A story of provenance and persistence
I’m in love with human stories and homes; moving is one of those things that reminds me of the temporary element that is life.
In college, I found a still-life study that had been left behind by the existing class; the manager of the library commented on the half-finished table of lemons, and I asked if I could have it. She said, yes, and when I returned home, I promptly hung it right in the spot above the stove where a space for a hood fan might reside. That small painting traveled with me and was proudly hung in each one of my 7 homes and then when we landed in number 8, it was the end of the line.
The end of the road for the lemons.
I look back at pictures of the homes I’ve owned and carefully decorated. I took so much pride and spent so much time in the ‘what if’ stage of the planning. I look back now, and I see something vastly different than morphing decorating compositions with lemons on top. I see the results of a woman who, trapped in her own limiting beliefs, couldn’t forge a more interesting way to express her creativity.
The jockeying of furniture between houses (Mom, Me, Sister) was part of the flavor of our lives back then. We didn’t have the income to shop at Ethan Allen or even Pier One and we truly had a gift for re-purposing and up-cycling decades before the rest of the world caught on. We thought we were so smart scoring incredibly beautiful antiques at secondhand stores for a fraction of their auction values. Funny how this little insignificant activity was the glue during some difficult transitions in our young lives. The talking, shopping, fetching, remodeling, stripping, staining, stenciling, painting, moving, and re-moving of furniture was the reason to make the call or the center of our conversations when we got together in person. It was a door opener for more challenging conversations about the story of our family; once dismantled, we struggled to find our claw feet again.
The houses we owned, ranged from Farmhouse to Modern 2 Story with tuck under garage, to an American Four Square, to a Greek Revival Cottage, to a Mid-Century Modern Executive Ranch, to a Farm-house Compilation Rambler, to an 1856 Colonial Duplex, to our current home -- a custom built Modern Lakehouse with a vacation rental. I’ve assumed a mortgage, used a builder’s loan, bought a home FHA, USDA, Contract for Deed, Conventional, out of foreclosure, from an estate, and, finally, one which was never even lived in by the original owners. So much movement from home to home; things were re-purposed, switched up, moved around, and donated. The same can be said of my relationships too; family and friends were re-purposed, switched up, moved away and a few got donated too.
Now my whole house is griege. It’s a blend between grey and beige. I no longer spend my time dreaming of rooms from which to dream of a more full and exciting life. I spend my time living in my dreams and the artifacts from the history of my life offer colorful accents and punctuations that keep things interesting to the eye. The drama of my youth has waned, only to be replaced with the drama of a new generation. I’m finally satisfied with sedentary and stability. I’ve purged off anything that doesn’t bring me joy and the burning desire to find more, ‘pick’ more, has (almost) completely left me. A few times along the way, when my income was rising, I entertained the idea of buying nicer things, newer things. As quickly as those thoughts entered, I snuffed them because my thrift store items were a part of me now. Like that creek in my knee, the age spots on my hand, and the permanent colic on the left side of my head that refuses to be smoothed by any product known to man. Half-painted lemons. What does it mean? Was my life a half-painted lemon or did I make lemonade?
The lemon painting is now at Nana & Bumpa’s Place, a 1960’s Mid-Century Modern cottage 3 miles into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in the 800,000-acre Hiawatha National Forest. AKA Highbanks Cottage. Just take County Highway 8 to the small marker across from Soldier Lake Park and turn right onto a 2-tire track in the sand that leads you on a bumpy, windy, tree-branch whipped and scraped ride deep into the forest. A forest of pines, lichen, mushrooms, huckleberries, and ferns. Hundreds of thousands of feathery sunlit ferns. The lemon painting, the pinch pots, the artwork and photographs, quilts, and artifacts are all evidence of a season when I believed this kind of life belonged to ‘other’ people. It’s not that hard to recall the feelings of being on the outside looking in; of watching people decide what they wanted to do and then doing it. I was defeated and always wondered how they ‘did’ it. A home is just a temporary box that holds your stuff until you no longer need it. We put so much emphasis on the box that we forget that a box isn’t what holds memories. A box, a photo album, or a painting holds no meaning at all in the middle of the forest where no human soul is there to view it, appreciate it, or assign meaning to it.
I used to wonder how people found their purpose and then set about designing the life that was exactly right for them. I now understand that it resides in the hidden ability to see – to tune into – the potential that is all around each of us every single day. I now pay attention, open my eyes, and connect the dots. The lemons I carried with me for so many decades are now in my signature drink at our vacation rental, La La’s Landing.
We call it La La’s Lemonade.
