It's greener than I remember, I tell Blair as we make our way up the mossy
wooden steps of Hemlock Lodge. While we were experiencing record heat in Paris,
it was raining in Connecticut. It rained all the night of our arrival, on
the metal roof, in the dining room, on the stairs. But the next day, the dining
room was dry enough to accomodate 12 of our family members.
"You'll love the body building," Xavier tells me as he raves about his new
gym. I suspect he gets a financial reward for every new victim he drags in.
Blair and I and Anne-Marie agree to go. After all, first visit is free. We
are all eating at the Petit Lux.
Every year we travel to Hemlock Lodge. My nephew thinks we live there all
year, but only let him see us for those two weeks in the summer. We landed at
Hemlock Lodge by default - a double booking in the cottage we rented four years
ago forced us into the turn-of-the-last century house in the hemlock forest
across the road from the lake. The Lodge hadn't been lived in for many years,
before our arrival. Still, we are the only people who stay there. It isn't
for rent. It is the house that found us, and that takes us back for just two
weeks every summer.
I bemoan my weight to Anne-Marie, herself thin as a rail. "No one wants to
hug a matchstick", she tells me. But maybe I resemble the whole campfire.
Jacky is back from Africa, and eating dinner with the wife of an old
soldier-of-fortune friend. He is one of those fast people my parents warned me against,
but he's hard to resist. He takes our phone number so we can schedule lunch
next week.
Our visit is just about all the house can take. Chined together over the
years from a log cabin built in the 1880's, the exterior wall of each phase forms
the interior wall for the next. Transitions are bumpy. We share the place
with spiders, chipmunks and bats (not fully eradicated), and an occasional
family member of the owner. There is hot and cold water, and lights. We have
no radio, TV or telephone. I tell people we are there, and it is up to them
to seek us out. Surprisingly few make it, which is fine.
Alain sold paintings in Monaco, but stops for dinner at the Petit Lux before
he continues his world tour in quest of new galleries. He is the only person
I know who makes their living with their art. Someday he will be very famous,
but for right now, we share wine.
My nephews come every day for a swim in the lake, and we make puzzles on the
broad porch of the lodge. And I cook: corn, clams, spaghetti; toast and
instant coffee in the morning while the sun rises across the lake.
By the time we left Connecticut, the rain had stopped and the goldenrod was
in full force. We saw the cows and sheep at the Goshen fair. My sister had a
picnic for us before we left, with spicy German hot dogs and American baked
beans. You can buy anything at the Price-Chopper.
I drank a little too much wine at the Petit Lux. I used to drink Scotch (I
loved it on my oatmeal) but now I can't tolerate it with my blood pressure
pills. Michel and I complain how we hate that medication -- it cramps our
"life-of-the-party" style. No one else can understand.
Blair paints a picture of the dining room at Hemlock Lodge. It is six
thousand miles from Paris in distance and in attitude. But the food and wine taste
the same, served with conviviality.
Laurie (text) and Blair (painting) Pessemier
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