Conversations in the Book Trade: Books, art, art-books, and ... authorial movies.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
This was taken at the home where my mother grew up. It's in New Brunswick on a tributary of the St. John River. My maternal grandparents were potters, and next to this house (very large and ramshackle is how I remember it) was a studio that we actually slept in -- it was a rectangular, bungalow style building -- sort of like a giant bachelor apartment -- and it was not as musty or damp as the big house seemed to be. (There was another house up the road that was deserted and positively spooky; no one wanted to stay there.) Actually, I thought the big house (in photo) was kind of cool. I remember trying to convince my dad we should sleep there.
At that time, the entire area was overgrown and kind of mysterious. There was a pathway to the river. It wasn't long, but by the time you got to the shore, the house was lost in foliage. There was another route -- a dirt road -- to the main road (maybe also dirt at that point). When we drove down it, the saplings on either side would brush against the car windows as vigorously as if we were in a car wash.