SPRING CLEANING: THE FIREPLACE

LETS GO WILD

Spring's here; at least we hope so. It's Wisconsin and winter can still make a mockery of all our outside flowerbeds well into June. Yet inside the windows are open letting in that sweet smell of spring. The logs in the fireplace have been burnt to ash and the ashes have now all been swept away. The issue is what's next. You can always leave the hearth empty until winter rolls around again or you can use it as an opportunity to do something wild. After the pandemic we all need to let loose a little.

Lets start easy. A simple coat of paint and color can hide the ash marks and bring some color where fire once hid.

If balloons are not your thing then chose your own balls. We found someone who stuffed their fireplace with vintage croquet balls. Highlighting a collection of objet d'art, or anything you didn't have a place to showcase before has potential as becoming the centerpiece of your focal fireplace.  

When the flue's been closed, the outside temperature is hovering around ninety and the hearth's been cleaned but you want to light a romantic flame, think about this. Fill the fireplace with candles and let the real heat come from what's happening in front of the hearth.

I'm not trying to channel the book burners of yore but here's a solution for what to do with your overflow book collection. Using the firebox as an extension of your library can be a beautiful way of showing off your J.K. Rowling and Vladimir Nabokov collection.

If you've got a green thumb let it shine in the hearth. Springtime is filled with flowers and that means it's time to throw out the plastic lilies and put a pot of real ones in that closed up winter firebox.

Those that don't have a wood shed and not many of us do can use their firebox as a place to store the wood that didn't get burned during that last cold day. The problem here is the wood can't be just any wood. You're going to have to step it up with even cuts and clean timber to make this work.

The cleverest transformation I was able to find was a dog lover's dream. What better place to let Fido sleep than on a cushy bed tucked in his own little firehouse palace?

I'm always short on space so finding an extra mini-room no matter how small is a bonus even if I have to give it up when snow once again begins to fall.

THE GALLERY

Two Women and a Cat, Wallace Nutting, photographer

NO MOW MAY

BEES AND BEEHIVES

I like to think I'm environmentally cognizant but apparently I have a few things to learn. On May first the first in a string of comments popped up on the email feed on our neighborhood communication tool know as the Nextdoor Digest. It had to do with bees, mowing your lawn and the accusation of murder. There was one neighbor who had a lot to say. Here's how it went:

"I heard a lawnmower going across the street. I went over and told the lady that I bet she hadn't heard of the "No Mow May" policy. I assured her she wouldn't be fined. She, immediately, answered, "You mean about the bees!" So, it's obvious she knew about the policy and the reasons for it. Her defense was that her neighbor had, already, mowed and that she "couldn't" (wouldn't) wait to mow. People know better than what they are doing. Pollinators are getting it from all sides! Pesticides, banned in Europe, are used here. It is thought that herbicide residue remains in the corn syrup, used to replace their stolen honey. Small wonder, in wide areas of our country, over 90% of hives have "collapsed"--that's to avoid saying the bees all died!"

When you start out by insinuating your neighbor is a murderer seems like you should be expecting some response. This was the type of comment that kind of demands a reaction and just like that the neighbors started hitting their keyboards. What my initial furrowed brow and inquisitive mind wanted to know was when the neighbor said that "she heard a lawnmower going across the street" was that driverless mower headed for her yard? Was this an act of neighborhood warfare? 

 The first string of words to collectively tie themselves together on my laptop's screen were polite, non-threatening, and merely inquisitive

"Is this a policy or a recommendation? "Policy" makes it sound as though people aren't allowed to mow as opposed to shouldn't mow."

Let the debate begin. With the question out there, the gauntlet had been tossed. The defense of the concept was the first to hit the reply button.

"Participating in #NoMowMay can have a significantly positive impact on bees, according to a 2020 study. This study measured floral and bee richness and abundance with impressive findings: yards participating in No Mow May had three-times higher bee species richness and five-times higher bee abundance than nearby parks that had been mowed"

"I think all the creeping Charlie, violets and dandelions are so beautiful. Who is there to impress???

Clearly this weed lover hasn't met us. We are the kings of curb appeal and we are definitely out to impress. Nothing makes us smile more than a car stopping or in a few incidents a car actually passing by then backing up to shout out how much they loved our front garden

Good curb appeal makes for good neighbors and we've gone so far as to dole out free design guidance to a few of our neighbors who have asked for our help with their curb appeal

After the pros of No Mow May were danced across the internet it didn't take long for the other side of the coin to show its face

"No way can I avoid mowing my backyard. With two good sized dogs, long grass makes cleaning up after them a gross mess."

"So which one of you is going to mow my yard for free June 1 when it's almost 2 feet tall?"

" May is one of the fastest growing months! If I did not mow in May, there is NO WAY I would be able to get my mower through it."

" I mowed my lawn but I still have dandelions and violets. I don't want my neighbors calling the city on me"

The vitriol did manage to take what I now assume was an unintentional  break and like any good novel added a touch of light-heartedness to the dialogue:

"We decided to do a mullet lawn for May :) Short in the front for "curb appeal," long in the back for the pollinators, chickens, and daughters that love bringing me dandelion bouquets"

We did the "mullet too. We mowed the terrace to keep the City Happy and leave (sic) the backyard a short meadow. Does that work?"

The mullet concept was a bad idea in the eighties. I haven't turned the corner on this one. It still seems like a bad idea to me even when it comes to a look for your lawn.

The mullet wasn't the only fashion statement some neighbors were willing to suggest.

"It's really challenging to mow once the grass is super tall. Ours was getting out of control so we had to mow or it would be impossible to get through. Our option, if you have to mow, Is to leave the dandelions and violets around the edges and just mow the really long grassy areas in the middle."

I hate to make so many hair analogies but come on, clip the center and leaving the edges go wild is not a great look.

I get the message and the reason why "No Mow May" is something we all need to be made aware of. Bees are a very important part of our ecosystem but minimizing their culinary appetite to dandelions and creeping Charlie seems a little unfair.

Neglecting your turf grass lawn and allowing it to be overrun with weeds, in the long run, isn't a healthy option for your yard.

If you  are truly concerned with your communities bee population maintain some native plantings, don't use harmful herbicides and keep your flower beds blooming for not just the month of May but for the entire growing season. The bees will be very thankful and so will your lawn. But most importantly don't try to demonize a neighbor or you might be the one getting stung.

THE GALLERY

Ronald Fisher, Beekeeper, Davis, California, 1981, Richard Avedon, photographer, represented by Pace Gallery, New York

 

HOW WE EAT TODAY

SERVICE OR SELF-SERVE

You may think this is a post about nutrition and if so you would be very wrong.

I love cultural history and especially the history of food, manners and methods of cooking and eating.  Many of my friends find my choice of reading material a bit odd but if it they have a question about food, cooking etcetera I’m their first stop.  Now I don’t know all there is to know, god no, that’s why I continue to read but I’ll take on any of them in a game of cultural trivia.

When most Americans sit down for a meal, that is if they indeed sit down for a meal together, it is usually served “family style” where all the food is placed on the table and each person helps themselves.  This style is very much akin to “service a la francaise”  employed by European and American upper classes until sometime in the middle to late 19th century.  Though similar in style to today’s family style it was a much more elaborate, even formal affair.  It consisted of many courses eaten in a particular order but all set out at once on the table and arranged much like a centerpiece.  Needless to say once you got to the final courses some were cold.

By the late 19th century service a la francaise gave way to “service a la russe” where each course was presented in order hot from the kitchen passed around and offered by a servant.  This required the need of one or more footmen.  Obviously unless you were an Astor or a Vanderbilt the evening meal was somewhat of a free for all as it was in my home growing up, though certain civilities were expected.

Today many people when entertaining opt for a buffet style spread of food which really is much like service a la francaise.  Obviously it is easier, less formal and allows each person to pick and choose whatever they want to eat and as well as the portion.  

When in a restaurant we are actually dining in the style of service a la russe though I’ve yet to see any footmen, arrogant waiters maybe but no footmen.

Before the recent Covid pandemic most of our lives were hectic and too many of us, me included, took to eating on the go, standing up and even in our cars.  I blame the rise of the “drive-thru” window!  

My first memory of ever eating in the car was when I was about six years old and my family journeyed down to Florida for some “fun in the sun”.  On the way we stopped at a “drive-in”, we all ordered hamburgers, French fries and a coke.  The meal was delivered on a metal tray that somehow hooked onto the door of the car.  What a marvel!

As an interior designer in order to meet the needs and desires of my clients it is necessary for me to become intimate to how the individual, couple or family lives.  Though a formal dining room is always a demand I’ve come to know it is rarely used.

If the meals are taken at a table it is usually in the breakfast room or kitchen.  Many clients request counters with stools in the kitchen work area for eating. 

TV trays which were popular in the 1950’s and 60’s are back.  I confess our family does this many nights.  This will horrify our dear friend Adam but then he’s a Brit and insists the plates be warmed before bringing them to the table.  

Again TV has become so ingrained in our lives and for some “dinner and a show” is an evening must raising the need for choosing the right coffee table to allow for such an activity.  

There are even high/low versions on the market which look like a typical cocktail table but then raise and “scissor” the table into a height and position allowing for dining from the sofa.  Again I fear if Adam reads this his wife JoHannah will have to pick him up off the floor.  

Finally there is the “Breakfast Tray” very popular in the 1920’s and solely used by the female gender - real men don’t breakfast in bed.  Downton Abbey fans and Emily Post aficionados will be well acquainted with this archaic indulgence.  Mrs. Post's early etiquette books even instructed how the tray should be laid out.

But believe it or not many people ferry their meals on a tray to their beds to feast in front of the evening TV line-up.  I admit red faced to this practice and once again urge my beloved friend JoHannah to pick Adam up off the floor!   

THE GALLERY

Italian Plums, After G.G., 2015, Paulette Tavormina, photographer, represented by Robert Klein Gallery, Bosto

 

YOUR TRASH MY TREASURE

TAKING CARE OF THE ABANDONED

It's seems most design blogs eventually start a "Before and After" segment within their postings. There are even blogs and Instagram sites dedicated solely to "Before and Afters". I'm sure TikTok has postings of someone swirling from funky to glam.

In the world of interior design there's already someone reclaiming an old bucket and turning it into a funky dining room chandelier or repainting an old dresser in shades of Barbie pink and vanilla white for Suzy's tenth birthday bedroom surprise. I am now waiting for the design industry to keep pace with the rest of the world's rescue organizations and develop one of our own.

There are all sorts of organizations out there willing and hungry to protect the unprotected. Animals and plant life of all shapes and species have a group of guardian angels to look after their welfare. There's the Wildlife Fund, the ASPCA, PETA, the Society of Kind Understanding and Not Killing Skunks (S.K.U.N.K.). It seems every form of animal life, every endangered species, every tree, flower, and rock has a group of people out there willing to raise funds to make sure they're protected. Who hasn't melted at the sight of those sad puppy eyes on the matted mutt peering out from behind a wire cage on an animal rescue commercial? For just nineteen dollars a month you can make sure that little mongrel will be well fed and taken care of well into its dotage.

Every cause seems to have its group of advocates. I'm not cold hearted enough not to have fallen for several of these causes but the cause that has pulled at my heartstrings is a little less well-known and has yet to have an official organization attached to its efforts. It's a cause I've already hinted at. It's a cause I've been involved in most of my life, ever since I was a young boy. I rescue abandoned furniture. I can't walk away from a curbside find or a trash yard chair that has thrown into a junk heap left waiting to be reduced into kindling. Like those sad puppy eyes a rickety table left out in the rain makes my heart melt. I can develop an emotional attachment to an inanimate object. It becomes an anthropomorphic process where I see the pain of a gouge on a Queen Anne leg, or the rust on an enamel top table. Their wounds make them all the more endearing and desirable. It's like rooting for the underdog. I was never attracted to complete perfection, if such a thing even existed. My empathy always ran to the reject, the neglected, the imperfect second a manufacturer wouldn't put out on the sale floor but would sell at a discounted price in the back, in the rough room.

It was two days before junk day and I had taken a short cut on my way to the Hyvee, our local big box supermarket. From our house you can cut across on Jana Lane and shave about ninety seconds off the trip, but on that day my shortcut ending up adding time for what I felt was a very good reason. That's because I had to circle back around the block three times to look at this vintage cushionless sofa sitting out curbside next to some recycling trashcans. It was love at first, second and third sight. The back, the curved sides, the fringed bottom all tugged at my minds imagination. I reeled at the possibilities. I saw it transformed with vintage linen, contrasting piping and a pleated box skirt brushing the floor and hiding its dainty legs. I tried to tell myself to snap out of it and leave the couch where it was. It wouldn't fit in the trunk of our tiny compact car anyway. I finally pulled myself away from the curb but as I drove on to Hyvee the image of that sofa wouldn't evaporate from my mind. It lingered in my memory seducing me. Later that evening I made Rick and Emmy take a ride by the curb to see if the sofa was still there and to see if they saw what I saw in that sofa. My heart skipped a beat when we turned the corner and I couldn't see the sofa. Then my endorphins took a huge leap when I saw that pea green brocade peak from behind a parked a car that had been obscuring its view. Rick was a little skeptical. Emmy was only embarrassed I might stop and actually try to "steal" someone's junk. I had to leave it on the curb one more time but it's pathetic state refused to leave my imagination. It waltzed through my dreams that entire night.

When I woke up the next morning Charlie Shortino, our NBC weatherman, was hard at work warning of afternoon thunderstorms between segments on ridiculous Wisconsin politics and how to make the perfect pancake. It was the fear of pelting rain and bolts of lightening that tied knots in my stomach. I panicked about that poor sofa soaked and shivering, a prime target for one of those bolts of lightening. All morning I fought the urge to go and cover the sofa with a plastic tarp until providence set in. My sister, Bonnie, had the day off. The day before she asked me to come over to pull up some rhubarb and cut down some lilacs. Bonnie had a truck, well one of those mini cars with a flatbed cargo section about the size of a child's plastic blowup pool.  I sped over to her house and pestered her about the sofa until I insisted, I mean INSISTED, we stop picking rhubarb and go get the sofa. I felt guilty about making her go down Jana Lane as my get-away driver as we, hopefully, kidnapped the pea green sofa. When we got there the sofa was still sitting there waiting to be rescued as the storm clouds were beginning to form. The weather clock was ticking. We parked the truck. Bonnie got at one end of the sofa and I got at the other. Then on the count of three we tried to lift the sofa onto the back of the truck.

The sofa proved to be a true vintage piece, solid wood, metal springs and horsehair stuffing. That sofa weighed a ton. But now I was not about to be deterred. We tugged and inched and pleaded and sweated that sofa into the truck bed and on to the top of the cab. We tied it into place with some hemp rope and drove it home. That beautiful piece of furniture made it into the garage minutes before that first raindrop splattered against the truck's windshield. I had to lean on Rick to come up with a final design and reassure Emmy that I would keep the garage door closed so none of her friends would see the creepy green sofa hiding out in our garage. Then the next step was to get it to the upholsterer.

It was a true Eliza Doolittle transformation. 

The back tufting was taken out and replaced with a smooth panel and mini pom-poms Rick made himself. The smooth profile allowed the sensuous curve of the back to be more pronounced.

We tore off the fringe and replaced it with a box pleat skirt to soften the look. Then we had a new seat cushion made since the original was missing. The combination of the curves of the seat with the curve of the back upgraded the castoff from a thrift store couch to a vintage sofa. 

Sometimes the damaged aspects of a discarded item enhance their history. Their imperfections are their appeal. Others need a little tender loving care and a pig's ear can become a silk purse in this case bathed in Hollywood glamour.

THE GALLERY

Two Shells, 1927, Edward Weston, photographer, represented by Tate Gallery, London