When I first moved to America, eight years ago, I had never experienced storms like the storms I found in Connecticut. Of course, as everyone knows, it rains all the time in England, but it's a grey, drizzly rain, not the pelting, angry torrential downpours I found here, that regularly brought trees and powerlines crashing to the ground, that was so intense if you had to go out in in, you couldn't drive at any pace other than a crawl or you couldn't see anything.
The wind would howl, and our first house was surrounded by impossibly tall, skinny trees, which would sway ominously, and I would lie in bed, terrified that a tree would come crashing down on the house, because it felt like the house was made of paper.
The houses in which I grew up, in London, were made of bricks and mortar. In Hampstead we had a wonderful old redbrick Victorian, with three gables, that will likely stand there forever. In Regents Park we had a stucco Nash Terrace, and in St. John's Wood, a pretty Georgian cottage, that was alleged to have been built by the Prince Regent in the late eighteenth century, for his mistress, Mrs Fitzherbert. All of them were built to last, and I came over here, astonished at how fragile the houses seemed.
Early this morning, when it was very, very cold outside, Husband and I went to watch Figless Manor torn down, and all I can tell you is, I was right.
That house was built of sticks and cardboard. A couple of huffs and puffs, and down it came.
It was fascinating to watch, both exhilerating and slightly nerve-wracking, for now of course there is no going back, although we have revisited the plans so many times, making tweaks here and there, this latest time spinning the kitchen round to face the other way, who knows when the builders will actually start.
A quick word about builders. We have taken on a project manager, and if anyone out there is foolish enough to be building a house right now, I highly recommend it. They are an independent entity, beholden only to us, to guide us through, and protect us from the sharks who are circling, eager to take our hard-earned cash under the guise of being our friend.
We have met with a handful of builders. Many months ago, a builder who had been recommended pulled up at our house in his Porsche 911, Gucci loafers on his feet, with tales of his recent vacation to Parrot Cay. Can I just say that if you are a builder and you are looking for business, when you step out of your Porsche and tell us about your very expensive holiday, I don't look at you and see someone to whom I even want to relate.
Far from it.
I look at you and see nothing but dollar signs in your eyes.
And that does not warm the cockles of my heart.
But, we are close to sending the plans out to bid, and I cannot wait to have a home of my own, for my husband and I (I just can't stop saying it!), and our happy band of Smalls.
I came across a quote today from Alice Walker: 'In search of my mother's garden, I found my own.'
I found it extraordinarily moving.
When I was a child, my mother was always in the garden, inheriting her love, I suspect, from my Pocket Grandma (so tiny you could almost, almost, fit her in your pocket), who used to spend hours happily strolling round the garden deadheading roses.
I thought gardening was the most boring thing in the whole wide world, and something I would never do. I felt much the same way about Golf, and Bridge, and I will say that my feelings about those are still exactly the same, however sometime in my twenties I too, discovered a love of gardening.
I know December, looking out my window at the season's first snowfall, isn't the ideal time to start dreaming about gardens, but I realise it's one of the things I have missed most, living in a rental for two and a half years. I miss my garden. I miss going outside, first thing in the morning, with a cup of coffee and wandering round to see how everything is doing. I miss planting, and weeding, and just spending hours looking out there, thinking about what could be changed. And mostly I miss the sheer peace that comes from sitting outside, quite happily, surrounded by beauty.
The architect is coming today as we are just about done with the house plans, and Simon Johnson sent over the most gorgeous garden plans which I will soon post. Once again I will have my flower gardens, my vegetable gardens, my clipped English hedges and a pretty parterre. There is even a space that might be perfect for a handful of chickens, although I'm certain Baron would find them a delicious snack before any of us had a chance to whip an egg or two out from the coop.
I am just realising that I cannot wait to have a home, and garden, of my own again. Roll on May 2010, which is our absolute, latest deadline for completion.
It's so cold, and I am in major nesting mode. All I want to do is build big log fires and huddle up quietly with hot cups of tea. Unfortunately we bought a cord of wood last week, and two extremely dodgy men came and dumped a ton of the freshest, greenest, wettest wood imaginable in our driveway. This wood is about as far away from being 'seasoned' as you can get. Put it like this, it's so wet, that when you attempt to burn it, it steams. So I have resorted to those Duraflame things wrapped in paper that are idiot-proof, at least to get it going while we attempt to dry the wood out in small batches by the side of the fire.
A couple of days ago Beloved came home with some wonderful gifts we had been given (thank you, thank you, thank you R) - including beautiful dishes, designed by his mother when she had a factory in the Philippines, a set of Victorian cast-iron garden furniture that will be perfect when our new house is built, and a bamboo table.
We have shifted some of the furniture around, and it is extraordinary what a difference it can make. I have fallen in love with my house all over again.
Which means I may not go out until Spring...
Yesterday I was up in Washington Depot, Connecticut, picking up Biscuit from the dog trainer. Biscuit now realises she is a dog, which is an extraordinary accomplishment, as up until very recently, she, and all the Smalls, thought she was a fluffy, live teddy bear. She has stopped leaping around like a fluffy, live teddy bear on Adderall, and is now sitting, lying down, and staying on command, waiting for us to give her directions. Magnificent.
But while I was up there, close to where I used to live, I passed beautiful houses. Through the main drag of Woodbury where each house is more beautiful than the last, on to Washington, and Bethlehem, where the older antique houses are prized, restored, sell, on occasion, for many millions of dollars.
And I wondered how it is that my town is an hour away, and yet the sensibilities are so different. Here the old seems to no longer be prized, restored, with only a few exceptions dotted around town. Here it seems each house is bigger than the next, builder interpretations of shingle houses, or colonial mansions, that are too large to have any charm.
I love my town. Although I have not loved it in the past, that had less to do with the town, and far more to do with my own unhappiness. I feel blessed every day to live here, to be able to send the Smalls to extraordinary schools, to be by the beach, to have all that I have in such a beautiful place.
But I don't understand how it is that one town can cherish the old, history, a past that is worth preserving, and others cannot wait to get rid of it to make way for bigger, better, more, more, more...
Just an observation. And a shame, it seems.
This morning we had a meeting with the architect, the landscape designer, the gardener, the Sherpa and Beloved. We saw the garden plan which is gorgeous - everything I wanted - lots of beautiful little garden areas, gravel courtyards, a sunken swimming pool that's hidden, an area for the vegetable garden, a flower garden, and even a 'white' garden a la Vita Sackville-West, in a little parterre by the guest room.
And the house is truly breathtaking. I didn't think it was possible to design a house that looks exactly as if it was built in the mid nineteenth century. The scale is exactly right, the proportions perfect. Aside from wondering what on earth we're thinking, building a house in the worst financial market we have seen for many years, we're both now sure we're going to end up with a house that is truly magical in every way.
It's bigger than I would have liked, but with five children and visiting relatives, it's hard not to be. But what it isn't, is a mcmansion. The rooms themselves are not huge, save for a large kitchen/family room that is modelled on the one in the house in which we're currently living, but more contained.
They are reminiscent of the way houses used to be built, before people assumed they needed ten foot ceilings and giant archways, which, as far I'm concerned, do little other than turn these great big rooms into giant corridors.
The mass of our house isn't overwhelming at all, but rather gracious and elegant, pretty rather than impressive.
We're talking Nantucket picket fences, old reclaimed brick paths, clipped boxwood hedges and balls, lawn paths that lead you to the different areas.
A Victorian greenhouse that serves as the link between the garage and the main house, an elegant carriage house that will be the garage, and not disturbing the beautiful three weeping willows that stand majestically on the side of the garden, nor the two ancient maple trees that cast dappled shadows over what will now be the front.
But more importantly, I look at the plan of this house, and I can truly see ourselves living in it, and using every room. The 'formal' living room will not be formal, but instead will be furnished with squashy sofas, and a hidden television, used as a den, rather than a room in which we perch only a handful of times a year. The dining room will be walled by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with 'stations' for computers, and will be used as a library and homework room, a place for the Smalls to use computers and work at the table.
We're still ironing out a few minor details, but I can't wait to share the plans with you...
