Chatter Creek Cottage: Bluer than Blue

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I love it: it’s so beautifully blue. To think we looked at this house back in 2006 and went on about our lives, thinking second houses are only for rich people, and so they are, rich, risk taking totally passionate people about houses. People who can think of nothing else or talk of nothing else but white washed walls, antiques and flowers. Well, we did go on about our lives after seeing this pretty little farmhouse but we continued to vacation here in Sullivan County as renters, sitting in the summer sun in our friend Steven’s backyard, doing nothing but fantasizing what we’d do if we owned all those houses we kept making brokers show us.

 

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Interestingly, I started a new novel in 2007 called Marybeth, Hollister & Jane that is set in Sullivan County, in Callicoon and just happens to take place in the same pretty little farmhouse that turned our heads way back when. I think when I was writing the novel I was totally smitten and subconsciously wanted to own this house, even in imagination. The book is presently being revised but should be out this year, my Chatter Creek Cottage novel, a book set in a house I wish I owned.

 

Someone else bought our farmhouse in 2006 and it seemed to vanish altogether except my sisters lived there, the imaginary sisters in my book, Marybeth, Hollister & Jane. The book is about art and jewel thieves. I really like art and jewel thieves. If I had the nerve I’d rip off the Frick museum. In this case it’s the Eagle Diamond that was stolen back in the 60s from the museum of Natural History by three beach boys, actual fact. I resurrected the heist for my tale.

 

Anyway, I do digress. We were talking about blue, my favorite color because its poetic, warm, cool, deep and moody. One can say bluer than your eyes, bluer than a robin’s egg, blue as a cerulean sea. I love the color blue and I particularly love it on the walls of Chatter Creek Cottage

Chatter Creek Cottage & Rainy Day Sidewalks Blue

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Chatter Creek Cottage is being painted as we speak. We’re not out this weekend in the lovely hamlet of Hotonville in Sullivan County, right outside of the historic town of Callicoon. Never heard of it? Doesn’t surprise me, it’s the best kept secret of upstate New York, five minutes away from the historic site of Woodstock and only thirteen minutes to Narrowsburg, prettiest little town around, and a hop, a skip and a jump from Pennsylvania, in case you like the way nature lies over the earth in Pennsylvania.

But enough of that, if you know the area then you know that Autumn comes in with a vibrant palate of colors in the Catskill mountains, colors that makes you feel that God is hiding somewhere beyond the red maple tree under your window and the golden crisp leaves that crunch under your feet. How can anyone deny that one madly creative genius called God didn’t have the need  to leave us with this metaphor for life? There is beauty in the sadness of what falls away.  Autumn whispers poetry in your ear, rhymes long forgotten, like the words you’ve uttered to the people you’ve loved and the words you sang when you were twenty-one and Joni Mitchell told the story of your life.

Winter with its icy blankets of snow, white lonely sloping hills that your dog runs through, kicking up her tiny legs and throwing splashes of white whiskers behind her. It’s the happy dance of being alive and feeling oh, so cold, so cold your chest aches but you love it, love it with that kind of pain that was once so agonizingly huge with loss, yet so beautiful with memory that time has yet to sweep it away. Winter is like that, a bit of a curse, a bit of an appreciation for the warmth of your fire and the glittering ice in Chatter Creek and the cold stark reality of your own creations.

Ah, spring, yes, Shelly, I know the Ode and I sing its praises as life leaps up to kiss me good morning and the world is making me feel that the pressures of yesterday have died with the sunrise. Spring is so joyous. Get out the black dirt and the garden gloves and be the artist you were meant to be, grow and nurture and admire the pinks and yellows and whites of spring. Grow a garden, grow many gardens and think of your life like that, that its in your control and its as beautiful as you can make it, and the animals that surround you are like roses and hydrangeas and lilac bushes, sharing the many variations of themselves.

Then summer comes so quietly, blue, blue days and heat that renews my energy and my spirit, the smells from backyards that make me hungry, the whir of bicycle tires beyond my door, the dreamy escape of lying in the sun and listening to birds that tell me I have no where else to go and no one to see but the friends who make my belly ache with laughter, friends who fill my soul with their enormous talents.

But what was I saying? Chatter Creek is being painted as I write, Rainy Day sidewalks is the blue for the living room, pictures of the interior next week. Also the history of how it came to be, how it seduced us for so many years. Very interesting. Chatter Creek is the name of the house, the creek itself is called the North branch creek and it runs behind the house. You can see it from almost every window. I set a novel in this house long before we called it ours. More to come on that next week.