK/s1600/100_1882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgspQGAy2KApHhHTjITqDuWpHiK7N2OgQGwtseBQ2CfIUoXEJSicXJooJaM83aqywU_48KaofKkoywI2m3ToEMn-G9APwZpdRVZAzgZC9X0MHtbBoLhqFyR29l8jSMWFGjtuY2dVNjHlDwK/s200/100_1882.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlgSokx5eLmt99KZoqirnwlV5jAe8NVwcdXtd8YSTUMgpprJcG2dmDXX8emN4CWxf87HFWD-L5VV-b0nL9bFxdWsuDmVyWbdOki2IiFqAA28ZaFX-28_yW3ug_j2d0lmPqndAM4_-XTcF/s1600/100_1886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlgSokx5eLmt99KZoqirnwlV5jAe8NVwcdXtd8YSTUMgpprJcG2dmDXX8emN4CWxf87HFWD-L5VV-b0nL9bFxdWsuDmVyWbdOki2IiFqAA28ZaFX-28_yW3ug_j2d0lmPqndAM4_-XTcF/s200/100_1886.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Remember how I said that your worst fears can create your best memories? Later that afternoon, we were treated to an open bar (a good resource for newly married couples as well as those married for years and years), unusual appetizers like Chilean meat and corn pie...which was exactly what it sounded like. When the bride came by to say hello (which is when I spoke to her for the second time in my life), she said it was her favorite dish as a child. I'm no child, but I could see it cracking my top ten pretty easily.<br />
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After the appetizers, we enjoyed a Chilean sea bass that was worthy of a fancy restaurant with a $100 tab. It was, as I told the groom, like a great anniversary dinner.<br />
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After the eating and the greeting, the hub and I slipped away (pre-cake) to start the long drive back home, driving away from one of the prettiest parts of New Jersey as the sun went down and the deer came out. The drive reminded me of why I happen to love the state--from their juicy red tomatoes to their gorgeous Victorian structures to their juicy, gorgeous call girls. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Oh, and it reminded me that I wanted to wish Charles and Magaly a happy happy union: may you love each other no matter what-through thick waists and thin hair, for better and for worse, while living with your in-laws or living out your dreams. I hope your marriage lasts as long as the Yellow Frame Church you were married in.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Congratulations! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhnV3obHPev8MFhj0rrBRp_QjiZlOD90atefsTMLR82kGOnBhAk2SZG-JelZ1f1-tZeIGlxqcZyJl00PNQr2cypXxNaXfQdK7xTjEKCRFnXv68SfdOEdwYOAcCBsW1ICLQ6YyMJ6qPDaZ/s1600/100_1871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhnV3obHPev8MFhj0rrBRp_QjiZlOD90atefsTMLR82kGOnBhAk2SZG-JelZ1f1-tZeIGlxqcZyJl00PNQr2cypXxNaXfQdK7xTjEKCRFnXv68SfdOEdwYOAcCBsW1ICLQ6YyMJ6qPDaZ/s320/100_1871.JPG" /></a></div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-68172681303659469832010-07-13T22:18:00.002-04:002010-07-27T13:46:29.199-04:00Organic Truths in Washington DCDespite popular theories, I am not Amish. <br />
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I grew up in an Amish area. I was not allowed to travel more than 5 miles from home. And I worked hard as a kid. I envied those cushy sweatshop jobs in China. The ones where the kids got to be kids for two or three hours a day.<br />
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But that all that doesn't mean that I am Amish.<br />
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My love of the <a href="http://historictraveler.blogspot.com/2009_08_14_archive.html">plain people and their fancy desserts</a> is well documented. <br />
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My <a href="http://historictraveler.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2009-11-01T00%3A00%3A00-04%3A00&updated-max=2009-12-01T00%3A00%3A00-05%3A00&max-results=1">dislike of Washington, DC</a> is equally well documented.<br />
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But what would happen if you combined the two?<br />
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I found out last week when I visited Nora's (<a href="http://www.noras.com/">http://www.noras.com/</a>), a trendy organic joint at 2132 Florida Avenue. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7rHuT7f1Ey3CcsMmbPaNTFZ_JivtsJw4fvQKGAFIQit1efa16mwm79NrPtenNuTgPGdtoSHk_wDHaIPhZC8gyuLKrl0BA-sexDHzaubroa-57GfHebHW5eiIq_98xE-VIHhyT2qkxfVRS/s1600/exterior_with_people.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" qu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7rHuT7f1Ey3CcsMmbPaNTFZ_JivtsJw4fvQKGAFIQit1efa16mwm79NrPtenNuTgPGdtoSHk_wDHaIPhZC8gyuLKrl0BA-sexDHzaubroa-57GfHebHW5eiIq_98xE-VIHhyT2qkxfVRS/s320/exterior_with_people.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>Now, I wasn't looking for a trendy organic joint (as I write that, I realize it sounds like something else entirely). I was meeting a friend who was in town for a seminar, and all I wanted was a restaurant that:<br />
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1. Was right off of New York Avenue. I wasn't driving through a traffic circle this time. <br />
2. Had valet parking. (See above: once I found the place, I wanted to be done. I wasn't driving through a traffic circle this time).<br />
3. Had entrees under 50 bills.<br />
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Nora's should put all of that on their website. <br />
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Even without those critical optimizing keywords, the restaurant was 90% full on a Thursday night.<br />
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My friend was waiting at the bar when I arrived (which tells you something about her--which is that she likes her vodka tonics--and something about me--because I was late, having forgotten that even without the circles, the city has plenty of annoying stop lights which seem just long enough to let three cars drive through). Anyway, in the time it took me to write that parenthetical bit of useless information, my friend had chatted up a local gentleman who said the restaurant was his favorite. Well, he was a local in the past, but still liked to hit the old neighborhood to enjoy a good meal (while enjoying the pretty women at the bar as well).<br />
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In addition to checking out my friend (whose motto is Better Men in 2010, if you would like to submit an application), this gentleman also was nice enough to check out the menu. He thought the chicken curry sounded good...and my friend thought so as well. That's what she ordered. I think she liked it, although it's sometimes hard to tell with her.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipXJC8p5ubZbngQ2XKDZdsWBojqK-XqZGtyWBH3pGduGkEPxjAhHMzqE1cZqVc5Ulyb4PhrdKjI51ZyITaYDHJvtVYrS9Z1988f1YwDDvCJ9w98z6f93bVkYwK4v65uLuMU3_zoiF3lmsz/s1600/Sandy+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipXJC8p5ubZbngQ2XKDZdsWBojqK-XqZGtyWBH3pGduGkEPxjAhHMzqE1cZqVc5Ulyb4PhrdKjI51ZyITaYDHJvtVYrS9Z1988f1YwDDvCJ9w98z6f93bVkYwK4v65uLuMU3_zoiF3lmsz/s200/Sandy+007.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I went with the Amish veal. Why? Because the idea of something Amish in this city of stupid traffic circles and unvarnished frivolity made me laugh. And the rest room had cool murals of Amish people (at least I think that was the artist's inspiration...the gal above looks Mennonite to me, and so does the quilt). Artistic license aside, I fell for the marketing of the dish and was pleasantly surprised when it came out.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The meal was far from Amish--the plate was a little pretty for that, and the portions a little small. But it was tasty, and the mashed potatoes underneath were a great surprise.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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Because it was a girls' dinner, we goaded each other into getting dessert (the rule here is that when you eat with girls you are honor and duty bound to get dessert. It makes up for any dinners with men where you cannot--even if you did not like your dinner and are as hungry as a horse--you cannot order anything indulgent after the main course.)<br />
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My dinner companion went for some chocolate concoction that practically gave me a migraine just from the proximity to all that cocoa. <br />
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I opted for a dessert that made my chocoholic friend's nose turn up--rhubarb pie. I know that not everyone is a fan of rhubarb, but--being the good Pennsylvania Dutch girl that I am--nothing makes me happier than a dessert that's more tart than sweet. And the fact that everything was organic was just icing on the cake...or a sweet lattice topping on the pie, as it were.<br />
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In fact, it was so good, I would even consider braving another drive to DC to have it again.<br />
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</div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-7138073730198387372010-06-29T11:26:00.000-04:002010-06-29T11:26:57.631-04:00Well, Shucks!!!Good morning, fellow travelers!!!<br />
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I woke up to thunderstorms in Galveston Texas, which dampened my otherwise vacation-happy heart. I'm mostly upset because we've been working on a 3-day roof project here since March of this year. Even translating that timeframe to the contractor's calendar, he is Over Due. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdO4WVWPPY5C4y2twaxTVlM593d2yvqiZqO19Sm4MvGOqzmgLRdjJ0GY4DhdTaN_pK_DRuj5n1EuDsXjZupIw6gxoo6ftgFAbzvUlF_DU6Vf4hW_yqHOX0nGacjNw-XBGbvLkQJf2cyuj/s1600/trophy_300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdO4WVWPPY5C4y2twaxTVlM593d2yvqiZqO19Sm4MvGOqzmgLRdjJ0GY4DhdTaN_pK_DRuj5n1EuDsXjZupIw6gxoo6ftgFAbzvUlF_DU6Vf4hW_yqHOX0nGacjNw-XBGbvLkQJf2cyuj/s200/trophy_300.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>But then...the skies parted...the sun shone down...the angels sang Hallelujah! Why??? Because this silly blog, which I'm almost certain borders on complete un-helpfulness to my fellow travelers, and may in fact be full of dangerous advice, was just named one of the 50 Best Travel blogs by OnlineDegreePrograms.com (motto: You will get a great job if you just sign up for One More Class). <br />
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If you're skeptical (which doesn't hurt my feelings: I'm a bit skeptical myself), you can check out the link here: <a href="http://bit.ly/crOaWV">http://bit.ly/crOaWV</a>. <br />
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Well, real deal or not, it's nice to feel loved. <br />
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Anyhoo, I'm mostly posting this update because I would not want any new viewers to first see the blog about my demented (male) friend dressing up as a bride and waving to the trolley passengers in historic Cape May, New Jersey. Now, if you like that kind of thing, it's the post directly below this.<br />
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But if you don't, I thought I'd list some of my favorite posts from the last couple of months.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8COSEwPBYI1npeHiAIDPH4-L_3oNrIxezQHPaMLTSH0KQEfKbA8eqzneBkkj0GsN7PJxDHEhmVrI88QRAbxpQzmV6KahijQR3A2ZbCCENMVSaXn9lC4BRGEXa4FccB4HL2-gxlHwAzo2y/s1600/Galveston+March+2010-2+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8COSEwPBYI1npeHiAIDPH4-L_3oNrIxezQHPaMLTSH0KQEfKbA8eqzneBkkj0GsN7PJxDHEhmVrI88QRAbxpQzmV6KahijQR3A2ZbCCENMVSaXn9lC4BRGEXa4FccB4HL2-gxlHwAzo2y/s200/Galveston+March+2010-2+008.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>Since I'm in <strong>Galveston, Texas,</strong> I'm thinking a lot about the post I wrote about the cool tree carvings that are popping up all over the Historic East End. The residents who lost huge old trees in the salty surge from Ike are turning them into amazing art. If that's more your kind of thing, you can read about it here: <a href="http://bit.ly/aQaurk">http://bit.ly/aQaurk</a> (Note: sometime in 2008 I wrote a blog about eating my way across Galveston. For some reason, I titled it Part One. I've never written a Part Two. But I'm in G-town for the week, and I've already pigged out a couple of times, so check back later this week for a possible update). <br />
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<strong>St. Augustine, Florida,</strong> is the Oldest City in the country. While I loved the ancient fort, and the stately buildings from the 18th century, and the chocolate covered rice crispy treats at Kilwin's Chocolates, I *adored* the opium-fueled architecture of the Villa Zorayda. So much so that I wrote two blogs about it. You can see them both here: <a href="http://bit.ly/9aLjvi">http://bit.ly/9aLjvi</a> and <a href="http://bit.ly/d6PE8a">http://bit.ly/d6PE8a</a> <br />
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Last summerI stayed at the best hotel in <strong>Nashville, Tennessee </strong>(it's not the Gaylord, even though I get a big kick out of the trout stream that flows through the middle of their lobby). If you're headed to Nashville sometime soon, you can see my recommendations at <a href="http://bit.ly/9S7xr1">http://bit.ly/9S7xr1</a> <br />
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I'm not always writing about travel. I like the history that's around me too (and no, I'm not talking about the historic dust clusters underneath my Eastlake-style bed). In December I wrote a love letter to those angry looking Santas that the Pennsylvania Dutch love, the Belsnickels. I have a big collection of them myself, and I documented them here: <a href="http://bit.ly/clyRe6">http://bit.ly/clyRe6</a> <br />
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And, finally, I sometimes write about personal stuff, especially if it has some kind of a historic bent to it. Like the blogs about the hub's grandmother, who is now 96 and counting (can't get much more historic than that). My favorite travelog starring Grandma is when we visited Mount Vernon: <a href="http://bit.ly/dklLsh">http://bit.ly/dklLsh</a> . This year, I also wrote (too many) blogs about the saga of selling our Victorian house in Cape May, New Jersey. My favorite blog, March Sadness, is here: <a href="http://bit.ly/aJ4jmg">http://bit.ly/aJ4jmg</a> .<br />
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Frankly, I'm not sure why anyone would want to read any of these. But I know for a fact that you'll appreciate them more than the one I just wrote about the ugliest bride that Cape May will ever see.<br />
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If you did stop by today, and you're new to my blog, please let me know. And tell me what you think think is the least crappy of my postings.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-11051244531703978842010-06-14T20:46:00.001-04:002010-06-15T06:24:47.093-04:00What's in a Name?Okay, a few months ago I promised that I wouldn't write any more blogs about <a href="http://historictraveler.blogspot.com/2010_03_20_archive.html">our house in Cape May</a>.<br />
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Technically, however, the house is no longer our house. So I'm really just writing about <strong>A</strong> house in Cape May. Not <strong>MY</strong> house.<br />
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This weekend, it became painfully obvious that it wasn't my house anymore.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When the hub and I first bought the house, it was occasionally called the Wedding Cake Cottage. Why? I guess because it was white and had a bunch of gingerbread, and someone thought the name was cute.</div><br />
I'm <strong>so</strong> not into cute.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In fact, as we spent time in Cape May over the past nine years, we often joked about the "cuteness" of the Wedding Cake Cottage. As the Cape May trolley would drive past our home, you see, we would hear the tour guide tell people that that was the name of the house. <br />
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<em>(Note: those same tour guides will tell you that whenever there are three or more houses that look alike, they were built by some generous father for his three/four/five daughters. I often wonder if tour guides 100 years from now will say that as they drive through the suburban neighborhoods that surround Baltimore. "And these 30 identical houses were built by a very fertile father for his 30 daughters." For the record, usually when houses look alike they were built by a hotel or railroad to house their employees. But that's not as romantic.)</em></div><br />
Anyway, <em>we</em> called the house the Sayre House, after the first recorded owner.<br />
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And we joked about having one of our friends dress up in an old bridal gown and wave to the trolley as it drove by.<br />
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Did I mention that our first choice for this role was Birdman? (Yes, the same Birdman that I explained had no renovation skills but did his part by making us laugh. You can see his fan page <a href="http://historictraveler.blogspot.com/2010/03/few-of-my-favorite-days.html">here</a>.)<br />
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So, this weekend, before we went to Cape May, my husband called Bird and asked if he was still into dressing up like a bride. <br />
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Was he ever into it.<br />
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See for yourself:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWLrsrAPmDU-xyG1s5jC9kl_QtgzltGFEHIhiefJ_g0EF54qqPCZp_ldAbppy1bqifmMzQNI_zs2UbyjdXBu77HaSedS2jjli4D9wfz4JsO22WMVLPvSAYlyZECK8DQ8hXS-l1ouFdtY6/s1600/Cape+May+-+June+2010+062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" qu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWLrsrAPmDU-xyG1s5jC9kl_QtgzltGFEHIhiefJ_g0EF54qqPCZp_ldAbppy1bqifmMzQNI_zs2UbyjdXBu77HaSedS2jjli4D9wfz4JsO22WMVLPvSAYlyZECK8DQ8hXS-l1ouFdtY6/s400/Cape+May+-+June+2010+062.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The good natured groom is Big Guy. He drew the short stick (not that I'm saying Birdman has a short stick...I really wouldn't know one way or the other), but seemed to get into it himself after a little while and a lot of beer. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Kiddies, look at your Uncle Big Guy. This is why we don't want you to drink.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The wedding was well documented, as most weddings are.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The couple got happier as the day went on, as most couples do.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">And ultimately, the pairing ended in divorce, as most pairings do. (Even though they looked so darn happy as they took the plunge):</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't know whose idea it was to jump in the pool. But it <strong>was</strong> hot. And all that waving to the trolleys made it even hotter. Of course, nothing was hotter than Birdman himself. Even the pool couldn't cool that hotness down.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">By the way, both the Birdman and the Big Guy are happily married men. They're married to (sometimes) happily married women.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Not that there's anything wrong with that.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-91128676894960936302010-06-02T20:44:00.000-04:002010-06-02T20:44:47.407-04:00Traveling with Friends (And living to tell about it)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rT5QS4jtQ9tU57PlDZF3L8XRZWrJy1yT9FjKvSuTF_rqXJ1MN19XWRQ90U7FvYq6A0GeCfJfxB-XABNaEG46wouyOPqkxF1sLqrCn5tzwBiLKsn_sGllBDnmw7WGY5C7Uv7TMgi1ckZe/s1600/TheHomeDepot_full_medium.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rT5QS4jtQ9tU57PlDZF3L8XRZWrJy1yT9FjKvSuTF_rqXJ1MN19XWRQ90U7FvYq6A0GeCfJfxB-XABNaEG46wouyOPqkxF1sLqrCn5tzwBiLKsn_sGllBDnmw7WGY5C7Uv7TMgi1ckZe/s200/TheHomeDepot_full_medium.png" width="200" /></a></div>Don't look for me at the Parkville Home Depot this weekend, because I'm taking a break from the home improvement/gardening/mrs-fix-it projects, and I'm heading out to Cape May. <br />
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I'm going with 11 of my closest friends and family members (not that family members can't be friends). We're renting a house--our house, in fact. Our old house. The one we sold in March. (You can see lots of self-pitying blogs in the archives if you're into that kind of thing).<br />
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I just realized that going to our house will probably be a little like hooking up with an ex. It's kind of like the good ol' days, but as soon as it's over you realize that someone else is in your baby's bed. And in this case, because we sold the house furnished, I mean literally.<br />
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So I'm not focusing on the house right now. I'm focusing on the house guests.<br />
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If you've read this blog for more than a day, you know that the hub and I love to rent old houses. And, because renting a whole house can get pricey, we often do it with a large group. In the last year, we've enjoyed/tolerated/attended group vacations in old houses in Cape May (duh), Galveston (natch), and St. Augustine. It's a great way to feel more like a local (yes, in St. Augustine we all sat in the living room with the windows open so that people walking by could envy us for our temporary zip code). It also is a good way to experience the history of a town first hand. And, of course, it's a free house tour. One where you can sit on the seats and touch the artwork.<br />
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There are no downsides.<br />
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Unless you go with the wrong people. <br />
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So, in an attempt to reassure the right people that they're good traveling companions, and in the hopes that the wrong people can be trained (and if you're not sure which group you fall into, simply ply me with a couple of chardonnays and I will tell you more bluntly than you would like), I offer the following list of things <strong>to do</strong> when traveling with a group:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZJhvNbWrvicyx1j5QkN8xPqWwGdMvcq_5rIcej6v_OTa04ySvWOtL3M6POtvuwiIUhiNxFHgy6wxJwarzGpTnRXF_IpS8Ffo7svD_haZ5mBBr6cbvStgC_70pY2xGZRZNEbem5vjOqIh/s1600/no-money-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcZJhvNbWrvicyx1j5QkN8xPqWwGdMvcq_5rIcej6v_OTa04ySvWOtL3M6POtvuwiIUhiNxFHgy6wxJwarzGpTnRXF_IpS8Ffo7svD_haZ5mBBr6cbvStgC_70pY2xGZRZNEbem5vjOqIh/s200/no-money-2.jpg" width="146" /></a></div><strong>1. Pay your way.</strong> This is non-negotiable, unless, of course, you're seventeen/unemployed/never interested in traveling with your friends again. I know this seems like a no-brainer...after all, if you agree to go on a vacation, you are also agreeing to contribute to the costs, right? You'd be surprised how often the answer is "Wrong!" This counts for the house rental itself, the alcohol, toilet paper, the orange juice, the alcohol, the dishwashing detergent, the alcohol, and anything else that might be necessary on the trip. This is all part of the cost, people...and just because your good friend Mike (some other Mike--not my husband Mike of course) planned the trip, and paid the deposit, and signed the contract...he* should NOT have to pay for all these other incidentals just for the small joy of being able to spend time with you. Trust me. (*Note: the personal pronoun used here does not under any circumstance refer to my husband Mike.)<br />
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<strong>2. Ask which bedroom is yours.</strong> Yes, we've all seen The Real World where things "start getting real" as soon as the housemate with the most emotional problem runs through all the rooms and picks the one with the cushiest digs. This isn't the real world; this is vacation. And you don't want to be that person with the most emotional problems, even for a weekend. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>If you're traveling with someone elderly, they get first choice of a room. If everyone in your group is elderly, then the person who made the reservations gets first choice. (Same thing if no one in your group is elderly). After that, it's all up for grabs.<br />
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If you require special accommodations--a king-sized bed for your king-sized butt, a private bathroom because of your intestinal problems, a first-floor room because of your fear of second floor ghosts--please mention that *before* you arrive at the house. And you might want to pony up a little extra cash for the consideration.<br />
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3. Now that you've chosen your room, make sure that you don't walk into someone else's. That means you should <strong>knock before you go into every room.</strong> The hub and I have owned rental homes for about 13 years now...soon after we bought the second one, I realized that I needed to resign myself to the fact that everyone I invited to the house with us would eventually see me naked. (As you can imagine, that was a bit of a deterrent to some of our friends and probably cut down on the number of our guests considerably).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Staying in a house--particularly an old house--can be disconcerting at times. You can wake up in the middle of the night, and not remember where the bathroom is. You can walk down a hallway of closed doors, and *think* that the third door on the right is the linen closet. But it might not be. It might be your friend's bedroom, and you might see more of them than you ever wanted to.<br />
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Play it safe--for everyone's sake--and knock first. It's not a tough rule to remember, and--as you're clawing at your eyes trying to erase the picture of your mother-in-law pulling off her skirted bathing suit--you'll be glad you did.<br />
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<strong>3. No loud sex.</strong> Just because you're confident that no one will walk into your room as you're shaking your groove thang baby, doesn't mean that you should shake it till you break it. As much as we don't want to see you naked, we don't want to hear you doing naked things, either. Turn the television on, turn on the music, or just wait until you get home. Really, you'll live.<br />
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<strong>4. Keep your underwear to yourself.</strong> And your wet bathing suit. And your sex toys/vaginal creams/adult diapers. You were invited on this trip because the trip planner presumably likes you. Don't threaten that relationship with your dirty laundry. Keep your personal items...personal. And hidden in your suitcase.<br />
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<strong>5. Use the bathroom for peeing and pooping.</strong> I don't want to get graphic here (it occurs to me that I'm probably too late), but most old houses have more bedrooms than they do bathrooms. That means that there will inevitably be a line for the facilities in the morning. As you head to the bathroom, think about the functions that *really* need to be done there, and do them. And only them. I will never forget the summer of 2003, when I sustained permanent kidney damage one morning while listening to **** (name removed to protect the author) <strong>blow dry her hair (!!!)</strong> in the bathroom. By the time she was done, I was ready to pee out the second-floor window. The one facing the boardwalk.<br />
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<strong>6. Go with the flow.</strong> It's great to be easy to get along with (who doesn't love a traveling companion that shouts YES!! before you've even finished the question of "Would you like to..."??) Of course, that *doesn't* mean you have to go with the group all the time. Really. If your friends want to take a six-hour bike across the state line during an orange-level ozone day, and you would rather lay in bed watching HGTV with a bendy straw in your fruity drink, do it. It's your vacation, man. Don't make a big deal about it, and don't whine that no one wanted to go hunting for dead jellyfish on the beach so now you're not going to participate in the bike-a-thon. Just politely say no, mix yourself another margarita, and settle in.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Kksj2CM7JGm_v4whVq7lhlx0149cv8FUe71_iRYCTI5kRGxvu4hDc2qWEDFr0atqzvXzVNSGfp7M1QaG21tEX6Edxw770nKXSFcTvQ7yOWUp08dlUg1__2GqlLjqL1hyphenhyphen1keAd4sx2u9R/s1600/SAG+Jan+2010+-+Casio+070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Kksj2CM7JGm_v4whVq7lhlx0149cv8FUe71_iRYCTI5kRGxvu4hDc2qWEDFr0atqzvXzVNSGfp7M1QaG21tEX6Edxw770nKXSFcTvQ7yOWUp08dlUg1__2GqlLjqL1hyphenhyphen1keAd4sx2u9R/s320/SAG+Jan+2010+-+Casio+070.JPG" /></a></div><strong>7. Chow down with the chow hounds. </strong>At least once in a while<strong>.</strong> While I *always* advocate having the group split up periodically (after all, how can I miss you if you never freaking leave?), I also think it's nice sometimes to go to a restaurant together. If you're going to do this, make sure that it's not the most expensive restaurant in town (unless your friends all invested in Microsoft in the 70's), make sure that the eatery takes reservations (nothing ruins a group dynamic faster than standing outside a restaurant, swatting mosquitos off of each other, and talking about how hungry you are), and make sure that no one minds splitting the bill (note: if it's the waiter that doesn't mind splitting the bill, that makes the whole night more enjoyable for everyone). And take a camera--a group vacation is not a group vacation without at least one shot of everyone sitting around the table, leaning in so you can (almost) see everyone. <br />
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<strong>8. When you eat together, make sure you pay your fair share</strong>. Wait a second--are we back at the beginning of the to-do list already?<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6mMQbhRDY5_GSXz_cvhXm3folssrymBRN9FNyDVeAtsAomXwU89mLjU-B51vLFBnJaVFMGIFiVBKtsv3uTc4g5OACExOXy-B8AKPLIAnTSJ_brsbCz8KDWVCrwMoVU0fT-HtaF85X3Wh/s1600/01drink600_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6mMQbhRDY5_GSXz_cvhXm3folssrymBRN9FNyDVeAtsAomXwU89mLjU-B51vLFBnJaVFMGIFiVBKtsv3uTc4g5OACExOXy-B8AKPLIAnTSJ_brsbCz8KDWVCrwMoVU0fT-HtaF85X3Wh/s320/01drink600_1.jpg" width="320" /></a>So that basically sums it up. Pay to play--keep it kid friendly--don't hog the bathroom--eat now and again. Oh, and one other thing--don't forget to drink. I'm not talking about hydration here. I'm talking about survival, people.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Wish me luck this weekend!!!<br />
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(And, just to entertain me, tell me your worst stories about traveling with other people!)Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-87293476777748191302010-05-10T16:46:00.000-04:002010-05-10T16:46:04.090-04:00Gardening as a Competitive Sport<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfYZngfkq_na1Q9IyNp_CuqFf8dQfiPeebtaU0Pl1fTLYqOiGdHW5QRDKq_E3Nb9Lny5oQQ2zbTbfH_JcZZ-pTZdcbY4xjhZ8Mltx5vLLm7aNvu2RbVKSavPopTwt_WTALlp62IaVMRDHc/s1600/Peony2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfYZngfkq_na1Q9IyNp_CuqFf8dQfiPeebtaU0Pl1fTLYqOiGdHW5QRDKq_E3Nb9Lny5oQQ2zbTbfH_JcZZ-pTZdcbY4xjhZ8Mltx5vLLm7aNvu2RbVKSavPopTwt_WTALlp62IaVMRDHc/s200/Peony2.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div>If one more person asks me if I garden because it’s relaxing, I am going to jump up off my cushioned knee protector (and by “jump up” I mean that I will hobble to a fairly-straight and upright position, groaning the whole way), ball up my little fist (little, of course, is relative, as presently my tiny hands are swollen to man-size with my latest outbreak of poison ivy), and stamp my left foot (because my right foot still hurts from when I stuck a shovel in it trying to remove a stump from the front yard). <br />
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Do gardeners <em>look</em> as if they’re relaxing? The sweat dripping down our faces, staining the inside of our cute gardening hats? The muddy knees, imprinted with grass stains and small pebbles? The sheepish trips to the emergency room, where we are forced to admit that the gouge in our shin/branch in our eye/infected poison ivy was self inflicted during a moment of relaxation!!???<br />
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Now, I have no doubt that there are *some* people who find gardening relaxing. <br />
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For instance, I don’t know a lot of inmates, but I would assume that if you asked someone who doesn’t see sunlight much of the day if they would like to pull ivy off the side of your house, they would probably say yes and even smile as they said it. (Watch your purse, of course).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2M78OeQUEKsxzWQXNpdyibF78bO2aW7Ye_u36FXsqZuybFEOgweTLIeLPIqzSHh48liQq4yMbmEngABD5RRHvD-h-pDb8f7I4mwZcyr3Eux0bDJQ8ZCHhDbdzAbvr3TPEc_fvcj1dzeY/s1600/inmates+picking+up+trash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2M78OeQUEKsxzWQXNpdyibF78bO2aW7Ye_u36FXsqZuybFEOgweTLIeLPIqzSHh48liQq4yMbmEngABD5RRHvD-h-pDb8f7I4mwZcyr3Eux0bDJQ8ZCHhDbdzAbvr3TPEc_fvcj1dzeY/s200/inmates+picking+up+trash.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div>And they look pretty relaxed when they're standing on the side of the road, picking up trash (which doesn't sound like gardening unless you live on a busy street in suburban Baltimore like I do). <br />
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But, honestly, what isn’t more relaxing than worrying about how to hold onto that slippery bar of soap? (Okay, maybe I’ve watched too much cable…but you see my point).<br />
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Another population that seems to like to garden is retired people.<br />
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Because I know more retirees than I know inmates, I’ve actually done some research on this. There are three hobbies among the “every day is Saturday” crowd: going to the grocery store, visiting the doctor, and putting on some decades-old dirty gloves and puttering around with a hose and some pruners.<br />
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Now that I think about it, old people do look like they enjoy the latter activity. It might even provide a relaxing break for them from the mentally tiring gymnastics of Sudoko, and trying to figure out why their Medicare co-pay went up last month.<br />
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Of course, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them sweat while they’re puttering in the garden. So maybe they’re not doing it right.<br />
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Because I think I'm doing it right and I sweat like Tom Sizemore on Celebrity Rehab.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WWIg7rlcZBPrMprMmNBzDl_sR5fVnQ_suwp_tGohj53oGJhfoRUg3EChqmulf7z6FaG1HQu2Hujg-u4A8OP_7HpFoKemepWzCRBM-RVxrh0_2j-kbyGGOCBlafu5T1sjOrpcAkp31UbY/s1600/pinkliliesofthe+valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WWIg7rlcZBPrMprMmNBzDl_sR5fVnQ_suwp_tGohj53oGJhfoRUg3EChqmulf7z6FaG1HQu2Hujg-u4A8OP_7HpFoKemepWzCRBM-RVxrh0_2j-kbyGGOCBlafu5T1sjOrpcAkp31UbY/s320/pinkliliesofthe+valley.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div>I’m thinking about adding a sign to my front yard. Right in the middle of the pink lilies of the valley: “This garden is maintained by just one woman…doing the work of ten…for the benefit of thousands.” (Okay, full disclosure: I stole the motto from my friend Jim Belfield of Virginia. He, however, says “man” instead of “woman” so I don’t think I owe him a licensing fee). <br />
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How did I become so crazy? Because I'm pretty sure that I seem laid back to my friends, who would never guess that I’m half insane on weekends trying to grow roses that are bigger than theirs, hedges that are denser and perennials that are more colorful.<br />
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As with most things (my bad knees, my upturned nose), I blame my family. My grandfather, on my dad’s side, kept a notebook of his plants and fields. After he died, we found it in his desk. A typical entry would be: April 29, 72 degrees. Sunny. Five flowers open on the purple gloxinia, 2 buds.<br />
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Later, in the summer, his entries included garden records. How many pounds of potatoes he harvested. How many pumpkins were on the vine. He recorded the current year’s numbers, then flipped to the front of the book to compare the results to last year. <br />
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Good grief, I realize now that Pappy was so competitive that he had to compete with himself. No wonder that I am the way I am.<br />
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I need to get a copy of that notebook. I bet I can beat his numbers.<br />
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At least I can try. While I’m relaxing.Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-83590783644973391202010-05-07T07:33:00.003-04:002010-05-07T07:38:31.533-04:00Asking Me To Remember is Just.Plain.Mean.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Pw1HSVxCon1L3uGe7I6t7GV0_O9-VsO9Lhs2-DJEn2OrRiDR1TvnMjFS_Hnffqtp8MBDoozrGcs2n5dV9yilwydgeNULXS31mx5bn6X6wnyfgWujILLDB6IYEpu9n-ExsltTAshBLgz8/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Pw1HSVxCon1L3uGe7I6t7GV0_O9-VsO9Lhs2-DJEn2OrRiDR1TvnMjFS_Hnffqtp8MBDoozrGcs2n5dV9yilwydgeNULXS31mx5bn6X6wnyfgWujILLDB6IYEpu9n-ExsltTAshBLgz8/s320/Texas+April+2010(2)+166.JPG" tt="true" /></a>It's not fun to have a memory deficiency. I don't know if it's a sleep deprivation thing, or a pre-menopausal thing, or if it's just...</div><br />
Wait a minute. What was I talking about?<br />
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That's what it's like now around the Wieber Ranch. I'm constantly walking into a room, stopping short, and saying (usually out loud) "Why did I come in here again?" It's not fun.<br />
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That's why our recent trip to San Antonio was so....memorable.<br />
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First, we had planned on staying at the Historic Menger hotel, right across from the Alamo. Except that I forgot to make the reservations right away...and by the time I did remember to look at the list that I keep on my blackberry to avoid such minor catastrophes, the price of the rooms had almost doubled.<br />
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Had I remembered to make reservations in time, I would have been staying here:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHUXqLseVOTPelwIAPBybmMnuYs6vPKUnGiPH8WKQz3Oyclp8TSku4wKL7nM4uQMfVNBHPCcLW-JTLNknD4y8UAhBNycBWqTRWas6tLPPUglS3mpe8rHOrhzq0JacO7N-rMjQ-S7HsJ0Po/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHUXqLseVOTPelwIAPBybmMnuYs6vPKUnGiPH8WKQz3Oyclp8TSku4wKL7nM4uQMfVNBHPCcLW-JTLNknD4y8UAhBNycBWqTRWas6tLPPUglS3mpe8rHOrhzq0JacO7N-rMjQ-S7HsJ0Po/s200/Texas+April+2010(2)+161.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><br />
I would have had a lobby that looked like this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPESPXobZkpen7vui9_TsbHJfCwfnpE42NCgbtZIGl5Leog7k1w9XwqM4hSLc7dISTcVPWSEWh0SzNigZQe5CYum3evE3OUPFuDqRRUHisX3ufOVMBWDf-0XeHwfsFZW6P-Csxf-Lx5cou/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPESPXobZkpen7vui9_TsbHJfCwfnpE42NCgbtZIGl5Leog7k1w9XwqM4hSLc7dISTcVPWSEWh0SzNigZQe5CYum3evE3OUPFuDqRRUHisX3ufOVMBWDf-0XeHwfsFZW6P-Csxf-Lx5cou/s320/Texas+April+2010(2)+088.JPG" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I could have been sipping mai tai's in a courtyard that looked like this:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9RzwvyJDVtjRcxLxO0XxB6YBSMVdYsCQJqquB0t6xWCX_Ue2Z5ab6U7HEKHhOnE4qlI_NGtEjDbREue0u2eARGA6ujQKQTkwTaTinsm0Xp8Znt1l5Y0a30LbfD6HZF6Sh0uZXjiVpJPJ/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9RzwvyJDVtjRcxLxO0XxB6YBSMVdYsCQJqquB0t6xWCX_Ue2Z5ab6U7HEKHhOnE4qlI_NGtEjDbREue0u2eARGA6ujQKQTkwTaTinsm0Xp8Znt1l5Y0a30LbfD6HZF6Sh0uZXjiVpJPJ/s320/Texas+April+2010(2)+085.JPG" tt="true" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWyRbvGSCz9FAR5dC7PuO8RHY4ITuUaT2CXmYpDtDWsalSGR7uZMO8vZEjuM6dsCUjAYPQzaTIg2dafMIkXfvz5P7s2qu7cQVlAPb8Y_c-ccWwBZL7HpWB704ZCRu6qAOiZbQivzGfrFR/s1600/Texas+May+2010+028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWyRbvGSCz9FAR5dC7PuO8RHY4ITuUaT2CXmYpDtDWsalSGR7uZMO8vZEjuM6dsCUjAYPQzaTIg2dafMIkXfvz5P7s2qu7cQVlAPb8Y_c-ccWwBZL7HpWB704ZCRu6qAOiZbQivzGfrFR/s320/Texas+May+2010+028.JPG" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div>As it was,we stayed at the Historic St. Anthony...whose lobby looked like this, so I'm sure that no one is going to feel too sorry for me. But get out your hankerchiefs: Our room smelled a little funny, and it had a doorbell (cool) but no trash can (totally uncool). I suppose someone could have taken all of the trash receptacles out of the Menger as well--I didn't look in any of the rooms.<br />
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Then, in my second bone-headed move of the trip, I forgot to check the San Antonio website to see if there were any festivals or events in town that might impact my stay.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHPl9ZthXeAuNuO_6OQ7e61EyQkDPAPNl2FcMEYKnp6Mx2RuI-1_5MYJoXGBo6CMQ1E_N6PV1SFgyuO1BiRTEhFjo4ArMb3TmX_k5k_7x7C8cR_XnsmCL4VmGv77URQKkhheW8hf-vccn/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHPl9ZthXeAuNuO_6OQ7e61EyQkDPAPNl2FcMEYKnp6Mx2RuI-1_5MYJoXGBo6CMQ1E_N6PV1SFgyuO1BiRTEhFjo4ArMb3TmX_k5k_7x7C8cR_XnsmCL4VmGv77URQKkhheW8hf-vccn/s320/Texas+April+2010(2)+176.JPG" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div>That was a biggie, because it happened to be Fiesta...the biggest party in San Antonio all year. Hundreds of thousands of people were in town...and all of them seemed to want to do exactly what I was doing. Unless you count what I wanted to do at midnight, which was to take a siesta...a time when the fiesta-ness of it all was just hitting full swing.<br />
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Fiesta is a historic event, starting with a weird parade and event called the Battle of the Flowers in 1891. The San Antonia-ites had so much fun throwing blooms at each other, they began adding more parades, a carnival, balls, and coronations of "royalty", from King Selamat (tamales spelled backwards) to King Omala (Alamo, natch) and King Antonio, as well as lots of princesses with sashes around their chests and tiaras.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD5lO80qqSEBkeWu_c5Fe5UJ-SfaZfn2Bpd7QZTgkP2FQxV4MmyO3irU5ifnBZHj901O1r9EzJP9RB6jgdVTk7sjsxr43dfDtJveB8YhZ88aNwLzIDizxZmQ3B6xuuG1G2DhOIv9MAr5Dj/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD5lO80qqSEBkeWu_c5Fe5UJ-SfaZfn2Bpd7QZTgkP2FQxV4MmyO3irU5ifnBZHj901O1r9EzJP9RB6jgdVTk7sjsxr43dfDtJveB8YhZ88aNwLzIDizxZmQ3B6xuuG1G2DhOIv9MAr5Dj/s320/Texas+April+2010(2)+153.JPG" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div>Today, Fiesta seems like Spanish Mardi Gras, complete with weird outfits and plenty of decorations. It also seemed a little like a May Day event, with girls of every age putting flowers in their hair. And it seemed a lot like Freshman Hazing Week at a big university...with lots of 3-foot long beers on the Riverwalk and margaritas that came in a 10-gallon fishbowl instead of a glass (which seems a lot like Mardi Gras, too).<br />
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One of the things I was really looking forward to in San Antone (I have to say that at least once because my husband sang the Monkeys song "What Am I Doing Hanging Round?" all weekend. Obviously, his memory of obscure derivative songs is working just fine) was visiting the King William neighborhood which--according to the photos I saw--looked like a great little Victorian enclave.<br />
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We took San Antonio trolley to the King William stop, and got out...only to see thousands of people crowding the quaint streets.<br />
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Yes, the King William neighborhood has a special festival as part of Festival. I won't forget to check the website for events around town next time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrbshjlcmKW2BgVW6IizD9c49oNeKmxRWKfqWPJHlczGtlc62TeH3AstiSJmJw4b7CTT2dmAsvTllo0eLPYEiKHj9qDWi5jF6q8cSkQrAr8-Iu87FjhY8Gib-NvfA_r_CSvCHX7IrBLoA/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrbshjlcmKW2BgVW6IizD9c49oNeKmxRWKfqWPJHlczGtlc62TeH3AstiSJmJw4b7CTT2dmAsvTllo0eLPYEiKHj9qDWi5jF6q8cSkQrAr8-Iu87FjhY8Gib-NvfA_r_CSvCHX7IrBLoA/s320/Texas+April+2010(2)+128.JPG" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div>I did get to see a couple of the houses over the throngs of face-painted children, tiny little dogs (I'm still trying to remember why people like these things so much--if you have any insight please post your thoughts!), and big sweaty grown ups. They were lovely. The houses, that is. Not the big sweaty grown-ups. Lovely enough that I might go back.<br />
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When I do go back, I don't plan on visiting the Alamo. It was, ironically, not memorable at all. And frustrating, because--although the phrase Remember the Alamo stuck in my head--I didn't remember anything about it except the chorus to Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier. And the old mission/fort/t-shirt stand didn't have a lot of easily accessible information. It did have a bunch of memorials spread around the perimeter of the main room, and that part was appropriately somber and peaceful...but it would have been nice to have some general information right there at the beginning so that I wouldn't have felt so dumb as I walked through.<br />
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Luckily, the Daughters of the Republic of Texas put together a brochure with all the pertinent details of the 13-day siege and subsequent assault on the Alamo (I found it in the third building that I walked into, back by the gardens). <br />
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Before Davey Crockett (who is referred to everywhere as David, so I suspect Davey was a Disney makeover) told everyone to remember the Alamo, it was a mission, home to missionaries and their Indian converts. By the early 1800's, the Spanish military had stationed a calvary unit there (Alamo is the Spanish word for "cottonwood", and these Spaniards named the place after their hometown of Alamo de Parras, Coahuila. I'm glad they didn't name it Coahuila--I would have never remembered that).<br />
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Things started getting memorable in December 1835, when Ben Milam led Texian (not a typo) and Tejano volunteers against the Mexican troops that were quartered in the city (so don't you think for a minute that all of this border patrol stuff started with Mexicans coming north--we started it by going south, In fact, there's a whole display in one of the back buildings that lists quotes from Mexican officials about their concern over white settlers moving in. They all seemed worried that the whites would take over their country, and snap up all of the good jobs for themselves. But that's another story). <br />
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There were no immigration attorneys back in 1835, so the men just fought it out hand-to-hand (house to house, according to the Daughters of the Texas Republic). After five days of fighting, the volunteers won.<br />
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Then the victors moved in--sitting the shade of the Alamo's tall walls, enjoying the butterflies in the back garden, eating burritos on the steps. Until two months later, in February, when the Mexican soldiers came back. <br />
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And killed everyone. <br />
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That's the part you're supposed to remember. <br />
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The brochure from the Daughters has a list of the names of men who were known to have died in the defense of the Alamo. The list includes David Crockett and Jim Bowie, who was known for his knife fighting, although it kind of let him down in March 1936. <br />
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My favorite part of the Alamo was the gardens, and the third building that listed all of the information on the spot. It was quiet back there, and less crowded, and you could really reflect on all of the people who had died in the old mission--on both sides. It gave me time to think about the women and the children who weren't killed, but who had to live with the memory of 13 brutal days.<br />
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That's the part I'll remember about my trip to San Antonio. The quiet couple of minutes that I spent in the back gardens of the Alamo. <br />
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And the fact that next time, I'll check the website to see if there are any festivals going on (<a href="http://www.visitsanantonio.com/">http://www.visitsanantonio.com/</a>). <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisZ0twAB1Oay0v-rDFbDJ-Jc5-BGRnKLah9C7LgUr-1MRxAr2R132n1qSs98Zt8KLoH-yQmbb3w7j8F-TzK0hy7k3WXJE6rsUQEVycLiq7aWelkRG4FcWh8ubG59tjlVSKrx8ajx4PJkPe/s1600/Texas+April+2010(2)+059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisZ0twAB1Oay0v-rDFbDJ-Jc5-BGRnKLah9C7LgUr-1MRxAr2R132n1qSs98Zt8KLoH-yQmbb3w7j8F-TzK0hy7k3WXJE6rsUQEVycLiq7aWelkRG4FcWh8ubG59tjlVSKrx8ajx4PJkPe/s320/Texas+April+2010(2)+059.JPG" tt="true" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-46762292085900045052010-04-23T12:27:00.000-04:002010-04-23T12:27:35.034-04:00God Made the Universe, But the Navy Made This Island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPA9rk5eq3JbsDRPhSHSbo6FitLYKzj4aU7g772_rDDe4y5XNrR4qs4ccXllxpaQ4n7gEkOjBnyt8fxqS1WceuPyAXrjX9s8fI0C6OVMTgmeNjZ1XmLwl8zoHYA97nyahlH6dh6gReJc6y/s1600/holland.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPA9rk5eq3JbsDRPhSHSbo6FitLYKzj4aU7g772_rDDe4y5XNrR4qs4ccXllxpaQ4n7gEkOjBnyt8fxqS1WceuPyAXrjX9s8fI0C6OVMTgmeNjZ1XmLwl8zoHYA97nyahlH6dh6gReJc6y/s320/holland.gif" width="292" wt="true" /></a></div>When HTG was just a G, she spent a couple of weeks in the Netherlands. While she was there, she spent some of those weeks with a boy named Rolf, with whom she spent some of that time...talking about international politics.<br />
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HTG didn't know much about international politics then, but Rolf was older and a little more versed in....international politics. <br />
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Anyway, we all know that talk of international politics between two youngsters can not last forever. So HTG eventually came back to the states, and Rolf most likely began talking about international politics with some cute young thing with blonde hair and hand-rolled cigarettes and truly exceptional bone structure.<br />
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For several years, HTG received letters from Rolf. In them, he went on and on about the Dutch's superiority in...everything. (See, now you're starting to think we really did talk about international politics, aren't you?)<br />
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In one letter, he sent a hand drawn map of the world. The United States was the size of a nickel, while Holland was the size of a separate piece of paper. <br />
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In another, he ended his letter with the following declaration (his capitalization, not mine): GOD MADE THE UNIVERSE, BUT THE DUTCH MADE HOLLAND. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH9ZcnQEUwoLlKYtprkH6xquNOK_Zw1e5Nyqp-vH7ucDCGAzI_e5-R3B0HouOmpXsAvSSMvNbbb-_WTUaLBpQ8CkEubVLQHrsTuhQSKAKJkqobiuYaFMfZYw0Alkkrvym3WbTeSP-8KaC/s1600/carver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH9ZcnQEUwoLlKYtprkH6xquNOK_Zw1e5Nyqp-vH7ucDCGAzI_e5-R3B0HouOmpXsAvSSMvNbbb-_WTUaLBpQ8CkEubVLQHrsTuhQSKAKJkqobiuYaFMfZYw0Alkkrvym3WbTeSP-8KaC/s200/carver.jpg" width="149" wt="true" /></a></div>I soon found other nice young men stateside who liked to talk international politics as much as I did, and I eventually forgot about Rolf and his quite appealing accent and less than appealing ego. But I never did forget the above slogan, which would fit nicely on the bumper of a Dutch-made Carver.<br />
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I thought of this slogan again when I visited Sunset Key, a pretty place previously known as Tank Island. It's a tiny place...just 27 acres, which is probably the perfect size to dart around in a brightly colored Carver (although the pale 60-something millionaires and their tan 20-something girlfriends there make due with much less sporty golf carts).<br />
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Tank Island is located about 500 yards off the coast of Key West (far enough that you can get away from the constant racket of annoying Buffet tunes). It was originally just a sandbar, but the Navy wanted to dredge a nearly harbor (the "Mole", at the southwestern point of KW) to a depth of 36 feet so that the diesel subs patrolling the Southern Atlantic could float on through.<br />
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In 1965, they began dredging, first pumping the sand onto Wisteria Island, and then moving the pipes a bit south to a submerged sandbar. Soon they started thinking that that sandbar would be a nice outpost to hold their fuel tanks. <br />
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They pumped 10 million cubic feet of fill onto that sandbar, then presumably they created a commission to come up with a name for the new place. Fifteen thousand memos and fourteen thousand department meetings later (I'm just guessing, of course), some genius came up with Tank Island, and the military heavy weights--who oftentimes do not even have the right lobe of their brain, using that space instead to store knowledge about firearms and the best way to increase your chest size--nodded and said it sounded good. They then presumably created a committee to figure out what they should order for lunch.<br />
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Tank Island sounded good until 1994 when the the island was sold. The new owners, and their right-brained marketing geniuses, decided that "Tank Island" might not draw the tourists in the way they hoped. So they presumable got together for 4,000 billable hours, created a couple dozen focus groups, and did a trademark search before settling on the infinitely more romantic sounding Sunset Key. They then created a survey and direct mail piece to determine what cocktails they should order.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvzpXOGPlPR83oX4LJoYAI_PJJMvJH82wM0eVLUVW00Gxxzf1uOeQ_4rnFzYZPM4NwlAD2abYfM0FYgy8ePqFqlJDyRRFd2IxJCxtV9J599tBF_umdnRXyAOChtLg3sS8ZYARhB-MBIj3x/s1600/Key+West+July+2009+099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvzpXOGPlPR83oX4LJoYAI_PJJMvJH82wM0eVLUVW00Gxxzf1uOeQ_4rnFzYZPM4NwlAD2abYfM0FYgy8ePqFqlJDyRRFd2IxJCxtV9J599tBF_umdnRXyAOChtLg3sS8ZYARhB-MBIj3x/s200/Key+West+July+2009+099.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div>To be honest, the sunsets you'll see there are pretty much the same ones you can see on Mallory Square. <br />
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But you'll be watching them with about 10,000 less people. And none of the people on Sunset Key will be swallowing swords for money or asking you if you want to pose for a photo with their pet iguana for just five bucks.<br />
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Sunset Key is pretty exclusive. In fact, you can't even get there unless you take the Westin's private water shuttle (you catch it at the Westin Marina which is behind their main hotel). It feels very rat-pack to hop into a sleek little boat and feel the wind in your hair as you're going to your destination. And you dock in the cutest pier I've ever seen.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPRhcC8d_80EKho3VnlEe34CnvWH0Najb6ZVQB8NKGXWT4BB5Z1NQpnEcgs2f_e4EFn9zILSpANe9wVZMm-I9S0rz_ulRvM7ukj7C4jK5YAogSykEW46OITgT17cQjPU_Sqgp2nwyU0BY/s1600/Key+West+July+2009+119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPRhcC8d_80EKho3VnlEe34CnvWH0Najb6ZVQB8NKGXWT4BB5Z1NQpnEcgs2f_e4EFn9zILSpANe9wVZMm-I9S0rz_ulRvM7ukj7C4jK5YAogSykEW46OITgT17cQjPU_Sqgp2nwyU0BY/s200/Key+West+July+2009+119.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div>But don't think that you can just take the boat over and roam around among the millionaires. You can't. <br />
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You can go to the island if you're staying there--the Westin has a couple of private cottages that you can rent, or you can spend hours online trying to become friends with someone who owns one of the 40-some private homes there.<br />
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For those of you with shallow pockets and too many scruples to ingratiate yourself with owners, the Westin does have a public restaurant called Latitudes. It's a great place, with lots of tables on the beach, but it's the type of restaurant that most people go to for their anniversary (ca-ching!). If your anniversary (or your sales commission check) is months away, try Latitudes for lunch. They've got a great grouper sandwich with Key West sauce (a mayonnaise-based spread with a hint of lime), for about ten bucks. It comes with an interesting sweet potato salad (which seems so much more special than regular potato salad) and a pickle. The view is free. And, if you like that kind of thing, you can take your bathing suit and hit the Westin beach. Having a real beach in the Keys is one huge advantage to being on a man-made island.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzIRPaxO8_4ZM-hqDGC3Zutz6W8qzOAzH0XdG3RSrdGuAuvdt6M34Ju_iO6-wMeF7KI2FzKqQKHRMEa794DeGQqp5c5pQl8wDdNOiuI33CDWDMQVyXN6FsIrB3_prc_fYWJUw4Ap5n_JW/s1600/Key+West+July+2009+158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzIRPaxO8_4ZM-hqDGC3Zutz6W8qzOAzH0XdG3RSrdGuAuvdt6M34Ju_iO6-wMeF7KI2FzKqQKHRMEa794DeGQqp5c5pQl8wDdNOiuI33CDWDMQVyXN6FsIrB3_prc_fYWJUw4Ap5n_JW/s200/Key+West+July+2009+158.JPG" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div><br />
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How did I slip past the crack security team on the island? The hub and I were lucky enough to find a homeowner who would rent their slice of paradise to us for a month. I didn't have the money or the time to take off a month, but I did have enough friends who were interested in hanging out at the island to split the cost and make it doable.<br />
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During our time on Sunset Key, we did catch some pretty nice sunsets. They were a great backdrop to a quiet swim, a fruity drink, and some very interesting discussions of international politics.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQzPnuhB-9vGe6dlVvUQTjGLjEhAZp3YbBOokrPAiT7A6_5Q3C2kAbDUVoANpH-wO_fm97Yr1BJshrfua-pKfgV_3KtgTTDB9m59YM41nW-gLlNn5nEn_weBqBTWRRTO4oI4_Nc3TBztQ/s1600/Key+West+July+2009+032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQzPnuhB-9vGe6dlVvUQTjGLjEhAZp3YbBOokrPAiT7A6_5Q3C2kAbDUVoANpH-wO_fm97Yr1BJshrfua-pKfgV_3KtgTTDB9m59YM41nW-gLlNn5nEn_weBqBTWRRTO4oI4_Nc3TBztQ/s320/Key+West+July+2009+032.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYhKVspknhLVrIylwQQgyzkYfEj0HaVw7hQ_RMV_HT8blC9rcmI797A1ltNEzOBC8PVloWwwJMSZn0ZrQ-1yOg_h0fP0_nme_JwqyUv_cS4_gZhIESjESzQ72a0URFNEwg4RLCTpDnUTr/s1600/Key+West+July+2009+058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYhKVspknhLVrIylwQQgyzkYfEj0HaVw7hQ_RMV_HT8blC9rcmI797A1ltNEzOBC8PVloWwwJMSZn0ZrQ-1yOg_h0fP0_nme_JwqyUv_cS4_gZhIESjESzQ72a0URFNEwg4RLCTpDnUTr/s320/Key+West+July+2009+058.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-14030142528104640742010-03-25T02:26:00.002-04:002010-03-25T17:03:12.546-04:00Trees of Life: The Passing Nature of Art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3ClUvcrGQ6hQDOtsBQePD-6SpG5bZ_j0uuCjLMNqpYrqPPJPY6VZSs1V-9cpsr_RtMJyxcMKDJikSS2f-XMDupnx_1pSSZo3JxNWFKv6IN0ZUq6x9sOqIwmoCJbq8H8PXXBmeM4lU9YF/s1600/035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3ClUvcrGQ6hQDOtsBQePD-6SpG5bZ_j0uuCjLMNqpYrqPPJPY6VZSs1V-9cpsr_RtMJyxcMKDJikSS2f-XMDupnx_1pSSZo3JxNWFKv6IN0ZUq6x9sOqIwmoCJbq8H8PXXBmeM4lU9YF/s320/035.JPG" /></a></div>HTG's mother was an artist. She painted porcelain, which is a very Victorian lady thing to do.<br />
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One of the things I loved about her art was that it was beautiful, but exceptionally fragile. One rambunctious two-year-old could wipe out years of work in about 4.7 seconds. (Yes, I'm talking about you, Lukey!)<br />
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Porcelain painting has a tough aspect, too. The artist paints the piece, and then fires it in a kiln to about 1500 degrees. The glaze on the porcelain actually melts, and the paint becomes a part of it. The artist then goes through the process again: a little more paint, another firing, another melting and cooling process.<br />
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Each of her pieces required a minimum of three firings. To get a really dark color, she could paint and fire a piece 5 or 6 times. <br />
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Of course, push the piece too far, and it would melt in the kiln like a three dimensional Dali painting. It was always a sad day when Mom opened the kiln's lid to find a mess like that in the bottom of it.<br />
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All of that is to say that my favorite artists are those artists who know that their art will be fleeting, and that it is somehow fragile in time. Paintings fade, sculptures erode, glass and porcelain breaks.<br />
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Maybe that's why I love the tree carvings that are sprouting (pun intended) up all over Galveston, Texas. <br />
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Or maybe I love them because they're just cool.<br />
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A little background: in 2008, Hurricane Ike roared through Galveston (verbiage on a t-shirt I saw there last month: <strong>Hurricane Ike: Category Two, My Ass!),</strong> creating a huge storm surge in the island's historic East End. During its visit, it displaced about nine feet of salty water, which sat in the neighborhood for a day or two.<br />
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The 100-year old live oaks (ahh, the irony) didn't like the salt, and many of them ended up dying. <br />
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Rather than keep these skeletal reminders of the storm around, most people cut them down and ground the stumps into sawdust. <br />
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But some people left about six feet of stump and had them carved into beautiful, transient pieces of art. Because wood, like porcelain, is ultimately fragile, especially when left in the elements. <br />
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But transience only makes these pieces more awesome, because you know that you have a limited time to enjoy them. I don't know how long--maybe 30 years, maybe 5.<br />
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So, given the fleeting nature of both art (and life), let's check 'em out:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgL6u53ze6o4GJWPQVqHE4BrxdGFppIGdW8Bo-bilwxzMG2OqJ-DC5iQ6jlQgvRiDzWooJK1UpW9Uu4OWMMcbwBegdLrso33YiMGpFZdnnlIf70QOvFBvmepRGtvVRyYEDuzKaNK5bFuk/s1600/Galveston+Feb+2010+015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgL6u53ze6o4GJWPQVqHE4BrxdGFppIGdW8Bo-bilwxzMG2OqJ-DC5iQ6jlQgvRiDzWooJK1UpW9Uu4OWMMcbwBegdLrso33YiMGpFZdnnlIf70QOvFBvmepRGtvVRyYEDuzKaNK5bFuk/s320/Galveston+Feb+2010+015.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>I'm going to start with my favorite. This is my boyfriend, Tinny. He is all decked out for Mardi Gras. If you'd like to visit him (<em>don't even try to date him, lest I have to get all Angry Lion on you</em>), you can find him at 1702 Winnie. <br />
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Why a tin man? Because King Vidor, an uncredited director of the Wizard of Oz, was born in the house. King directed all the Kansas scenes in the Wizard, which are some of my favorite. According to Wikipedia (and they're never wrong, right?) he also did a film on the Storm of 1900. If any of you have more information on that, I'd be very interested to hear more!<br />
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In the meantime, I visit Tinny as much as I can. And I plan to name my next child and/or fish King. Because I don't think he'd be teased that much in second grade, do you?<br />
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King is a great name for a dog, of course, particularly given the kind of treatment that many household pets today seem to enjoy. Here are a couple of dogs that even I could own: they're cute and they never bark at six in the morning.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX9zLSx7QGJrtSLQgNim4LCiWfbNW-D-sZ2tnz5zc6E_vuN_yAQAce2rGYn3YMt1E2IhH0zJkyqZQkmy2eXPGy_LEVXcXjr0_h6zQUxXftibzNKh1gwRnVaqQDSaDzpltaut-wPQppLK_o/s1600/Galveston+-+Dickens+2009+065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX9zLSx7QGJrtSLQgNim4LCiWfbNW-D-sZ2tnz5zc6E_vuN_yAQAce2rGYn3YMt1E2IhH0zJkyqZQkmy2eXPGy_LEVXcXjr0_h6zQUxXftibzNKh1gwRnVaqQDSaDzpltaut-wPQppLK_o/s200/Galveston+-+Dickens+2009+065.JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_FsGHrn0S02U1IeDn_7VDy6_zIH1DEcnQjn5J2DhpoZGcwelwuaIHTUvxiOMtjGGf_38me2DMBbnnQmyWyBaDUf4t3F_V0CNRnDjfZ2F2IGq8xd1VuSUGEG7qCLDklCecvsk_IgfoV18/s1600/Galveston+Feb+2010+032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_FsGHrn0S02U1IeDn_7VDy6_zIH1DEcnQjn5J2DhpoZGcwelwuaIHTUvxiOMtjGGf_38me2DMBbnnQmyWyBaDUf4t3F_V0CNRnDjfZ2F2IGq8xd1VuSUGEG7qCLDklCecvsk_IgfoV18/s200/Galveston+Feb+2010+032.JPG" width="150" /></a>The Great Dane on the left is at 1228 Sealy (he looks like a "King", doesn't he?). Some ne'er do well has stolen his left paw since I took this shot...I hope that a dog attacks that person and karma-cly gnaws off his arm as soon as possible.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Spotty, on the right, is in front of the firehouse at 25th and Sealy. He was one of the first carvings that I saw in town, and I still want to pet him when I see him.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdmfIEQTu3RIlAi_QddYXZPUIVcICN_GdIzaJoWRCJXvGyRcOUVr2SesYkUvpn63i7rvueOMXD14n-U1gKwTBYV02-_ED1cLbyfUON9duXFl1_2oKhAYMG0NmnPyi5-8yixL7hhcmA6b2/s1600/Galveston+-+Dickens+2009+064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdmfIEQTu3RIlAi_QddYXZPUIVcICN_GdIzaJoWRCJXvGyRcOUVr2SesYkUvpn63i7rvueOMXD14n-U1gKwTBYV02-_ED1cLbyfUON9duXFl1_2oKhAYMG0NmnPyi5-8yixL7hhcmA6b2/s320/Galveston+-+Dickens+2009+064.JPG" /></a></div>If you're wondering what Spotty is looking at, it's probably this beauty next to him on the other side of the firehouse's lawn:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMD8iYJLC69VejTZt4G4fkxQUu0cF6paqLLq9H6UOwmEiWaEm66CMy4rFMlK6UQNsw1HqaJcr12sbi6nmCShpEfyW4KIGaXBEHzCSAX7oIQi3PRlFXIOXdL41q3gynnPe5r85afgtQ_izq/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMD8iYJLC69VejTZt4G4fkxQUu0cF6paqLLq9H6UOwmEiWaEm66CMy4rFMlK6UQNsw1HqaJcr12sbi6nmCShpEfyW4KIGaXBEHzCSAX7oIQi3PRlFXIOXdL41q3gynnPe5r85afgtQ_izq/s200/002.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Here's one more cutie. He's so realistic (and so realistically sized, unlike the five and six foot tall nuclear versions above), I almost biked right past him. You can find him at 1820 Winnie, unless he has taken off after a cat, which he looks like he might do any minute.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirbj3cdYNDSlPhBT587WGJMG7CPF6bj7YgrxXBkgnVFh1_ryM-DqgDCbP7PtOcpIvodYgFnUhWGOV1q7hq5L2V9kglQGdSu4JOcmLkjxCgmlSReSb9NCBfbXc5o5OHco2Dw62VBJKaCYwF/s1600/Galveston+Feb+2010+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirbj3cdYNDSlPhBT587WGJMG7CPF6bj7YgrxXBkgnVFh1_ryM-DqgDCbP7PtOcpIvodYgFnUhWGOV1q7hq5L2V9kglQGdSu4JOcmLkjxCgmlSReSb9NCBfbXc5o5OHco2Dw62VBJKaCYwF/s200/Galveston+Feb+2010+018.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Like art itself, the subject gives you great insight into the artist (or, more likely, into the guy or gal who paid the artist). Like these three angels on the 1700 block of Ball Street. The owner of the house has three little granddaughters...and she's always called them her "little angels." <br />
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Go ahead, you can say it: "Awwww."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW5ihJS11qy9lyiQgf7dlZfWP2Qs24Ox_XgXhGndGZ6BtN8SroHTYf9216PSnR8VOOYP_VYRe9iDgim3o-vKZnaO6Zw1ZXDmgnHG1CYQjUAoeg4BiCx9QfXPHXVgk0WkaVEisyqc3nzOFZ/s1600/Galveston+March+2010-2+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW5ihJS11qy9lyiQgf7dlZfWP2Qs24Ox_XgXhGndGZ6BtN8SroHTYf9216PSnR8VOOYP_VYRe9iDgim3o-vKZnaO6Zw1ZXDmgnHG1CYQjUAoeg4BiCx9QfXPHXVgk0WkaVEisyqc3nzOFZ/s320/Galveston+March+2010-2+001.JPG" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Before I introduce you to Mermy here, I should share a story of shopping for garden art with my husband several years ago. As he walked through the statuary, he threatened to ask the salesperson if there wasn't anything sexier. This come-hither carving is at 1428 Church, right around the corner from our house, and right up my husband's alley, as they say.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Incidentally, I'm not sure why she's holding a catcher's mitt above her head. But she combines two of the hub's favorite springtime pursuits--boobs and baseball. I'm guessing the artist may have similar interests, because I know the owner of the house, and she's never mentioned either of those topics.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNkQ4ZzAQTnVsfLWwaxPgKo6F8XXMaAMlNsBZliaMmg1LIw0i2dJpn2SftJIy2MGvYQ5Sgbc0VJO-v8mfPebNZpGLOB4hB5h3N1DekGnr2oHPTu1JHvoZfKqZWBmhlI9Nr3PwLIaIaysb/s1600/Galveston+March+2010-2+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNkQ4ZzAQTnVsfLWwaxPgKo6F8XXMaAMlNsBZliaMmg1LIw0i2dJpn2SftJIy2MGvYQ5Sgbc0VJO-v8mfPebNZpGLOB4hB5h3N1DekGnr2oHPTu1JHvoZfKqZWBmhlI9Nr3PwLIaIaysb/s200/Galveston+March+2010-2+012.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>Here are some other chicks that have recently moved into the neighborhood. The Geisha girl on Ball Street isn't quite moved in yet, but I already know she'll be a great addition to the historic district. I'm not sure why the owner chose this topic; if I find out (or if you know), post it in the comments. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYR1eVMrfP8ypSo9dA9AKr_rwTdtXEuxON-2DNBm6jgzSMhZAhC3c1BBASSz6yW84GQTkCpRdFnL4F1j4YVbqL_llbXKyex2i0Bm372RUzkhlchwmUXSkxg3rOMZek6Lb_PVeRkMFu6PrA/s1600/Galveston+Feb+2010+021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYR1eVMrfP8ypSo9dA9AKr_rwTdtXEuxON-2DNBm6jgzSMhZAhC3c1BBASSz6yW84GQTkCpRdFnL4F1j4YVbqL_llbXKyex2i0Bm372RUzkhlchwmUXSkxg3rOMZek6Lb_PVeRkMFu6PrA/s200/Galveston+Feb+2010+021.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>This angel is holding a bunny because the owner of the yard used to be a Playboy model. At least that's the story that I've heard. You can go to 17th and Post Office and decide for yourself.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Galveston is an island, so, as you would expect, there are plenty of people who commemorated the island wildlife in their front yards (there may be many who commemorated it in their back yards as well, but HTG is simply not that nosy. Or that brave). Here are some of the ones I spotted:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdzYc3sQEIqg0n2u5mwUCkH0PoR7Q70iGSSDHoE90U3DSNtQOqmHdVFYU70HN9ydoyNOKl0USwvkQbe2FACaJR9OKMPBvSgip_EC4-5qQw5d9dsDQeQWLk2ayVo2wt2_TqIRQz9zH4AS1/s1600/Galveston+March+2010-2+032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdzYc3sQEIqg0n2u5mwUCkH0PoR7Q70iGSSDHoE90U3DSNtQOqmHdVFYU70HN9ydoyNOKl0USwvkQbe2FACaJR9OKMPBvSgip_EC4-5qQw5d9dsDQeQWLk2ayVo2wt2_TqIRQz9zH4AS1/s200/Galveston+March+2010-2+032.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQSuVkpnr27DRlrGWeEip6DiRrh0AA-DI5F6ghU8-n47PGuV4iG5jJj6eMncvZjeL3pSWrjTukuDp7mRv822DTTcuKsGLhDujuX1DA5ZO4WN4b9KJ848tXyarsFRUmP2HzSmvcMLO-xgYw/s1600/Galveston+March+2010-2+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQSuVkpnr27DRlrGWeEip6DiRrh0AA-DI5F6ghU8-n47PGuV4iG5jJj6eMncvZjeL3pSWrjTukuDp7mRv822DTTcuKsGLhDujuX1DA5ZO4WN4b9KJ848tXyarsFRUmP2HzSmvcMLO-xgYw/s200/Galveston+March+2010-2+026.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrrn1qoPY8no-wxuFqfuwPlNC9v3a4zGki3OjgE_FQX_ttTxMz6PZLkxtXksBi4ZmTph19MjyG6EcZPmcbgfUqFUFNXoE80sQZM19bzE2SxbvGxJ226HSXBHe9b-NIUJ9PI0iVA-6GH-h/s1600/Galveston+Feb+2010+037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrrn1qoPY8no-wxuFqfuwPlNC9v3a4zGki3OjgE_FQX_ttTxMz6PZLkxtXksBi4ZmTph19MjyG6EcZPmcbgfUqFUFNXoE80sQZM19bzE2SxbvGxJ226HSXBHe9b-NIUJ9PI0iVA-6GH-h/s200/Galveston+Feb+2010+037.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRPFdsftgi3X0XoyxmodSF0SbTSdvaXv-fuAbdzRd0uTg6VeVDnERdAMq71tOhqHQH2UCQ_KyAYRbcz1jAz2JUTWG5CJbn5swlHC8bB0PkMwy3u_9Ocx0CEd2n8NAbeAWUu6D9Zj1WgID/s1600/Galveston+March+2010-2+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRPFdsftgi3X0XoyxmodSF0SbTSdvaXv-fuAbdzRd0uTg6VeVDnERdAMq71tOhqHQH2UCQ_KyAYRbcz1jAz2JUTWG5CJbn5swlHC8bB0PkMwy3u_9Ocx0CEd2n8NAbeAWUu6D9Zj1WgID/s200/Galveston+March+2010-2+007.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZ3UH0Bno9_vMsgf30UNw98sAItL5sjhHrIQFb7cS-mK1NTncb-x_nlG1_O3bJszcHYkyXA2UIhHtfcv39DDUJ2xtKE9nhHps60Tyls06Qxan78wKdxJpSneOXeHIuS9NhTeYtkKlNUHr/s1600/Galveston+-+Dickens+2009+057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZ3UH0Bno9_vMsgf30UNw98sAItL5sjhHrIQFb7cS-mK1NTncb-x_nlG1_O3bJszcHYkyXA2UIhHtfcv39DDUJ2xtKE9nhHps60Tyls06Qxan78wKdxJpSneOXeHIuS9NhTeYtkKlNUHr/s320/Galveston+-+Dickens+2009+057.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">(Visit these guys yourself at 1609 Post Office, 1610 Sealy, 902 Ball [post a new photo if you'd like...these guys were in process when I saw them], 1618 Church and 12th and Sealy).</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">These are the ones that I've found so far...but I know that there are more out there! If you spot them, please pass them on...I want to admire them while I can! They are a true monument to the storm, to art, and to the </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">importance of living in the moment. Enjoy! (And see this final one at 1028 Winnie).</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQLh2CfHQzbkrpKVxFgRcGcdCNdInopeNgAbPo8mvwoSCxfE1kQKi8S2ANQJ5rYwvzErVhsWWfAfcSKXAlzSpN9Tt2q0qJCCjoLWx8IMjo-sCTXue397saudPpBY2oYobNhIqmy82bm1u/s1600/Galveston+Feb+2010+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQLh2CfHQzbkrpKVxFgRcGcdCNdInopeNgAbPo8mvwoSCxfE1kQKi8S2ANQJ5rYwvzErVhsWWfAfcSKXAlzSpN9Tt2q0qJCCjoLWx8IMjo-sCTXue397saudPpBY2oYobNhIqmy82bm1u/s320/Galveston+Feb+2010+025.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-16336060359017673102010-03-20T09:12:00.001-04:002010-03-20T13:20:07.090-04:00March Sadness: The Last Guest to Leave the Pity Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKD7mxZgG1QZfXrF2O9PMh1uHwrG7tygpVZOB1dSvpZfzNqBtSLS6v0CTb6dmbczYf_XoouLEL8fXFL5XUQcV1fbBGh-qFSfOS_t390jpGtjnf-HtpofnHhNYJuA-IZ1WycQQ9-V1EmOu/s1600-h/177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMKD7mxZgG1QZfXrF2O9PMh1uHwrG7tygpVZOB1dSvpZfzNqBtSLS6v0CTb6dmbczYf_XoouLEL8fXFL5XUQcV1fbBGh-qFSfOS_t390jpGtjnf-HtpofnHhNYJuA-IZ1WycQQ9-V1EmOu/s320/177.JPG" vt="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Okay, this is going to be the last one. I promise.<br />
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If you haven't already guessed, this is one more blog about the love of my life: my house in Cape May (with apologies to the hub). We got an email last night from the new owner; they said "we love the house."<br />
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I'm sure that was supposed to make me feel better. And I'm almost sure that I've uttered the exact same thing to previous owners of homes that I've bought. <br />
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And I'm absolutely positive that they wanted to rip my throat out when I said it.<br />
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Because <em>no one</em> will love the house like we did. Not even if the house stands for another 100 years (and since the hub and I just rebuilt the foundation, it should).<br />
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So, here are <strike>some more of my</strike> THE LAST ramblings on my baby:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><strong>People We Almost Killed.</strong> Hey, renovation isn't for sissies. My dad almost died the day we carried this solid wood television cabinet (otherwise known as the beast) up the front stairs of the porch All By Himself. The story was that the guys who were holding the other corners couldn't fit through the door, and Dad ended up carrying the whole thing for about three feet. I'll be glad when flat-screen televisions let us get rid of these widow-makers once and for all. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWwCrdc06FW5kA9Z_IW36_OZ4LjJQWlTCayNAIesD1at4nU7t9rZ5wakmrygxSRk7zskPE57cJ1fptEe-tqSGUMKcsat5LEmNm35pO4t82ob6-6EtdC-8XZyw4ma-hWqT8gO2sGBEpzl0F/s1600-h/IMG_2844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWwCrdc06FW5kA9Z_IW36_OZ4LjJQWlTCayNAIesD1at4nU7t9rZ5wakmrygxSRk7zskPE57cJ1fptEe-tqSGUMKcsat5LEmNm35pO4t82ob6-6EtdC-8XZyw4ma-hWqT8gO2sGBEpzl0F/s200/IMG_2844.JPG" vt="true" width="150" /></a></div><br />
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Our painter almost died when he didn't eat lunch, and passed out in his van from diabetes. Luckily, I had some orange juice handy and we revived him. He didn't give us a break on the paint job. I almost killed him myself four years later when we paid him to power wash the house, and he disappeared. We learned later that he was in jail. "For a long, long time," the sheriff told us. Hey, tack on a couple more years for skipping out with our powerwash money.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEUKEQ3_bqlmP2G_LKUAxyGCqubcsxSbHMS9fpJ-2T13fEoVHDcpiTIHc7v7y-fU_jYZumMFXQSpoGgRx-w2qU3O0WIWMTAXqcEy5s0lC6zsNfwG7OkIHjPk3Q828y8konHYScrS0RNRo/s1600-h/possum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEUKEQ3_bqlmP2G_LKUAxyGCqubcsxSbHMS9fpJ-2T13fEoVHDcpiTIHc7v7y-fU_jYZumMFXQSpoGgRx-w2qU3O0WIWMTAXqcEy5s0lC6zsNfwG7OkIHjPk3Q828y8konHYScrS0RNRo/s320/possum.jpg" vt="true" /></a>To hear our contractor friend Mr. Mark tell it, he almost died the day he was renovating the shed out at the pool. We knew that the floor was rotted, and we knew that something must have lived there at one time. Turns out, one time was just enough for Mr. Mark, who pulled up a floorboard and found a nasty looking possum looking back at him. Mr. Mark was dropped off at an orphanage by his mother when he was about 6, he almost died in a motorcycle accident years ago, and he just had emergency heart surgery in February. But if you ask him, he came closest to death in 2002, when he came face-to-face with those beady little eyes.</div><br />
I could add the mother-in-law here, for dumping a gallon of paint on one of the only rugs in the house that we had planned on keeping. But I wasn't really mad for long...and the room looked much better with a painted floor, anyway.<br />
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<strong>Plants I loved.</strong> There is nothing like gardening at the beach. Planting a ton of flowers and then leaving for six weeks. Missing the peak season of almost everything. But here are some things I will miss: The several thousand muscari bulbs I planted (seriously...while I certainly am not above gross exaggeration in this blog, it really was about 2,000 bulbs over the years). The peonies, that looked so good in the garden but that were just one more vehicle for ants to come in the house. Hydrangeas, the official flower of Cape May, even if mine never did look awesome. The clematis my neighbor said would never grow, which did anyway.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Z7Jv4mq5RUvyCog7mMpTDvaSnSjo68wjCIOQ4X95C8-VRFcEvYTeMPppagPArSiiYRg3vMMgm8mC8I6p1O0y1IlNv1BMUSWdIM6AU5J9-lbW0Tzel7IUMxZgK-oNsQRnRX651wyzya50/s1600-h/Galveston+May+8-12+2008(2)+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Z7Jv4mq5RUvyCog7mMpTDvaSnSjo68wjCIOQ4X95C8-VRFcEvYTeMPppagPArSiiYRg3vMMgm8mC8I6p1O0y1IlNv1BMUSWdIM6AU5J9-lbW0Tzel7IUMxZgK-oNsQRnRX651wyzya50/s200/Galveston+May+8-12+2008(2)+024.JPG" vt="true" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOCLeWBf8yM4Tw4BBre5pDUy01UYxGy74yxwRvNLE-J0ghkil5z1FLBYuLgR1WO-TzY1k1PXezVhFYhiGeabiNESKkjEuloT7dK0dn6WQF8Wmz_ZxjKSogn7tiDuTWMN9OoUTVw_NJMoV/s1600-h/Galveston+May+8-12+2008(2)+019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOCLeWBf8yM4Tw4BBre5pDUy01UYxGy74yxwRvNLE-J0ghkil5z1FLBYuLgR1WO-TzY1k1PXezVhFYhiGeabiNESKkjEuloT7dK0dn6WQF8Wmz_ZxjKSogn7tiDuTWMN9OoUTVw_NJMoV/s200/Galveston+May+8-12+2008(2)+019.JPG" vt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjJ94EwJ5sbtC9e_0DhQEaqGnTqiTVkS07U11xlGVVluk9G6UgI1aA7OJPz8e_GgOo4PTJcw-WGwtn5BDjeLl6w7N4p9Nb1Pwk_5WbOSqivilFTxQ4OMDA5VfZXQkN9c4P7UUOzMk4Slo/s1600-h/Galveston+May+8-12+2008(2)+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjJ94EwJ5sbtC9e_0DhQEaqGnTqiTVkS07U11xlGVVluk9G6UgI1aA7OJPz8e_GgOo4PTJcw-WGwtn5BDjeLl6w7N4p9Nb1Pwk_5WbOSqivilFTxQ4OMDA5VfZXQkN9c4P7UUOzMk4Slo/s200/Galveston+May+8-12+2008(2)+012.JPG" vt="true" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(One of these statues is not like the others. Which one is different...do you know?)</div><br />
<strong>Ghosts that Walked Among Us (<em>allegedly</em>). </strong> When we first bought the house, and hired our first lawn guy (he would be one of a long string of guys who didn't seem to know what he was doing), he mentioned to us that a woman named Mrs. Undy lived in the house for a long, long time. He also mentioned that he and his brother were completely positive that she was a witch. (The meanness that society extends to single, older women will be another blog for another day).<br />
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Anyway, Grassy Eddy and his brother used to dare each other to run up on the house's front porch and touch the front door. And then they screamed like little girls when Mrs. Undy came out to yell.<br />
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When we bought the house, there was an old, scratchy, red wool cape in one of the closets (all of the closets were full--we threw out about 25 pairs of shoes). My FIL was sure that it was Mrs. Undy's. I was sure that she wore it to her grandmother's house, through the wolf-ridden hills of southern New Jersey.<br />
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Whether she was the inspiration for Little Red Riding Hood or not, Mrs. Undy and I became great friends through the past 10 years. I talked to her frequently when we were working on the house, asking her if she liked it, asking her to finish painting the trim while I was gone for the weekend (she never painted anything, as far as I could tell).<br />
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I talked to her again two weeks ago, when we left for the last time. I tried to smell some faint perfume, or see something out of the corner of my eye, but all I detected was the leftovers from Tony's that were smelling up the trash. <br />
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Goodbye, Mrs. Undy. I will be really pissed if you show yourself to the new owners!<br />
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<strong>People that we loved.</strong> Without fail, every time we had a big group of people at the house, my husband would say to me at night "It's nice having the whole house full." And it was. <em></em><br />
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</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Okay, I need to stop. <strong>Right. Now</strong>. This is the last blog you'll see about this house. I've already overstayed my welcome as the last guest at the pity party.</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">To the new owners, Dave and Renee: I truly hope that you do have as many good memories in the house as we had. </div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">To all our friends and family: we'll see you all at the NEXT house!!!!!!</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-33498854960342926512010-03-14T10:01:00.001-04:002010-03-20T11:58:33.571-04:00You're Feeling Sleepy, Sleepy...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimf9VQGShnbfEOxVja3aXBnBIxSiK5QMYetm9H2-iZYwPHNN5hyiJFYQxstzumt784-bDgV9oCVcl5ZiUCGO9scdyG_EzOtgd_n0b8kt7X0EINSXoagijD4hCCqeMfgkx1PnKiVu3mEdi7/s1600-h/st+augustine+jan+10+116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimf9VQGShnbfEOxVja3aXBnBIxSiK5QMYetm9H2-iZYwPHNN5hyiJFYQxstzumt784-bDgV9oCVcl5ZiUCGO9scdyG_EzOtgd_n0b8kt7X0EINSXoagijD4hCCqeMfgkx1PnKiVu3mEdi7/s200/st+augustine+jan+10+116.JPG" vt="true" width="200" /></a></div>That's what one hour less sleep will do to you.<br />
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My husband has long declared that, if he were to run for office (insert here the incredulous sound of your choice...such as HA, or TSK), he would run on a platform of having the sun go down at 9:15 every night. His theory is that the need for watchmakers would help employment numbers, productivity influenced by seasonal affected disorders would go up, and he would be able to play baseball with the boys every night.<br />
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My own declaration, were I to oppose him on the ticket (would those debates be cool or <em>what</em>), is that we would keep daylight savings time, but it would happen on a Friday afternoon (or Monday morning, I would have to check with the popularity pollsters on that). The switch back to standard time, of course, would happen on a weekend when we all could enjoy it.<br />
<br />
Anyway, all of this is just to say "Remember to spring forward." And remember to stretch first. That springing forward crap can really hurt if you're not warmed up properly.<br />
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By the way, the clock pictured above is in the old Ponce de Leon hotel in St. Augustine. It's embedded in the largest piece of marble in the world. They'd have to break the marble to reset it (and fix it). So it's always 10:50 there. On a Saturday. Or at least that's how I think of it.<br />
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Happy napping!Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-43012671726591839042010-03-05T14:35:00.003-05:002010-06-15T10:34:01.634-04:00A Few of My Favorite DaysThey say a house is just a place to live, but a home is a place to love (do they say that? If they don't, they should.)<br />
<br />
We didn't live in our Cape May house, but we certainly did love the time that we spent there. Even the time that we worked there (which was pretty much of the time that we spent there). <br />
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Here are just a few of my favorite days (and/or nights, and/or weeks):<br />
<br />
1. The night we realized that the pipe from the upstairs bathroom came straight down the house and emptied in the crawlspace. And had been emptying there for weeks. My husband didn't just "crawl" out of the "space" when he realized that, he scurried backwards like a spider...one that was scurrying away from a bigger, poop-covered spider. You can see the whole story in <a href="http://historictraveler.blogspot.com/2010_03_04_archive.html">yesterday's post</a>.<br />
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2. The day our pool contractor drove into the fire hydrant next to our driveway and broke not just the hydrant itself, but the water main underneath it. We had owned the house for two weeks and had not yet met any of the neighbors. We could see them all, of course, as they walked outside and watched the water rise with worry (it ended up about halfway up their car tires). Although it would have been convenient to meet them all at once at this impromptu block party, I didn't think that that was the time. So the hub and I fell to the floor, and painted baseboards until the water receded. I darted above the windowsill just once, to take this photo.<br />
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3. The day we wanted to plug in a radio to play music while we painted the third floor bedrooms, only to discover that there wasn't a single.solitary.outlet anywhere on the floor. (This, despite the fact that the old owners had multiple lamps in the room as if there were outlets there).<br />
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4. The very next day, when I called the home inspector and screamed at him for not mentioning the lack of outlets (there was only one outlet on the whole second floor as well). Highlight of my call: "Even an IDIOT can count to ZERO." (Note: I didn't even call him about the sewage line that opened up underneath the house. I didn't think I could top my earlier line, and I wanted to go out on a high note with him).<br />
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5. The day we came downstairs and found Mike's 4'8", 86 year old grandmother standing ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER wiping down the inside of the cabinets. "Does your daughter know you're up there?" I asked as I walked through. "She doesn't need to know," said Grandma. We needed the help, so I continued on my way. I'm not sure how she ever got down again...but I know she wasn't on the countertop when we stopped by the house last weekend.<br />
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6. The day/week/month we realized that our friend Birdman had no home renovation skills whatsoever. He couldn't pull out old carpet tacks. He couldn't paint baseboards (unless, by painting, you mean slapping a full gallon of paint onto a two foot section of baseboards so that it all slid off and onto the newly painted floor. He did that pretty well). He couldn't scrape wallpaper (although he determined that in less time than I think it actually took to get the wallpaper scraper out of the toolbox).<br />
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</div>7. The day we realized that Birdman was invaluable for providing comic relief as we did all the crappy jobs like pulling out old carpet tacks and painting baseboards and scraping wallpaper. And, subsequently, the relief we felt when we realized that he was somehow able to pick up lunch without hurting himself or anyone else. Everyone has a gift, Birdman, and we are just the kind of people who will exploit yours.<br />
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8. The day my dad and my brother drove to Cape May with their farm truck, pulled out all of the horrible old carpeting, and TOOK IT HOME WITH THEM to burn. I am still grateful, and I hope it isn't still smoldering! <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">9. All the days that friends and family came to help us...like Karen, who painted, and my brother's girlfriend Heather who helped me lay a path around the pool made of broken slate (I am convinced that that was the day that my brother decided he would marry her). My friend Mary Jane, who painted the shutters on the shed, and who bought the rockers for the front porch...and who passed away five years ago from breast cancer. The 140 hours that Mike's mother and grandmother spent scraping wallpaper from the bathroom (full disclosure to the new owners: we just painted over the wallpaper in the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom). Eating dinner in the living room...with Mike's Dad (who could never get enough of Tony's batter dipped fries), Mr. Mark, me and the hub. Speaking of Tony's, we made a sign one weekend that said "Thanks Tony: Corporate Sponsor of this Renovation." We ate a lot of Philly cheesesteaks (fried onions, provolone cheese, and hot peppers, please) in those 18 weeks. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">10. The day we finally finished everything and had time to just lay in the pool sipping mai tai's. Oh wait...that never happened.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGci_H6hhMbrpud7fSphXFKCsW4ySsVugl_BAnTUtmJ86ASemK3tduImbWgaNmeL1tUE2oWj-Ipt4pwYD7oJqKET4sJbC4ass0LcPJaJLHQDmSjybtsLBmRupU8idc-elMfJYwFnOCmuT/s1600-h/04210009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5888949635434257624.post-27063835699050212172010-03-04T08:07:00.001-05:002010-03-07T23:44:31.474-05:00The Worst House in TownCape May, New Jersey is a pretty competitive town.<br />
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Like, if your town suggests it has more Victorian houses then they do, Cape May will accept your smack down invite and throw back with all sorts of b.s. about the number of "restored" homes that they have, and how they are the true "queen of the seaside resorts". Or "cooler by a mile". Or just "better than you". (Two of these were actual advertising campaigns for Cape May. A free coupon to the Fudge Kitchen for anyone who guesses correctly.)<br />
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So don't try to beat those Cape Mayites. You won't win. <br />
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Which is why I always love to hear the one-up-manship between two historic homeowners, when they bump into each other at Swain's Hardware Store. <br />
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</div>"What you buying today, Ed?"<br />
<br />
"Some drywall patch for my ceiling. The roof is leaking again. I've spent $4000 in the last three months patching it, and still the water drips down it like the fountain in the mall."<br />
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"You're lucky. When I bought my house, the whole third floor was covered with mold from decades of leaking. Apparently the old owners wanted an indoor swimming pool."<br />
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"Ha! At least your house had a roof. Our roof collapsed twenty minutes after we went to settlement. Opened up the whole third floor. Killed our dog, too."<br />
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And on it goes.<br />
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I don't like to enter into these contests, as it seems to me like there are no real winners.<br />
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But I have a doozy of a story, if I wanted to throw my hat in the ring.<br />
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I mentioned that the house was in some sad shape when we bought it. The front of the house looks better than I remember it..but the back is pretty accurate:<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was a little unliveable, with mold everywhere (it's the beach, folks...it happens) and mustard-colored carpet in the whole house, including the bathroom (I'm not sure what color it was when it was installed in 1970. I think it was orange, because we found some orange patches underneath the mouse-infested sofa).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I thought that there had been a fire in the kitchen, because the floor was very dark and missing in a section in front of the refrigerator. In fact, I later figured out, the linoleum had simply melted after 40 years underneath a southern exposure window (this is about week 10...you can still see the dark area in the back there in front of the mustard-colored fridge):</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">That's a lot of deferred maintenance.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The funnest part of our acquisition is that we planned to rent the house. For gobs of money. It was 2000, you know, and we took advantage of banks that were giving money willey nilley to all sorts of bad credit risks like the hub and me. Renting the house to tourists was the *only* way we could pay for our mortgage. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We said we'd open for business on July 1. We started taking rentals.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And then, as I said earlier, we worked our butts off for 18 weeks straight. We scraped wallpaper. We chloroxed walls (not good for a manicure, or for your skin, or for mold). We called plumbers, electricians, and pool people (we planned to install a pool, thinking it would help with the rentals). </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Later, I'll write about some of the fun times we had working on the house. Like the time that we flooded two blocks of Washington Street.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But let's stick with the mother of all stories first.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was week 17. The house was looking pretty good. Almost liveable. Our contractor friend Mr. Mark was down for the weekend, taking care of loose ends. And going to Atlantic City, which is where he was on Saturday night when the hub decided to install the home theater system in the living room.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"You want these wires to run around the room, or should I run them underneath the house?" the hub asked, clearly hoping it would be the former.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I hate wires, and said to run them under the house.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A few minutes later, he was back in the house. Looking a little sick.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">He said that there was a pipe under the house that appeared to go nowhere. And that it looked wet in front of it. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Did I mention we were in the midst of a 17 week drought? It hadn't rained once since we bought the house.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But that wasn't everything.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There was, he said, little white things.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"Like toilet paper," he whispered. He was as white as a roll of Charmin as he said it.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm not always the calm one, but this time I was. "It can't be leaking from the bathroom," I said, very matter-of-fact. "We would have known by now."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So we devised a plan where the hub would crawl back under the house, with a flashlight (it was getting dark already), and I would flush both of the toilets in the house and see if anything happened. (How I got the "good job", I still don't know. I usually don't).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We were both in place. I decided to flush the toilet upstairs first, since the pipe seemed to be in the middle of the house. I pushed the knob down. I heard the water swish through the pipes the way water swishes through old pipes.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I heard my husband scream. Seriously. Two stories beneath me.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I came running downstairs. He was back in the house by now, covered with...water.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"I expected a trickle," he said. "A small leak somewhere."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But no, the pipe opened up straight into the crawlspace and the whole force of the flush came flushing out on him.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We both were sick to our stomachs. "If you have to puke," I said, "use the bathroom on the first floor."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We waited until our contractor friend came home from Atlantic City. It was almost 2 in the morning. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">He listened to our story. Then he almost laughed.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"That's no big deal. We'll just run out to the hardware store tomorrow and get some plastic thingamobobs, and about 400 feet of doodlywhacks, and one or two hokeymans."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Obviously, he didn't say that. The truth is, I stopped listening after the "no big deal" part.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was a bigger deal than he said (a trend among contractors that we would see again and again during the ten years we've owned the house). But it was fixed before the first renters came.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I didn't ask them, but I think they would have been less than pleased to have a festering pool of poop underneath their vacation home.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And that, boys and girls, is the story of the Worst.House.inCape.May.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><em>Note: The only reason that there wasn't more "stuff" in the crawlspace is because the toilet spent much of the 17-week renovation right here: inside the bathtub. Thank *God* the plumber kept canceling on us!</em></div>Historic Travelerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16341677517226758495noreply@blogger.com2