I'm such a nature fan that I know it wouldn't surprise anyone who knows me--even marginally--to discover that my interior design incorporates outdoor elements whenever possible. When we purchased our 100-year-old home nearly twenty years ago, I was determined to hit up the historical society in town, and scour the Internet for wallpaper patterns and paint colors popular at the turn of the last century. Hmmm...still haven't gotten around to doing that. A betting person (or anyone at all!) could figure that it's probably never gonna happen.
All my intentions for an "authentic" house went out the window when I looked out the window. What I saw was a bank of day lilies glimmering in the morning sun, and I realized I'd start life in my new home out in my new garden. I knew nothing about plants at the time, but I was armed with a lifetime of love for the great outdoors, so I fearlessly followed my heart around the yard, learning the rudiments of gardening by observing the plants already in place.
Each September morning of that first year, I'd walk my five-year-old daughter to the school bus, set up the playpen on the back patio for my infant son, and while away the day singing him songs and planting to my heart's content. The simplicity and naive optimism of those days still makes me smile. While I wouldn't trade that time with my son for anything in the world, I probably burned through a couple hundred bucks in dead plants. I planted sun-loving flowers in partial shade, and ripped out established plants (foolishly thinking them weeds) with abandon. By the end of my second gardening season, I realized I probably needed to learn a thing or two about horticulture. Thus began my education into the nature of the plant world. And the things I learned so enthralled me that it was natural that I'd bring my plant-passion indoors in every possible form.
What better for an historic home than the timeless majesty of botanical prints? In no time at all, I was covering the wainscoting with the floral illustrations. Next, I turned to the walls, coating them in sage green, earthy terracotta, and soft peachy-pinks in shades ranging from clotted cream to the sky at sunset. My husband had a brainstorm for our mudroom which borders the back patio: add lots of windows and a set of French doors, to flood the room with light. He built shelving at window bases to allow plenty of room for my beloved potted plants.
We apply the same rules to our summer place in the Adirondacks, though the effect is quite different. Up there, it's all about woods, water and rocks; and our interior reflects the ruggedness. Having recently torn down a wall to open up space and bring much-needed light into the house, we framed the revamped area in rough-hewn hemlock columns (on he right), much like the trees just outside the windows. The new columns also complement the original knotty-pine, hand-made doors, so prevalent in the Adirondack style.
Plans for the future include incorporating birch bark into the scheme. Birch trees are not only abundant in the finger lakes of New York, but their malleable bark is quite versatile, covering everything from Native American canoes two centuries ago to modern-day furniture. I'd love to cover an entire wall in the papery white bark, much like I recall at my friends' house, down the street. They had homemade birch-bark wallpaper, of sorts. When we'd hike up nearby Buck Mountain, part of the trek included keeping a sharp eye out for fallen birch trees. Once spotted, we'd disengage the bark with surgeon-like precision, bring home the bark and lay it out in the sun to dry. After a day or two, we'd jot down the date we found the bark, adventures encountered, and names of all the participants. Then the bark was pressed between two books for days, or weeks (each piece varied in the amount of time it took to completely dry out and flatten). Before long, we could tack the new piece of bark to the wall. There was something magical about returning each summer, and recounting past adventures together, reading about our lives on their wall.
Makes me want to drive up there right this moment, and knock on their door. I know that if they're home, they'll put some water in the kettle for tea, and we'll settle in front of the faded writing on that wall of natural parchment, content to relive all those glories of our shared past.
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