Ode to Blue

 

By Kimberly Mayer

 

Blue  and Whites

 

 

When I was young I thought eye color determined one’s color palate in life, and that blue was the province of blue-eyed people. It was just my little rule, and I lived by it.

I believed that having hazel-brown eyes, I had to be content with “fall colors.” In my mind blue belonged to my younger sister. And I’m quite sure I was jealous of that.

So when I became a mother I dressed my daughters in blue, regardless of their eye color. As much as they may have wanted to wear pink, I could see that they looked better in blue.

I gave our blond first-born the whole array of blues, and I referred to each hue as “Ashley blue.” At one time, I am sure she was convinced it was her color.

Dark-haired and fair- skinned, Jacqueline looked washed out in pastels but wore navy and reds splendidly. “Just like Snow White,” I’d say. I said it so often, I’m sure she thought she was Snow White.

The girls submerged themselves in blues through their high school years. Ashley, in a complex Mediterranean blue room. Jacqueline, in a dark navy blue room encircled with framed posters of all her drama productions, and stars that illuminated on the ceiling in the dark. Clearly they had found themselves in blue.

Meanwhile their mother trudged on in an earth color palatte of  khakis, browns and greens–lots of beige– and dressed our home primarily in naturals. But if I had one indulgence color –wise, it was my blue & whites. A collection that grew over all those years and was always displayed prominently. A love affair of mine, if you will, with the color blue.

The Talavere pottery pieces were carried back on my lap from various trips to Mexico. The Japanese Ginger Jar, an acquisition from an antique shop, way over my budget. Chinese Ginger jar “finds” in consignment shops, to help make up for that. The soup tureen, gifted by my mother when she and dad  downsized into an apartment. In every case, all the blues look splendid together, and this has been my revelation again and again, over the ages.

I am allowing myself to indulge in blues now with this house by the sea. When the water isn’t green or gray it is blue blue blue. Our nights are often blue velvet skies. It’s true what they say, there’s a calming effect to blue. Some claim it can lower blood pressure and help relieve insomnia. I’m going for the tranquility of the color, and navy is my choice.

Navy blue, I have found, is warm in the winter and works all summer long too.

Insisting the home enhance the bay view, all the walls and woodwork were painted white. A whitewashed ceiling, hardwood floors, plenty of stone, oatmeal linen, and leather—all the naturals over the years. And where I can add color, I go out of my way now for navy.

The darkness of navy is grounding, making light all the more brilliant. Likewise navy is “lifted” with brighter colors, particularly oranges, coral and reds. A wool rug in our foyer, navy with brown, olive green and orange, greets our guests (and hides cedar and pine needles from shoes and boots). An inky blue indigo ikat fabric drapes over a rail. An antique  Turkish rug in the living room is navy with red, and beige. Navy blue cashmere throws are strewn on chairs, while navy blue Indian blanket pillows flank the distressed brown leather sofa. A solid navy blue linen duvet covers our bed. The master bath is navy and white. I wear more navy now in clothes, and everything is comfortable with navy in our home.

And just as I had my blue & white collection going when little else in my life was blue, wouldn’t you know it, when I registered for gifts as a bride—if ever there were a time of indulgence, that is it—I chose white china with a wide navy blue rim. I look at them now and think, these plates knew where they were going all along.

 

2 Comments

Filed under decorating with the color blue, navy blue

Gardening Around Deer

 Deer eating

 

Summer came and our attention moved from inside to out. That, and when a house is on the water, everything gets turned around and the waterside becomes the front. So we are focused on the water now and we’re off in kayaks and guests of ours are coming by in boat. We are digging for clams, growing oysters in the water, and all our salad greens in planters on a sunny deck.

Let’s just say that summertime in the Pacific Northwest is so nice, everyone would live here if it were like this year round. So we’re glad it isn’t.

Similarly I am grateful for all that the deer don’t eat. It seems to me in gardening, with all the choices available, we need some restrictions. We need to plant native, preferably, drought-tolerant, and living on island, deer-resistant. Our smart nursery at Browne’s on San Juan Island has a few long tables that fulfill these requirements. Put in the right plants, and no need to see deer as menace.

While palates can differ among deer, I think it is safe to say they dislike strong-tasting plants such as herbs. Likewise they will leave euphorbia and poppies alone (milk sap), they avoid foxglove and daffodil (poisonous), lupine, Jerusalem Sage, Meadow Rue, Bigroot Geranium, lamb’s ear, salvia, foxglove, Shasta daisy and Iris. (Cosmos were on this list in my first draft, but they were chomped in the night so now they’re not).

Who can’t paint a picture with all that?

I’m planting Shasta daisy along the 134’ fence that lines the edge of the property from the steep grade bank to the beach. Our bonfire pit encircled with Adirondack chairs is before this fence, soon to be joined with the picnic table Bill Maas is constructing for us at Egg Lake Sawmill & Shake. Plus a Bocce Ball court we’re going to build on soil because our daughter gave us a handsome set for Christmas. The Shasta daisy lined fence will be background for all this activity, attracting butterfly by day and illuminating the night. And the deer have given us this.

This house had been standing empty for a couple of years before we purchased it, thus the deer made the property part of their park. It is their land and I am not about to fence them out. Surrounded by forests and farmland, pastures, lagoons, quarries and marshes, miles of trails and a winding country road, all this natural beauty—the deer are a part of it.

Native to the San Juan Islands, the Columbia black-tail deer graze about, their big black eyes following us. Where we live never a shot is heard, so this trust has been built up for some time. I just walked into it. Yet I now consider myself a deer whisperer. Talking softly and moving slowly, I assure them they are safe and that I love them. Attentive ears, they listen to me. Then go back about their grazing, grooming the woods, and munching all the pesky dandelions.

Wild gardening.

2 Comments

Filed under gardening with deer

How to Turn a Home into a Writing Retreat

 Chair and Books

“We think of retreat as going away, but it need not be a physical act. Each of us can find our own way to silence. We withdraw and the inner world appears.” Deena Metzger

 BY KIMBERLY MAYER

If this post were structured like a real how-to, Step 1 would be to turn off the television. Or in our case, never turn it on. Whether we want to write, read, paint, sculpt, or meditate, there is no better step than that.

What we are aiming to do here is to create a sanctuary, an oasis of civilization. What Gordon Lish referred to as “a haven in a heartless world.” In our case a writing retreat, and this is our attempt at that using our house.

To begin with, we went out of our way–left the city last year to be here, in the San Juan Islands. Downshifting…

And upon a lot in an old growth forest by the sea, there sat a modular Timberland Home, circa 1997, which we redesigned in sustainable materials to be in harmony with nature. Down went LP siding, up went cedar shake shingles. Down came numerous interior walls, and up came generous open space living.

Everything opens to sky and sea; we knew nothing should detract from that.

It’s the shimmering waters. It’s the quality of air. It’s the wildlife. It’s the quiet. It’s the organic foods. It’s having as many outdoor spaces as in. It’s the reverence for nature. And if you ask me, it’s to be shared.

So I invited a writer friend to live with us. (note: this step has to be as important as no television). Dear friend,  brilliant writer. He too is finishing a book.

Together we imitate graduate school here: writing days, and long walks. Good food, discussions, books, and sometimes reading aloud at night what had been written by day.

Suddenly all this nature and art. It was working for me. I know this to be true because he went away for a couple days and I could barely tap out this piece.

4 Comments

Filed under writing retreat

Going Gray

Jackie's apartment

The San Francisco residence of J. Mayer and B. Blum

BY KIMBERLY MAYER

My girlfriends in Seattle told me it would happen when I moved to the islands.

“You’ll come back gray-haired wearing Birkenstock sandals,” they warned.

Well they were half right.

We were all coloring our hair back there. The San Juan Islands are more organic in every sense. Women give each other permission to go gray here.

It’s not as easy as it looks. Going gray took a number of months. My hairdresser had to remove my hair of the brown coloring, and gray what was stripped. Matching up the color with what was growing in.

“I don’t like it. I’m not ready for this,” my husband commented when the job was completed.

The next day I was flying east. I had promised to care for my father at his retirement home while my mother enjoyed a stay with friends in the English countryside. Residents of the retirement home raved about my hair. What they saw were the waves–the color was a given. I felt good enough to come home again.

Here on the island gray is the color of silver fox, oyster and clam shells, shimmering fish, Gray whales, harbor seals, dolphin, Gray heron, and fog.

I will get around to remodeling. All roads lead to remodeling lately.

Deck after rain

This weekend we painted 800 sq. ft. of decking around our island home. What had been a dark brown-red paint over cedar became a lighter gray, and the house went from being “of the woods” to being “of the water.” Gray is a nautical color, the color of sun bleached piers and teak decking on boats.

There is a gray wash to our hardwood floors. A gray stain to new pieces of furniture (Restoration Hardware outlet). A gray quartz countertop in our kitchen. A gray veining through Carrera marble tiles on the backsplash. Stainless steel floating shelves for glassware and dishes. Stainless steel appliances. Grays in slate tile floors in mudroom and bath. And now, gray decks running everywhere: down the hillside staircase, across the house, and out to the writing hut. Where I write.

I say this after having lived with earth tones all my life, on my walls and in my hair. There is a calmness and sophistication to the color gray. It is restful and it is where I am right now.

5 Comments

Filed under hair coloring, remodeling, the color gray

One Million Mary Oliver Moments

Fiday Harbor Marina

Two postcards arrived in the mail this week that turned me around and blew me away. One, a black & white notification for renewal of our post office box. And the other, an illustrated reminder of the San Juan Artists’ Studio Tour, coming up June 6 & 7, an event we attended last year. Can it be we will have been here a year?

What started as a spontaneous decision, i.e. “Let’s move to the islands!” has taken a year to implement.

Our daughters are the adults now. They are working and commuting and making plans for the future. They are growing their careers, while we are growing spring salad greens and arugula. These are their globe-trotting days, while we are walking everywhere. Indeed, my husband is a trekker.

Now we are the ones mucking around in the waters and digging in the sand. Assembling Adirondack chairs like so many tinker toys, and building bonfires as if we were at camp. Taking all our cues from nature.

Talking to the attentive deer of the forest, assuring them they are safe. Going ecstatic over waterfowl. Gray  herons, gulls at play, soaring eagles. The slow turning of the seasons, the eruption of spring. The racket of crickets in tall grasses and frogs mating in marshes. The fox who congregate on the beach to yip at full moons, we are listening to you all. We see the sun come up each morning and wake each other if it’s particularly beautiful, and watch it set.

Standing Heron

One million Mary Oliver moments in each day, that is why I live here.

“Life doesn’t go in a straight line, it goes in a circle,” notes my father at 91 years of age.

Full circle is what I feel when the ferry arrives in port in Friday Harbor. Walk-on passengers move to the bow of the boat with their bags, bikes and children. Cars follow at a distance, driving at a pedestrian pace, climbing the shining village on the hill.

Refugees from the mainland.

11 Comments

Filed under nature

Into the Hut

Gertrude Stein did it in her Model T Ford while her partner, Alice, drove the car. Virginia Woolf did it standing up. Saul Bellow stood up as well. Whereas, James Joyce preferred to lie on his stomach in bed.

Nude and cold, Benjamin Franklin did it in a dry bathtub. Agatha Christie, a bathtub filled with warm water.

E.B. White did it in a boathouse on a saltwater farm in Maine. Rita Dove, by candlelight in a cabin. And Annie Dillard, in a tent pitched in her yard on Cape Cod.

Where writers write.

What are the chances? Two friends on two coasts, landing in their respective writing huts. But that is just what is happening.

Dulcie's cabinHers in Maine

Kim's hut Water

Mine on San Juan Island, Washington

In his introduction to Jill Krementz’s photographic book, The Writer’s Desk, John Updike notes “… the requirement of any writing space is that it disappear from the mind’s eye of the inhabitant, to be replaced, by the verbal vistas of poetry and prose.”

Apparently some of us build it so it can disappear.

For me, “a hut in the woods” had always been hypothetical. Nevertheless I coveted it, the proverbial writing hut. What a formidable writer I might be, I thought, if I only had a hut in the woods!

So much more than a room of one’s own, it’s a little house of one’s own.

My friend’s hut is still under construction. “The shell is done and it is insulated now from top to bottom,” she wrote last month. “But it’s still sitting beside my house waiting for walls and flooring and electricity and a bed and a fireplace and a water pitcher and a coffee pot and, well you get the picture.”

I recently asked for an update, but of course everything in Maine is frozen in place and under four or five feet of snow. I learned that she has another site in mind for her hut. Note: my friend’s hut has a gender and it’s a “she.”

“She did not make it to her pond destination before the snows descended upon us. So there she waits, very quiet, for spring thaw. She still has a lighted tree on her porch, like a twinkle in her eye, waiting for the next chapter of life to unfold.”

“So do I,” adds my friend.

My hut sits in an old growth forest at the edge of a bay. Both of us will have water views, water sounds, and water fowl.

My hut came with the house, as a shed. The old shed got a new roof, hardwood floors, French doors, new windows, electricity, insulation, cedar shingle siding, tongue and groove pine ceiling, beaded board walls. More than I ever dreamt.

I had hoped to keep the oars that were up in the rafters, but I lost the rafters when we insulated the ceiling.

And I too wanted to bring a daybed into my writing hut, but an overflow of living room furniture bumped the daybed. To make up for the missing daybed, we put an Aerobed in the hut’s loft, sleeping double.

With a settee, a pair of upholstered French chairs, and a small marble topped coffeetable on guilded legs, my hut looks like a salon. The antique pine table that our family once dined at morning, noon and night is now my writing table. A dresser holds my papers. And books, books, books are piled on an enormous baker’s rack and in a glass-fronted legal bookcase I found in a thrift store on island for forty dollars.

Investments in my writing life are starting to stack up. The MFA at Goddard, attending various writers conferences, a travel writing workshop in Tuscany, and now this. I don’t know how my friend in Maine is going to feel when her hut is up and running, but I am a little afraid of it.

In part, because it is so much more than I, or anyone, needed. And in part, because writing is hard work.

“Our task as we sit (or stand or lie) is to rise above the setting, with its comforts and distractions,” explains John Updike, “into a relationship with our ideal reader, who wishes from us nothing but the fruits of our best instincts, most honest inklings, and firmest persuasions.”

John Cheever, who wrote in a room looking into a wood, liked to imagine that his readers were out there, in that forest.

From my hut in the San Juan Islands to her hut in Maine, we are not alone.

5 Comments

Filed under writing hut

Birdsong

trumpeter_swan

Sometimes it is all you can do to keep your head above water. When this happens, I know to take a long walk in the woods. Or, since moving to the country, hang around home and clear brush and fallen branches. And then there’s another tactic: get away.

Even if where you live is off the coast of Northern Washington, over the border with Canada in the outer reaches of an archipelago of islands in the Salish Sea, one may still feel the need to get away.

So my friend and I volunteered to count swans on Shaw Island last weekend for the Washington Department of Fish and Game, under the umbrella of Preservation Trust. Shaw is but a short ferry ride from San Juan Island, but in its way, worlds away.

You have to remember that an island is always a place apart.

My friend and her husband have been living in a trailer on site while building a custom home. This makes our remodel look like a walk in the park—although we did live on a boat for a few months. Boat, trailer, much the same. Small.

On a moored boat one may have to fend off otter. Into a trailer, mice will creep. And as much as she hates to do it, my friend sets mouse traps. When she catches one she puts on gloves, picks it up by its tail, walks down to the edge of Egg Lake and places the little mouse on a stump over the water. An offering to the eagles.

We live on a land of waters, and where there is water there will be birds. Salt water birds stay all winter, like us. And like us, they are easier to track.

But on this morning we were looking to report on the migratory pattern of swan upon Shaw Island. Dressed in outdoor gear, bearing binoculars, notebook and pen, we left in the dark to catch the first morning ferry. The irony was that at sunrise my friend’s lake, Egg Lake, would be full of swan. Trumpeter swan. But others would be responsible for the count on San Juan Island that morning. We were off to Shaw Island.

Our jeep drove down every open road on island—all 7.7 sq. m.–through heavily wooded forests searching for ponds, coves, inlets, anywhere swan might be found. Light green lichen dangled from branches like chandeliers. Out my side window I became mesmerized with the pattern of fences. Split-rail fences in every state of standing and collapsing, covered in emerald green moss.

We stopped in all the public places on Shaw—all three—to inquire. The grocery store was closed. A librarian opened the library for us. The postmaster inquired of his customers, and no, no one had seen swan on island for perhaps a year.

With no swan to report to the Department of Fish and Game and a couple hours before the next ferry, we turned our jeep into Our Lady of the Rock, a Benedictine Monastery for women. Here traditional habit-dressed, Gregorian-chanting cloistered nuns are “living out the liturgy through prayer, praise and contemplation” upon 300 acres of forest and farmland.

We didn’t see any nuns either.

Final Count

swans: 0

nuns: none

But we introduced ourselves to the Cotswols Sheep, Highland Cattle, Ilamas and alpacas, poultry and Jersey dairy cows. Said a prayer in the chapel and purchased infused vinegars. Got home and wished we had purchased herbs, mustard, and teas, as well as their famed “Monastery Cheese.”

I’ll be back, perhaps as a guest.

 

“This is my life and I don’t pretend to understand it.” Thomas Merton from his journals in solitary hermitage

 

4 Comments

Filed under trumpeter swan

Time After Time

Clock on the Mantle -1

The old clock always knew where it was going. Not us. We didn’t know we would uproot our lives in the city and move to the San Juan Islands. And we didn’t know what the house would be until we came home with a 9 1/2 foot yew log for a mantle and didn’t want to cut it down. But when we realized that a rock wall would be best behind it, it was decided then, I think, the house would go Lodge Style.

From that moment on I looked for rustic furnishings and rugs. Our hardwood floors were already distressed. Like a dock, I thought at the time. It was summer then, and I was thinking along the lines of a beach house. But in moving over to Lodge Style, everything worked in concert. Including all our “nicer things:” candelabras, linens, chandeliers, art and books.

And an heirloom of mine, an eight day time and strike mahogany shelf clock, circa early 1800’s. Today, the heartbeat of the house. So tightly wound in its packing crate, it started ticking when placed upon the mantle. That’s why I say the old clock always knew where it was going.

Pano from the Beach

Give me a day like this and I re-appreciate passing time. The season is turning and we will all be coming out of the darkness like moles. The sun is something we’ll have to adjust to again. It all rushes back to me: light filled days and nights, how awake we will be, and what we can accomplish.

Soon we’ll drop household projects and favor everything outdoors. What is done in the remodel will be done. Our priorities will shift.

It will be far more important to hold the seawall, reinforcing it with logs and rocks. We will want to build another set of Adirondack chairs with ottomans for the upper deck, staining them in the sun. Pick up a picnic table, cook and eat alfresco. Vegetables to get growing; an old deer fence to reinforce first. Forage for clams, oysters and crab on the beach.

Essentially we will live outside. Hang a hammock, and call it a day.

4 Comments

Filed under crab

Musings on Another House

Pemberton House

At home on the island, our project of late has been remodeling the master bath. For what has seemed like weeks, the door’s been off and there have been neither mirrors nor lights. The bath’s tile floor has been scattered with cabinet doors and baseboards, tub filled with discarded insulation, countertops laden with a jigsaw, fine tool drill, chiscels, screwdrivers and hammers.

I usually take my toothbrush from a drawer and a towel off the hook and go visit the guest bath, rather than risk my neck.

It didn’t have to be like this.

“I had a farm in Africa,” wrote Isak Dinesen. Well I nearly had a house that reminded me of her farm “at the foot of the Ngong Hills.”

This is the home I loved on San Juan Island. Situated in an interior valley with a white horse fence surrounding 6+ acres with a pond, bordered by over 500 acres of conservation land and a forever view. All light and sky and immense width and depth of landscape, looking off to snowcapped Olympics and The Strait of Haro, a glint of sea in the distance.

To me it was an Out of Africa moment every time I returned to visit this home. But to my husband it was just that little glint of sea.

The house was perfect. I could have moved in and put everything away, and within days been at work revising my book. Planning gardens, planting fruit trees, setting up a bocce court, horseshoes, a badminton net, who knows where it would have gone?

Instead we are in our seventh month of a remodel in a-home-that-needed-nearly-everything on Westcott Bay. I don’t know what it says about us that given a choice between a newer, lovely home in pristine condition and remodeling, we chose remodeling.

But I do know we did it for the chance to live on the water.

Yes, I might have been immensely happy in the other house with all the south facing light and vistas, but Paul would not have been. Where’d he go? I would wonder. And then I would know, down to the marina…

And in time it would have caught up with me too, the desire to live by the sea.

I know this every morning as I wake with flashing waters on the bay. Waterfowl at work or play, both resident and migratory, and what the old growth forest means to me. I’d be lost without the trees. Birds and trees, they have become me.

All that matters is being able to say, like Isak Dinesen, “Here I am, where I ought to be.”

 

 

7 Comments

Filed under living by the sea, waterfowl

A DIY Christmas

Tree Bird

 

Christmas is doing itself this year. I have surrendered to the environment.

Several powerful windstorms have come to visit us in our first winter on San Juan Island. Days as dark as night. Pinecones pelting windowpanes like sleet. Downed branches and trees crisscrossing roads and paths. And that incessant hum…

I have trouble falling asleep with the winds. And then I don’t know where I am when I awaken.

I am learning that living on the water is much like living on a boat. At high tide our concern is that the bank will hold. At low tide we breathe a sigh of relief—that is when we fall asleep, I think. In my dreams we’ve been swept away, much the way I feel when anchoring for the night.

“The florist delivered again!” I exclaim, as I throw open the front door in the morning. Each day after a windstorm I find fresh branches at my doorstep, from which I cut boughs to freshen our mantle, tuck onto gifts, and make arrangements with greens, pinecones and winterberries.

All the roads are softly covered in cedar and pine needles after a windstorm, as soft and quiet as a snowfall. At our front door a foyer rug of navy, salmons and green is perfect for hiding the needles coming in on every boot. Who knew?

The rug was a gift from my parents. Windstorms whistled when they lived on Cape Cod. When the wind whistled everyone wanted to come downstairs to sleep.

Interesting, a whistling there. A deep, low humming here.

Back to Christmas.

We cut down our own little tree on our property. In the house it speaks to me, telling me what it wants.

“Forget the totes full of Victorian and Venetian glass ornaments you collected over the years,” it says. Suddenly all of that is an heirloom.

“What I am is a woodland tree.”

I knew that.

Rummaging through my totes for birds, pinecones, vines and icicles, I found a few. It doesn’t get on my tree now unless it comes from the forest.

The beauty of the woodland tree is in the minimalism. It speaks of the scarcity of winter.

(note to self: don’t go overboard collecting these ornaments either).

Leave a comment

Filed under woodland tree