Life's Little (Long) Weekend Pleasures

Nota bene: I was able to sneak the highly-fragrant posy you see below into the marital bedroom because my husband happened to be away on a business trip the day I snapped the photograph below; such a transgression would be unthinkable otherwise and near grounds for divorce - you can read why, here.

An engaging book and a bedside posy of home-grown narcissus Avalanche helps to ease one comfortably into a relaxing Sunday morning

Photo: Chronica Domus

Several days ago I received a nice comment from one of my loyal readers.  "CD, CD, wherefore art thou?  I miss you!".  Reading it made me realize that I have not been particularly punctual with my posts here at Chronica Domus lately.  Had it really been an entire month since I last published anything or, for that matter, have had the luxury of visiting my favorite blogs?  I am afraid it really has been.

Since the beginning of January, my days have held an almost elastic quality to them.  My real-world professional obligations have stretched too far into my waking hours which, sadly, has left little time to pursue the more pleasurable aspects of life, including the upkeep of this blog.  I won't even mention the alarming state of my garden.  Shudder.  As you can imagine, the long President's Day weekend could not have arrived soon enough.  Three entire days to revel in the little things in life that provide the greatest of pleasure.  I consider one of those pleasures to be sleep.

I don't know about you but a few extra hours of sleep on a weekend morning has become a luxurious indulgance the older I get.   If I can make it to 8 a.m. in the comfort of my bed, I just know it's going to be a good day.  It pains me to admit that, try as I might, I am not a natural early riser.  I admire those of you that are up and about enjoying the crepuscular light of dawn, catching sight of colorful skies painted by the first shafts of light.  That said, on most weekday mornings I do tumble out of bed before dawn, heavy-eyed and yawning.  This is done not out of choice, mind you, but to fulfill my familial and workday obligations.  I am also charged with serving breakfast to Norton and the hungry clowder of neighborhood ferals.  They have certainly trained me well.  As I hurriedly dart about, I barely notice when daylight eventually does break.  In another life, I would be found snoozing well into the morning which is why I do so enjoy the luxury of a slower start to a weekend morning.  Those precious few restorative hours of slumber truly rejuvenate my body and soul.  Only then am I able to focus on a full weekend of running errands, visiting the farmers' market, gardening, social obligations, and general good old-fashioned fun.  

Sunday mornings are also when I am able to loll about in bed, enjoying a good read. I have only just cracked open a book that I purchased two years ago when I visited the charming collegiate city of Cambridge, England.  Titled Below Stairs In The Great Country Houses, Adeline Hartcup's fascinating book recalls with delicious detail several real-life accounts of how many of Britain's most famous country houses were run.  If you are a fellow devotee of the much-missed television series Downton Abbey, you too will enjoy reading about the strict hierarchy adhered to - and the minefield of social blunders to be avoided - by the many characters that lurked both above and below stairs.

How about you, which of life's little (long) weekend pleasures give you the most satisfaction?

An Enduring Affair With The Humble Daffodil

A jaunty grouping of daffodils and ranunculus to brighten my kitchen

Photo: Chronica Domus

I have a particular weakness for daffodils, or narcissi as they are frequently called. These humble blooms have captivated my imagination with their beauty since childhood. They are, in fact, my favorite of all flowers.  I am simply mad about them. My excitement each spring upon spotting the first alluring bunches at the flower market, or as they slowly emerge from the damp garden soil in clumps, never wanes. There are no words vivid enough to express how much joy these cheery little flowers bring to my soul.  They are, quite simply, my happy pill.

Narcissus Thalia, my favorite of the whites and as pure as the driven snow

Photo: Chronica Domus

One of my earliest memories is of my father and I buying bunches of sunny daffs to present to my mother as a gift on Mothering Sunday. I could not have been more than six or seven years old at the time but those bright yellow trumpets captured and delighted my young mind. 

Once my family and I moved away from London to live in Kent, a county known throughout the nation as "The Garden of England", something new revealed itself to tickle my fancy.  It was a sight I had not previously seen within the confines of the country's capital city.  Great naturalized drifts of golden daffodils buried in the grassy banks of roadsides and around the fruit orchards and church yards reared their bright heads year upon year.  They shone like beacons among the misty light so synonymous with winter and early spring in that part of the world.  How lucky I was to have witnessed this annual show, a cherished memory that will endure always.

Years later, I recall daffodils cropping up again, during Miss Bottle's English Literature class where we studied the poem of William Wordsworth and his evocative prose on the humble flower.  Is there any more beautifully haunting opening line in poetry than the imagery conjured up by Wordsworth's "I wander'd lonely as a cloud"? 

It seems that the yellow daffodil of my youth, namely Narcissus pseudonarcissus, has been eclipsed by the ubiquitous King Alfred, typically found for sale in every big box chain gardening center for pennies, alongside other overly-hybridized and overly-stiff specimens on offer.  These too are what one sees for sale (mostly) by the bucket load at supermarket florists and the like at this time of year.  

Make no mistake, when I write that daffodils are my favorite of all flowers, I am championing their daintier fairer kin in gentle shades of buttery yellow, cream, or white, often with hints of pink or fiery orange, or even green to elevate their beauty. These are what I crave and what I gently strongly encourage you too to seek out for your own garden or vase.

I am particularly fond of the older varieties and cultivate a number of them in my garden.  Thalia (circa 1916), Avalanche (circa 1906), and Albatross (circa 1891), are three that grow reliably well for me.  I look forward to cutting bunches of them as they come into bloom in succession if, of course, the eternal army of nocturnal snails, slugs, and earwigs have not munched upon their tender heads under the cover of darkness.  I shy away from chemical warfare on my soil, and on the creatures that live within it, so enduring a little loss each season is a natural consequence of my philosophy.  I just make sure to plant ample bulbs to be enjoyed in the flower beds and by some for my daffodil foes.  

My interest in growing older varieties of daffodil began, strangely enough, with a visit to the quirky Welsh market town of Hay-on-Wye during the early 1990's. The place is a treasure trove of fascinating second-hand booksellers and shops that litter the town. Bibliophiles flock here from around the world in search of obscure publications to add to their personal libraries. No one leaves empty handed; it really is that good.  Once I had recovered from the mind-numbing effects of visiting more bookshops in a single day than one could possibly imagine exhausting in a lifetime, I happily left town clutching three little volumes to add to my gardening library.

Even the castle walls of Hay-on-Wye are recruited to hold the overflow of books which burst from the seams of local shops

Source

The Culture of Bulbs by Sir J.L. Cotter was one of them, and it was this volume that led me down the garden path to seeking out, and subsequently cultivating, one of the rarer daffodils illustrated within the black and white plates of the book. What, I wondered, as I gazed upon the illustration of the antique poeticus narcissus Albatross, did this bloom look like in living color, and why on earth would someone name a flower after a seabird?  Sadly, Sir James had failed to provide his readers with even a line or two about this particular daffodil's charms.  My inquisitive mind had found a botanical mission and I would not rest until I had my answers.

The Culture of Bulbs, the book that led to my "daffodilmania"

Photo: Chronica Domus

It took me over a decade and a half to finally lay my green fingers on this rare beauty. Flipping through my copy of Old House Gardens' charmingly written and illustrated catalog several years ago, I finally spotted it. Narcissus Albatross was waiting in the wings and all I had to do was place my order.

My well-thumbed copy of Old House Gardens' delightful catalog of heirloom bulbs

Photo: Chronica Domus

I was chuffed to finally get an opportunity to plant a few bulbs and see how they might perform in my garden. A handwritten note on my packing invoice tucked within my order made reference to the fact that the vendor had no idea if the flowers were scented, an aspect of their nature which I had not previously considered. 

The sought after (at least by me) narcissus Albatross photographed alongside the black and white plate that inspired my desire to cultivate this heirloom jewel

Photograph: Chronica Domus

Registered in 1891 by Reverend Engleheart and named, interestingly, for his fondness of seabirds (as was narcissus Seagull, another of his creations), this beguiling dainty daffodil was everything I had wished it to be. Emerging from grayish green foliage so late in my garden as to take the prize for best latecomer to the party, it is sublime. It peaks just as my tulips fade.  

The first of the blooms beginning to unfurl

Photo: Chronica Domus

The luminous graceful creamy petals are almost propeller like in form, whitening as they mature. Their frilly cups are painted a gentle shade of orange which intensifies towards the edge. The scent you ask? Well, yes, if one were to bury one's nose deep within the cup, a barely perceivable whiff is certainly present. The old reverend had obviously studied the albatross in flight enough to have seen a passing resemblance in this graceful bloom's nodding habit.

As though captured in flight, narcissus Albatross spreads its wings in the flower bed

Photo: Chronica Domus

Won't you join me in discovering the joys of growing older variants of the humble daffodil the next time you find your garden in need of a few cheery spring blooms? You will be amazed and delighted at the host of subtle colors and graceful shapes lacking in the larger steroid-pumped, modern varieties, as you rediscover what our grandparents once purchased as cut flowers or grew in their gardens.

Photo: Chronica Domus

Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.

Part III: A Founding Father's House In Harlem

A bust in the entry hall of The Grange portrays Alexander Hamilton as a Roman senator

Photo: Chronica Domus

Several years ago, while rummaging around the shelves of a second-hand book shop, I stumbled across a pristine hardbound copy of Houses of The Founding Fathers by author Hugh Howard.  The book contains lavish color photographs and information on the private residences and domestic lives of the men that founded The United States of America.  Of course, I snapped up the book with alacrity and have since spent many happy hours poring over each detail of the beautiful photographs and text contained within. In fact, I took so much pleasure in the book that it inspired me to go on a bit of a pilgrimage, attempting to visit as many of  the houses featured in the book as possible.

So far I've had the privilege of visiting George Washington's Mount Vernon, Thomas Jefferson's Monticello, a particular favorite of mine, and his second residence Poplar Forest, James Madison's Montpelier,  George Wythe's house in Williamsburg, Virginia, and most recently Alexander Hamilton's country house, The Grange, located in Harlem, New York.

The facade of Alexander Hamilton's house, The Grange, spoiled by the unsightly modern barrier at the foot of the front entrance which is closed off to the general public (Note to NPS: Please, please do consider installing a more aesthetically pleasing, period appropriate solution in keeping with the excellent restoration work achieved thus far, thank you)

Photo: Chronica Domus

Visitors gain access to The Grange via the doorway beneath the front stairs (notice the on-going repair work below the porch to the right)

Photo: Chronica Domus

Wait a minute, did she just say "country house", for isn't Harlem in the midst of one of the most crowded cities on the planet?  The Grange, designed by John McComb Junior, was indeed a country house, for when it was completed in 1802, Harlem was very much removed from the madding crowd and entirely rural.  Situated within Hamilton's thirty-two acre estate, The Grange would provide the type of gentlemanly country life to which Mr. Hamilton aspired, a life to be shared with his wife Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton and their many children. Tragically, he would reside there for a mere two years before his untimely death by duel.

The Grange, which is the only house Alexander Hamilton ever built, has been moved twice in its history.  From 1802 until 1888, it stood at its original location near the center of Hamilton's property. Then, the house was moved to 141st and Convent Avenue, where it sat quite unceremoniously wedged between an apartment building and a church.  It was not until 2008 that the National Park Service moved it to its present location in an operation involving nothing less than military precision and a watchmaker's eye for detail.  The progression of the house can be seen in the image below, which I photographed at the visitor center of The Grange.

Points 1, 2, and 3 on this map identify The Grange's locations and positioning through the passage of time

Photo: Chronica Domus

Today, the house has been set within more appropriate surroundings, atop a sloping hillside within a small park-like setting.  It remains, nonetheless, jarringly juxtaposed with several looming buildings, a somewhat less than ideal backdrop for such a national monument.

The City College of New York is one of the nicer buildings to share a vista with The Grange's covered porches

Photo: Chronica Domus

If visitors were to enter the house through the front door, as they did when The Hamiltons lived here, they would find themselves in this beautifully appointed entry hall, with an oilcloth simulating marble and stone, and a door surrounded by an elegant fanlight and sidelights.  Unlike most Federal era houses, the hall does not continue through to the back of the house.  Instead, it leads visitors directly towards the two angled octagonal-shaped public rooms to the rear.

The beautiful entry hall of The Grange

Photo: Chronica Domus

Guests of The Hamiltons would have admired a painting of George Washington by Gilbert Stuart, a gift bestowed upon Mr. Hamilton by a wealthy merchant.  They would not have seen the painting that hangs in the entry hall today, which is but a recent copy of an original painted of Mr. Hamilton by John Trumbull in 1792.

A portrait of Alexander Hamilton is prominently displayed in the entry of The Grange

Photo: Chronica Domus

As I peeked through the doorway to the right of the painting, I saw a beautiful set of stairs, complete with a striped runner, leading to... nowhere! Unfortunately, no record of how the bed chambers upstairs were decorated exists, or of who occupied which room, so the top floor is off limits to visitors. Additionally, there is of course the sticky business of having to uphold modern fire code regulations, and as the house lacks a secondary exit, the fate of the upstairs floor is pretty much a closed book as far as present and future visitors are concerned.  'Tis a great shame I say, for it took me considerable will power to resist the temptation of making a mad dash up the stairs, of which I am certain our pleasant National Park Service guide would not have approved.

The stairway to... nowhere!

Photo: Chronica Domus

Not to worry, I thought, as there was still plenty to see.  I'd long admired the two public rooms of The Grange that were included in Houses of The Founding Fathers, which had after all sown the seeds for my expedition to Harlem.  Below is a photograph of the page from my book showing the drawing room.

The drawing room as seen in the book Houses of The Founding Fathers

Photo: Chronica Domus

Stepping into the bright sunlit drawing room, I was startled to see how much of a transformation the octagonal room had received. I barely recognized it.  Yes, the Louis XVI chairs and games table were still there, along with the piano-forte, which is not shown in the photograph above but was an item shown in the book, and one that is original to the house.  Today, the room's walls have been painted a rich buttery yellow, the floor-length curtains replaced with fringed swags, and the carpet is now peppered with leaves atop a dark green ground, a color matching that of the upholstery.  I'm not quite certain what prompted these decorative changes outside of the new wall color, which came to light as being original through paint analysis of the walls when the house was moved to its present location.

The drawing room as it appears today

Photo: Chronica Domus

The drawing room was not the only room in the house to have received an update.  Below is a photograph of what the dining room looked like when it was photographed for the book in 2007.

The Grange's dining room as seen in Houses of The Founding Fathers

Photo: Chronica Domus

Today, it is painted the same buttery yellow as the drawing room, affording it an airier feel. The shield-back dining chairs have been replaced and upholstered in what looked to me to be a black horsehair fabric appropriate for the period.  The curtains have met a similar fate to the ones in the drawing room and have also changed color.  Finally, the dark floral carpet has been swept away and replaced with a smaller design incorporating foliage in shades of grey and red.  There was just one other small change I noticed; the mahogany sideboard had been switched out for a serpentine front example with two lower central doors. Again, I am puzzled by this change as the sideboard in the above photograph seems just as appropriate for a room of this period.

The newly decorated dining room

Photo: Chronica Domus

The remaining room accessible to the public is Mr. Hamilton's study-cum-library, which is painted an attractive grassy green, unlike the version in the book which was devoid of any color.  Once again, paint analysis determined this was the original rich verdant green shade, a pigment which no doubt would have cost The Hamiltons dearly in its day. The three books resting on the table top belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton.

Alexander Hamilton's newly painted study-cum-library

Photo: Chronica Domus

My visit to The Grange was enriched through the enjoyable experience of  the visitor center, located in the basement level of the house, where much more information about the fascinating life of Alexander Hamilton can be found.  This is also where the wonderful introductory video that our knowledgeable park ranger, Mr. George Tonkin, played for us before our house tour commenced.

I highly encourage you to add this national treasure to your itinerary and to make the trek uptown when next in New York city.  Incidentally, if you arrive early, as we did, you might be as fortunate as us and find yourself part of a very small tour group.  Aside from our family of three, there was but one other gentleman to join in on the fun, which made for a very cozy tour indeed.  At peak times, the house tours can swell to a maximum of fifteen people so this was indeed a special treat, allowing us to absorb as much of the fine detail of the house as possible.  Besides, we had the undivided attentions of poor Mr. Tonkin, whom we bombarded with questions, and what a good sport he was!

Hamilton Grange National Memorial is located at 414 West 141st Street, New York, New York.

Oh, and don't forget to saunter on down the hill once you've completed your tour and visit Grant's tomb, which I wrote about here.