Photo of the Day: My Little Corner of the World

Ye Old Homestead, Connecticut House

Once upon a time, when this was my bedroom, this view was the one from my bed. This corner was out of sight of the rest of the room, inches from a light source, a window  - one of four that looked out over my corner of the world. It was during "nap-time" or "lights out," that this particular corner was best used. Books were stashed within arms reach under the mattress or bed frame, so I could stretch my body, arms, and the ability of my eyes to reach by light filtered in by using the drapes, which I used also to prop open the shade. It's amazing I can see as well as I can "write" now, without aid of lenses or prescriptions, because the hours I spent straining to read by streetlight or moonlight, or even in the dark are going to catch up with me eventually.

I don't know who I thought I was kidding, but for years I thought stashing stuff in this corner, be it contraband novels, a diary, my notBarbies, kept them secret and secure. I perfected the "book drop, shove under the bed, fix the blinds, roll over, and even out breathing so you sound like you are sound asleep" technique in perfect time to which ever parent was tromping up our stairs. (The various creaks and snap, crackle, pop, of the wood treads and my parents' knees and ankles provided auditory warning and coverage for our actions and identified which parent it was.)

I still stash things in odd corners - you have to in a New York studio - but nothing has ever come close to replicating the sense of peaceful security and vista to imagination that this corner of mine did.

Depth Perception

Whenever I am bored at work, or feel the need to be inspired when writing yet another proposal, I head up to the third floor and stare VERY intently at this wall.
Why? Why the h*** not, for one thing ... and for another, it's all a matter of perception. Look more closely, and you'll see that "behind the drapes" lies some of the great masterpieces of the English language. Rather than being completely weird, I'm actually being inspired by all the words of the Bard. Really ...

Mostly, it's ...

Spring in the Country

It was so good to get out of the concrete jungle and visit my friend and family in Connecticut last weekend. I got to enjoy a bit of spring in the country.

The lawn at my folks was covered in white, lilac, and deep indigo violets, and the entire south side of the garage was rimmed six inches deep. It was so pretty. Sadly, the lawnmower man came by and returned the lawn to its uniform green color.

Winter snows had collapsed part of the hedges around the property, creating a little window.

Look at this little treasure. Luckily, the Blue Jays that were the prior tenants of this nest were not available for comment.

I also managed to see our azaleas in bloom.

On a trip to the old homestead, it's always interesting to see the hacienda and the old neighborhood and to mark the changes. The house has changed colors in the last year, there are trees down in the side yards which open up new vistas on the other lots on the block, and the noise pollution is increasing, as are other "elements."

The most remarkable change on this journey, however, was the addition of some barricades to the corner of the lot. My father claims it is to deter snowplows from raking up the lawn and to prevent cars from sliding down the hill and into the porch during the icy winters. I think it really marks the beginning of my father's final assimilation from a westerner to a Yankee. For centuries, New Englanders have been building dry stone rock walls to clear the land and create boundary markers for their propery. It kept livestock in and helped to keep intruders out. After more than 25 years, my father is finally building his walls on his land.

Here's the start.

Here's what a vintage Vermont wall looks like, courtesy and copyright Jared C. Benedict.

This isn't the first rock wall building project that my father has undertaken. Along with the members of his local congregation, he helped to restore the walls around the church's property, but that was over ... YIKES ...that was a LONG time ago, because I helped when I was a teenager.

It takes a long time to be considered a true New Englander, but I submit that voluntarily building rock walls on your property is a definite sign that the region is now in your blood.