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this is the stuff. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)

and so…

and what does the ceiling fan see, looking down at the centerpiece on the dining room table? what is the bird’s-eye view of this bit of old peeling-paint chairwood, this tiny dollar store tree, these glass votives, the glittery ornament tucked in? acknowledging that everything is clearly a bit easier if you are a ceiling fan, i wonder – is it thinking, “now, THIS is the stuff of christmas!”?

the piece of wood comes from an old chair that used to sit at the kitchen table. it’s part of the seat and there are two other gorgeous pieces that we can use for some other purpose. how many times i have sat on that chair, how many times a beloved child or family member or friend sat on that chair. i revel in having a slice to carry forward, a slice of those times, an artifact of meals and conversations, a touchable piece of history.

we’ve been talking about our dining room table lately. we have this great teak table – with giant leaves – that i got from a dear friend about twenty years ago. it was her dining room table but it became the perfect work/conference table in my recording label offices on the lake. when i moved from those offices back home, the table came along and became my dining room table. it’s been the gathering place for so, so many dinners and parties – i would be hard-pressed to even venture a guess how many. it has served us well.

there is definitely evidence of all that life. there are the stains: the rings from water glasses, the lighter blob from a pumpkin that was secretly aging, the scratches from babycat or a multitude of projects created on this surface.

and so now it needs some refinishing. the chairs need to be reupholstered. it needs some work.

and we have begun to think about this.

downstairs, in the storage room that houses the boiler and the hot water heater, there are doors. many doors. six-panel doors with some heft. doors from old closets. screen doors. cabinet doors. a bunch of doors.

one of these doors is a french door with windows, the glass still intact, the white paint just weathered enough. it’s not as wide as the dining room table – which has been a great workspace, a terrific staging ground – a place where one can put a plethora of serving bowls and accoutrements for a big dinner.

but it’s – this door – it’s got some charisma. there is a certain charm to the possibility of having a dining room table that is actually a door from this very house. with a good piece of glass – or plexiglass – or whatever the good folks at town and country glass recommend – this could become our new gathering table. food for thought, we consider it.

but then we’d need chairs, for the chairs at the teak table are also teak and would need to be given away with the table.

so. chairs.

i suppose we’d be off and running on a fantastic chairquest – odds and ends of vintage (read: old) and repurposed chairs with personality to circle the perimeter of the new doortable.

and thus would begin a whole new set of relationships and stories and memories – between us and the dining room table and the chairs and all the people who would sit there, with us.

and the ceiling fan would then look down – with its bird’s eye view and its ceilingfanlife perspective – and giggle – once again, as ever – at the thought of just how many times it has taken a screenshot in its mind’s eye (assuming the ceiling fan has a mind’s eye), how many times it has wanted to memorize the moments below it, how many times it has thought about how lucky it is to be hung over a gathering space, how many times it has thought “now THIS is the stuff. of life”.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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just in case. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – even if any absence of the happenings of the day, even in the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)

and so…

we didn’t burn the chiminea this past summer or fall. but it sat outside in our backyard, waiting, just in case.

and when winter came and we were in the middle of the middle of rearranging and sorting and all that other stuff I’ve been writing about in the going-through of one’s trappings and baggage, we looked over at it waiting and decided to bring it inside.

we tucked its gorgeously sculptural clay form into the corner of the sunroom, eliminating a high stool we tended to pile upon, simplifying the space. we added a strand of happy lights and a timer and we placed a heart-leafed philodendron on top of the chiminea’s cap.

we stepped back to see it. to decide.

the chiminea has been there every day since and every day since we have exclaimed (yes – exclaimed!) how much we love the chiminea there – inside – in our sunroom – across from the backdoor – tucked in the corner – lit.

i suppose were you to step into our house you might wonder about it. we have these two chunks of concrete, a salvaged architectural column, a reclaimed repurposed piece of old desk, a weathered deck-glider, old suitcases, driftwood, an aspen log, old doors as tables or propped against the wall. in my studio there’s a metal slatted swivel patio chair topped by furry pillows, an old stool, the skeleton of a lampshade. there’s a vintage mailbox with our house number in the bathroom that holds magazines, glass doorknobs that hold towels, an old black shutter that holds space. old coffee pots hold teabags in the kitchen and an old trunk holds a metal sculpture in the hallway. there are two old window frames on the radiator in the sitting room across from a small rickety farm table. and we haven’t gone upstairs yet.

sometimes we take a little walkabout through our house and talk about these things. we kind of glory in the repurposing of these old objects, otherwise possibly put out to pasture. i’d like to think of them all as just waiting.

relevance is a funny thing. like most everyone else, we could certainly go to the local furniture stores and pick out contemporary (as in at least this decade) pieces with which to furnish our home. we could have things that are more – say – typical, more – say – normal, less – say – unusual. but those would also be less relevant to us.

because we are just like the chunks of concrete, the old desk, the weathered outdoor pieces, the old doorknobs and coffee pots, the chiminea.

we are artists. always waiting to be seen. always creating. just in case.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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less and less sand. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.

and so…

on the coldest of days, in any weather, we have gone down to the beach to dig a big contractor-sized pail of sand. once you have waxed bags, sand is the first thing you need for luminaria.

we’d add a couple cups of grainy sand to each bag and then center a votive candle into it for a flame that would linger for several hours.

for a few years we’d line them up on the sidewalks along our street – on both sides – to bring light in the latest of christmas eve hours, to gather a whole bunch of people together, to celebrate around a couple bonfires in our driveway.

even on the coldest of nights, we loved our new tradition.

until the pandemic.

since then our luminaria have been set up in our backyard, small groups of dear ones or just us watching them glow into the night.

this year – a rainy eve – we lit them inside our house. and we simplified.

waxed bag, glass votive, tea light candle.

no sand.

there was no reason to believe that our luminaria might tip over or blow away. so, we simply didn’t need the sand. we didn’t need anything to weigh down the bags. they were still ever-so-captivating.

in these days now since the holiday we have continued to clean out, to sort, to ponder things to keep, things to no longer hold onto.

each and every thing we donate or sell or discard has made me feel lighter. even the tiniest bric-a-brac that finds its way into the “go” pile has given me reason to celebrate.

space.

more space.

less begets less. it’s invigorating, refreshing, addictive.

each new piece i am pondering ends up on our dining room table. it has become the staging ground for decision-making. it has become the weigh-station…the place to weigh if what is weighing us down holds weight for us.

this will go on for a while. there is much to sort. as you know, thirty-six years in one house – a house with a basement and an attic – means there is a lot tucked in all the nooks and crannies.

but there is time. and in this time during which i am touching all these pieces of the past, i have a chance to touch all the emotions of these times-gone-by as well.

and so, it becomes a time of letting go. letting go of stuff, letting go of unnecessary goopy angst, letting go of emotions that get in the way of greeting the new days of what’s next.

the three luminaria in front of our fireplace stayed lit for a couple hours. without the challenge of the wind, they burned brightly. we turned off the room lights and sat in a living room illuminated only by happy lights and tiny tea light candles.

sinking in under furry throw blankets, we reveled in this place we call home, grateful and cozy.

with less and less sand.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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front door fan. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we are back door people. we haven’t always been back door people, but years ago the handle on the front door refused to unlock properly, so the only sensible thing to do was become back door people. and so, ever since then, i could count the number of times we have used the front door as our entry – even since the locksmith came and fixed the front door lock.

but lately – with the significant amount of ice on our driveway from the ice-damming of which you are weary of reading about – we have been parking in the driveway a bit further down and – drumroll – going in the front door.

this confuses the dog. he has gotten used to our entry through the backdoor – it’s been the norm for most of his life. when we come in the front door, he arrives in the living room looking a bit befuddled. but dogga comes around quickly – acknowledging our arrival home – and his aussie wigglebutt starts wagging.

i have to say – though it’s been quite a while now since the locksmith smithed the lock – having two options as doors feels rather decadent. and gives one a different perspective on one’s home.

i haven’t been an attached-garage person for three and a half decades – though that was fun while it lasted. the never-get-wet, never-get-cold, never-get-hot, never-get-misted on – all of that – is rather nice. but that ended in florida and I wouldn’t trade the non-attached-garage personhood identity for florida residency.

so. the front door.

because we used to exit LBS or big red and walk down the driveway toward the garage and through the ever-popular metal accordion-folding ghetto fence, up the deck steps and across the deck to the back door, we would see back yard things on our way in. we’d gaze and stop and comment – on breck-our-aspen, on the flowers, on the deck seating areas, on the birdfeeder or birdbath birds, on the squirrels – whatever caught our interest, struck our fancy.

now – at least in these last two weeks – we have been – really – noticing the front door stuff. it is impossible to not appreciate the grasses as you walk to the front door. and in these last snowfalls, these grasses are utterly gorgeous. bent under the weight of the heavy sticky snow, they gracefully give to the season, knowing that their return in the spring and summer will be mighty. each blade, each frond – yellowed with autumn – now covered with pristine white fluff.

when you allow things to take your breath away – even simple things – it is amazing how many things will do just that.

one of these days we will go back to primarily using the back door. there’s always lots to see, despite how well we know these bitty routes in daily life.

in the meanwhile, i’m gonna be a front door fan.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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a tree again. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the day I looked out the sunroom window and saw two black-capped chickadees perched on the-branch-we-brought-out-of-our-living-room was the day i realized all was well. this beautiful branch – from the big old tree in our front yard – was having a renaissance. back in the great outdoors, it was experiencing life – all over again, in a new way.

we missed the branch as soon as we removed it from the living room. it had been there for four years – ever since the water main in our yard burst and the ultra-supersized equipment brought in knocked this big branch off our beloved tree. we pulled it aside and then brought it in, putting it in a big clay pot and right next to the front window, bedazzled with happy lights and in a place of honor.

it was our christmas tree that year and has had a variety of ornaments on it each holiday season since – old vintage shiny brites, silver and glitter silver round balls, crystals. it has held a metal star and a peace sign throughout the year and it has been a tad bit difficult to maneuver around the entire time. regardless, we kept it there – in spite of the difficulty to open or close the mini blinds and open or close the windows. to sit in the recliner next to the tree, one had to be mindful of the little branches blocking the way, waiting to poke one’s eye out. nevertheless, we were dedicated to this tree in our living room, even though it truly took up a lot of space.

this year – as we started our zealous clearing-out, we decided it was time for the tree to move outside and take up a new place on the deck, where we could see it out the sunroom windows. d secured it to the deckboards and the railing and we placed new happy lights on it, along with an outdoor timer so it would greet us at every dusk.

i had a few moments – staring at the blank spot in the living room where the tree had taken up soooo much space – missing it. we will fill the spot temporarily with a little wrought iron table and a curly corkscrew rush plant — which will hopefully last through the winter. but in the long run? i’m not sure. it is kind of nice to be able to open and close the miniblinds without ducking or trying to avoid breaking smaller branches.

my temporary sorrow – at change – eased when i looked out the sunroom window and saw these two chickadees sitting on our old broken branch. one flew away and another landed. i could practically hear the branch sighing, its soul happy. and why not? it was a tree again.

life, change, renewal.

there are many ways to learn lessons.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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backer rod, oh backer rod. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

we have become backer rod junkies. having never heard of it before this fall, it has been a quick conversion to fanhood, but we are there, nonetheless.

it’s been a week now since i woke up at midnight to the steady drip, drip, drip in the next room. yes. IN the next room. i threw off the covers, which woke d up immediately. and then i ran into the sitting room.

pulling up the miniblind disclosed what i expected: internal window sills of ice and a steady drip from above. it’s called ice damming.

the ridiculously frigid temperatures have caused the water in the gutter above these twin windows to freeze. we have a heating cable in that gutter, but – and here’s the big but – despite checking it before the snowfall, we didn’t know that the outdoor outlet the cable is plugged into had since failed.

so the water in the gutter froze and then the heat from the house started to thaw the snow on the steeply pitched cape cod roof which then melted toward the gutter – which had somehow misaligned itself – and, with the ice filling the gutter the water had nowhere to go but into the window structure behind the wall and voila! an interior (of the double hung windows) filled with ice. this – as you may guess – is not our favorite thing.

so, there we were, at midnight getting our equipment together. david with his 32 degrees base layers and boots and the infamous nike jacket, the ladder and plastic pitchers from which to pour hot water – and me, with my blow dryer, lots of old towels, a heater, a rubber spatula, mallet, and anything i could get my hands on that might waylay water from actually spilling INTO the room.

it was 2:30am before we went back to bed after d had climbed the ladder about 57 times in the frigid night air, melting the gutter and the downspout and replugging the heating element wire into an extension cord.

and then it all started again the next day. and the next. and the next. we are hoping for a 50 degree day, but it doesn’t look promising.

i’m writing this ahead so i am hoping that we have gotten it all under control by this time – hoping the backer rod and the towels and the cold-weather flex paste and the overburdened gutter guy have – in combo – solved this. but, for right now, as i write this, we are still in midstream, dealing with it. yep. midstream.

it is my hope (against hope) that the inordinate amount of backer rod we now proudly own will do the trick – being impermeable to water and such. we are counting on that impermeable thing. we shall see.

but in the meanwhile, we are nevertheless hope-filled-backer-rod-fans and will not hesitate to do the backer rod dance should backer rod help to solve this issue.

ice damming is a royal pain. we do our best to avoid it. every time it snows i hopehopehope it won’t be followed by a period of melting and then frigid sub-zero temperatures. not to mention a failing outlet or a gutter that has shifted out of alignment. eh.

we try to keep it in perspective, though, as we punt through our improvised fix. we feel fortunate, even as we damn the ice damming.

and mostly, i’m trying to decide if we should publicize my new backer rod theme song (to the tune of “edelweiss”) “backer rod, backer rod, every gap you are sealing. backer rod, backer rod, our love for you is revealing…joints and gaps will be waterproofed, that’s no spoof, we’re cheering…back rod, backer rod, you can’t know how much we’re feeling.”

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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at home. with dogga. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

bundled up in down vests and gloves, we were finished the cleaning-up of the backyard, readying it for winter. though we are reluctant to face the winter, it feels good to tuck away the adirondacks and the gravity chairs, the rugs made of recycled plastic straws, the firepit and the little wrought iron glass table. as i cleared leaves off the deck to make it easier for my wonderful husband to shovel future snows, i stumbled across this bit of evergreen. fallen from our spruce tree, it reminded me immediately of the little tree we – years ago – had brought home from aspen: “ditch”, named after our favorite trail there, a profoundly emotional place for us.

i brought it inside.

it now has a place of regal importance on the bistro table – the place we tend to sit for happy hour, for dinner. with windows overlooking the backyard, we can watch the waning light and review our day, dogga at our feet, for he loves the cool floor of the sunroom.

we won’t be traveling this holiday season. our old dogga is now a senior dog and as we watch him – in his slowingdown – we are dedicated to being witness to these days with him. it’s not like we wouldn’t like to drive – or maybe, even fly – to visit relatives or friends or go on an adventure, but it is definitely that we don’t want to leave him.

dogga’s presence has been a constant for us in the entirety of our living-together. his steady amber gaze, his unbridled enthusiasm, his quirks – they are all a distinct element of our life. he steadfastly helped us through all the – interesting – transitions in this decade plus. and so, we are committed to being by his side, honoring him in his aging, in his challenges and his ever-growing list of quirks. we want to hold space with him.

and so things like a bit of evergreen, like a strand of happy lights tucked inside the chiminea in the corner of the sunroom, like fluffy pillows on the glider in the living room – they are tiny ways to really enjoy our home during a time we will spend most of it not away, most of it at home.

like babycat, dogga has many theme songs, which we sing for him. “dogga-dogga, you’re the one. do-do-do-do. dogga-dogga, so much fun. do-do-do-do. dogga-dogga, in the sun. do-do-do-do. dogga-dogga, number one.”

he doesn’t require brilliant lyricism nor originality. his joy is pretty simple. kind of like a bit of spruce in a little glass vase.

“dogga-dogga, puddin’ and pie, mom and dad love you as big as the sky.”

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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and then. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

with what seemed a millisecond between seasons, it is – clearly – fall now.

i had a list of places to go, places to show d. but the tropical storm/nor’easter put a crimp in all that. planting fields, millneck manor, blydenburgh park, hecksher park, every beach on both shores, out east – it was all on the list.

but the reality was that both time and good weather were limited. so in tiny bits of time, we went to the most important places. the other places will have to wait.

grateful to be home, we went to our favorite loop trail and immersed in the turn of the season, appreciating all the little and big ways it had changed in the week we had been away – a week that felt infinitely longer.

i readjusted the smart lights and the old-fashioned timers. d pushed the garden lights earlier. we refreshed happy lights and, and just a few days ago, i turned on the heat for the first time this season. i love autumn, but the waning light is a bit challenging.

any store we enter now is decked out in full holiday schmalz. that – i have to say – is too much for me. though i am completely aware this works for some people, it just seems too soon and it seems a bit tone-deaf to me, considering all that is actually happening.

as i think about the holiday season – knowing our adult children will not be celebrating here with us this year – i wonder about our own celebration. i have some seriously mixed feelings about it all. though being surrounded by lights and cheerful reminders of merriment and joy would be helpful, i also know that there is a tipping point – at least for me. too much of that might be like closing my eyes to the painful changes taking place right here, right now. it will be important to balance the hope of a season of light with reality. some of the merriment, the decorations, the glitter and ribbons and wrap might have to wait. just like millneck manor and planting fields, the beaches and parks of the island. sometimes just a bit is also enough for the moment.

in the meanwhile, we touch this season. we take cuttings of our plants to propagate for next year. we miss long, lazy light as it slowly disappears. we start to wear boots.

the time of fallow is coming.

fallow.

and then?

i truly hope that soon we here in this country are able to – driven to – resume the cultivation of kindness and humanitarian goodness, to regenerate respect and care for each person here, to break the toxic infestation of these days, to recover a nation of integrity, equality, generosity and democracy for all.

*****

MILLNECK FALL © 1996 kerri sherwood

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the wake. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

i could see the maple tree up over the roof of the house. it had really grown a lot in the decades since our family lived there. i thought about all the time i had spent in that tree…an innocent poet trying to piece together the world, make sense of it. back then, i was proud to spend time with my family, my beloved dog missi, on the piano bench or the organ bench or tucked against the trunk of my tree, riding my bike (or, later, driving my little vw bug) to the beach or the harbor, studying, doing homework. i taught piano lessons and worked at various part-time jobs – all on or adjacent to larkfield road – the main artery through our town. going back to these places after long years away makes one realize how small it all was – this world around me – with everything nearby and a steadfast belief in rainbows and sunrises and seagulls.

i wasn’t street-wise back in those days – not at all. the guys i worked with loved to test my naïveté by telling jokes and laughing before the punchline. in an effort to mask that i never really got the joke (particularly if it was a “dirty joke”), i’d laugh when they laughed. they caught me every time. but i didn’t care. it was a happy life and i was ever-so-slowly learning about the real world.

i wondered how it would feel when we first drove down into northport from high above the harbor. this cherished town, this dock – a place of inspiration for me – had taken on different meaning from the time long ago, when i left so abruptly. the sadness i felt leaving a place so ingrained in me had never left. there was grief, deep grief. as my innocence was shattered, my home – these shining places that were part and parcel to who i was had been tarnished. nothing was the same and i wondered what that would feel like, if i would feel misfit.

at first – as i’ve written – there was a disconnect. i’m certain it was a protective measure, something that would maybe prevent me from feeling the grief, touching it, maybe releasing bits of it. but the spirit – of the little village, the harbor, the dock, the gazebo, the beach, the maple tree in the distance – all swirled around me. and, as d and i created new memories there, my guarded heart opened.

the sunsets over the harbor are stunning. the inky nights on the dock are magical. i took them with me as we left, this time slowly, not fleeing.

and as we sit at the little bistro table in our sunroom, with driftwood and rocks from that place, it’s a different kind of grief i feel now. it’s the grief of missing a place that is indelibly etched in me, that is part of what has made me who i am, that is woven into what will heal me.

“…the waters part to let them go.

the wake follows, alone.”

(night dock – january 1977)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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waltz in the gazebo. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

we had the gazebo all to ourselves. it is likely that the tropical-storm-nor’easter had something to do with this. no one seemed inclined to be strolling about, nonetheless lingering on the gazebo.

so we danced. on the rain-soaked boards of this beautiful age-old gazebo, we waltzed to the music on my phone – the cherish the ladies instrumental if ever you were mine – the very piece we irish-waltzed at our wedding, surrounded by a circle of family and friends.

and on this dark starless night, with rain drifting in under the domed wood of the gazebo, it was not only magical. it was a little bit healing. it was sacred.

for here we were – both literally drenched – all alone on the gazebo of my youth – lifting the cellophane of the old magic slate – starting a new history.

just a couple people passed by in the park, walking the edges of the harbor. they paid no attention to our slow dancing. much is the way of new yorkers: you do you they imply.

we weren’t looking for an audience, so that was good. we were just sinking into the night – in the middle of the storm – in the middle of the storm.

and i could begin to feel the old break away a bit and new replace it as our feet got jumbled together in the waltz we hadn’t waltzed in a while.

i clicked play a second time, lifted the cellophane a second time.

just to make sure.

*****

SLOW DANCE © 2002 kerri sherwood

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