The U.S. Ambassador to France
Horace Porter, (1897-1905) receives the Grand Cross Legion of Honor from the French government in 1904.
.jpg)
The French Connection. Note the Mansard roof on this abandoned farmhouse near Fremont, OH, circa 1967.
In the days when I planned on being an architect, this specimen of Post [Civil] War prosperity in the Empire Taste commanded a summit overlooking a cow pasture on Route 20 outside of town. I would admire it whenever we drove by and after much pestering persuaded my mother to obtain permission from the farmer who owned it for us to pay a visit, which came to pass one summer Saturday. Armed with pencils and graph paper and tape measures, I supervised my team (Mother who was also my driver, my sister and my best friend Joey) in the mapping and data collection for the scale drawings I intended to prepare to aid in my future renovations, when I grew up and acquired the property and moved in, possibly with Joey, although I had not fully worked out these latter details except in a fuzzy way that left me feeling excited and confused. I had even borrowed Dad's camera and this is the only photograph which came out more or less in focus and not at a Dutch angle, although I managed sadly to crop the top off the tower.
Joey was far more enterprising and worldly, being a year or two older and a student at the Catholic school in town and acquainted with mysteries I had yet to be introduced to. Plus my brother disliked him for reasons I did not understand but which added to his charm. Joey led the way to the attic while I left my mother and sister downstairs measuring windows and baseboards. Climbing the narrow stairs with trepidation, I was caught off guard when Joey blithely insisted I boost him up so he could take pictures out a hole in the roof, and all I can remember very clearly after that is worrying he would drop Dad's camera while I held on, as they say, for dear life, clasping him around the legs with his stomach pressed into my face and, yes, it was an exceedingly awkward pose that left me feeling lightheaded and excited and confused all at once.
It was the math and science that eventually put me off pursuing a career as an architect, fear of getting caught that put me off Joey when (as they say) I figured that part out. "We should have let you be a decorator," my sister conceded years later, and I was startled to realize that
a) there'd been discussions of my future beyond whether or not I'd be drafted (which I wasn't),
b) my interest in picturesque old houses and the flamboyant Joey had added up (as they say), and
c) "decorator" was yet another example of Midwestern code, like "sensitive" and "artistic" and "light in the loafers." As in, "He was always a very artistic and sensitive boy and now I hear he's moved to California to be a decorator but you know they say Rock Hudson's a little light in the loafers too."
Attentive readers may have noticed a pattern emerging in these recent posts. I've been rummaging through family pictures and feeling a kind of funny sad urgency, remembering. As if I desperately want these stories to have some universal signficance and convey far more meaning than they are capable of.
Still, it matters to me that once upon a time there was a boy enamored of Frank Lloyd Wright and inspired by a visit to Historic Williamsburg and thrilled by "House Beautiful" magazines in the hair salon downtown where Grandma went to get her blue rinse. For what it's worth, there was a boy who used to daydream about restoring old mansions in the Midwest, preferably ones with towers, and he spent hours and hours making Ohio beautiful in his mind.
The French Connection. Note the Mansard roof on this abandoned farmhouse near Fremont, OH, circa 1967.
In the days when I planned on being an architect, this specimen of Post [Civil] War prosperity in the Empire Taste commanded a summit overlooking a cow pasture on Route 20 outside of town. I would admire it whenever we drove by and after much pestering persuaded my mother to obtain permission from the farmer who owned it for us to pay a visit, which came to pass one summer Saturday. Armed with pencils and graph paper and tape measures, I supervised my team (Mother who was also my driver, my sister and my best friend Joey) in the mapping and data collection for the scale drawings I intended to prepare to aid in my future renovations, when I grew up and acquired the property and moved in, possibly with Joey, although I had not fully worked out these latter details except in a fuzzy way that left me feeling excited and confused. I had even borrowed Dad's camera and this is the only photograph which came out more or less in focus and not at a Dutch angle, although I managed sadly to crop the top off the tower.
Joey was far more enterprising and worldly, being a year or two older and a student at the Catholic school in town and acquainted with mysteries I had yet to be introduced to. Plus my brother disliked him for reasons I did not understand but which added to his charm. Joey led the way to the attic while I left my mother and sister downstairs measuring windows and baseboards. Climbing the narrow stairs with trepidation, I was caught off guard when Joey blithely insisted I boost him up so he could take pictures out a hole in the roof, and all I can remember very clearly after that is worrying he would drop Dad's camera while I held on, as they say, for dear life, clasping him around the legs with his stomach pressed into my face and, yes, it was an exceedingly awkward pose that left me feeling lightheaded and excited and confused all at once.
It was the math and science that eventually put me off pursuing a career as an architect, fear of getting caught that put me off Joey when (as they say) I figured that part out. "We should have let you be a decorator," my sister conceded years later, and I was startled to realize that
a) there'd been discussions of my future beyond whether or not I'd be drafted (which I wasn't),
b) my interest in picturesque old houses and the flamboyant Joey had added up (as they say), and
c) "decorator" was yet another example of Midwestern code, like "sensitive" and "artistic" and "light in the loafers." As in, "He was always a very artistic and sensitive boy and now I hear he's moved to California to be a decorator but you know they say Rock Hudson's a little light in the loafers too."
Attentive readers may have noticed a pattern emerging in these recent posts. I've been rummaging through family pictures and feeling a kind of funny sad urgency, remembering. As if I desperately want these stories to have some universal signficance and convey far more meaning than they are capable of.
Still, it matters to me that once upon a time there was a boy enamored of Frank Lloyd Wright and inspired by a visit to Historic Williamsburg and thrilled by "House Beautiful" magazines in the hair salon downtown where Grandma went to get her blue rinse. For what it's worth, there was a boy who used to daydream about restoring old mansions in the Midwest, preferably ones with towers, and he spent hours and hours making Ohio beautiful in his mind.
Comments