My Nate Show Shoot

Photo: Todd Foster

Cabin before

My segment on The Nate Show will air Tuesday, 21 September!

Please click here to check your local listings.

Pour hot tea in your favorite porcelain cup and have a comfy seat, this is a long post!

Monday, 28 June 2010

I am showered with reactions from around the world in the wake of the New York Times feature on my studio.   There’s a voice mail message (and a Facebook message, email to all my accounts, even an email to my sister) from a producer from the Nate Berkus Show asking me if I’d consider appearing on the show.

As a humble federal employee that never dreamt anyone would be interested in reading my blog, I’m so stunned hottie Nate was interested my hands shake.

The following weeks are filled with phone calls and emails with Nette, the producer, and her kind assistant Margaux, often after 9 p.m., as we formulate the content of the segment.

Photo: Todd Foster

Saturday, 17 July 2010

Bryan’s storyboard sketches.

Bryan the field producer, Dean the videographer, and Kurran the sound man arrive at our farm for a day of ‘relaxed shooting’.   Professional and polite, (they even took their shoes off before treading on my white floor) the crew was a true delight to work with.   And patient.   I normally don’t speak more than three sentences in any given conversation, so I’d look down when I couldn’t think of what to say and you can’t do that on camera.   I was a good girl and clasped my hands in my lap because my mom says I gesture too expansively.

They said my segment was the first to be shot, and a few days later breathlessly relayed it set the standard for the sort of inspirational story they wanted.   That was too sweet.

Photo: Todd Foster

Kurran outfitting me with one of those little black microphone boxes wedged in the back of my dress with the long cord I had to weave up and around and get taped to my sterum with the special tape.

Photo: Todd Foster

Readying the camera and microphone for my interview.  Kurran would ask us to stop when the cicidas got too loud.

Photo: Todd Foster

Filming the chandelier.

The last shot was of me crossing the creek, and my dear husband placed extra stones in for me to cross after I stumbled.   We watched the blooper reel in slo mo, it was hysterical.

Afterward, I brought the crew iced tea as they tested the Skype unit I’d use for the question and answer portion following the video in the segment.   My dear King strung an RJ45 line up in the trees over the creek from our cabin below so the wireless modem could get closer to my studio.   This suited me fine.   Imagine having to actually speak to Nate in person before a live audience!

‘Annabelle’ hydrangeas on my mantle.

Zuzu finally gets her spot on the sofa back.

Fresh hydrangeas and hosta donated by my friend at “Gramma’s” in Brookhaven, NY;

roses were on sale $10/dozen at the supermarket.

Stuff unceremoniously shoved in my pantry during the taping.

There’s always a mess kicked in a corner during a shoot.

All swept up again; time to relax and reflect on the porch with my family and a little soy ice cream.

Sunday, 8 August 2010

I was thinking I’d have waffles with wild blackberries for breakfast while rehearsing my talking points for the tomorrow’s 7 a.m.   Skype session when the urgent email came in: there were too many technical difficulties on another Skype.   I had to come to their studios in New York.   Now.

By 1 p.m., producer Sushupti would call with my hotel information, for taping would be first thing tomorrow morning at CBS studios and I had to have hair and makeup beforehand.   I suppose I looked so thunderstruck Todd said he would travel along, and I dashed around with my cell phone on my ear as I snapped my damp laundry off the clothesline and got the little dogs prepared for travel.   It was ridiculous to return to the farm afterward as I was going over half way back to Long Island where I was expected at work Tuesday morning, so I had to bag the garbage, pack the car, and drape my damp clothes along the back seat.   Todd ran up to my studio to get the Skype kit, got the hens set up, and made arrangements for our big dogs Ruffy and Mully while downloading directions.

The big problem was clothing.   Instructed to avoid anything summery, white, black, or neutrals (which all my clothes are), I intended to wear my old pink car coat over sweats and flip flops since you only see from the waist up on Skype.   Now, I had to sport an ensemble chic enough to make a good first impression with a national audience, recalling some viewers can be terribly snobbish about what others wear.   I’d normally shop at a Macy’s clearance rack in low-tax New Jersey on the way down, but stores in Jersey are closed Sundays.   I grew insecure as a college student on her first big job interview, and frantically called my fashionista sister Sue who lived in Manahattan for over 10 years to tell me what to do.   I had no idea the poor thing was vacationing with her husband in Colorado and it was 6 a.m. there, but she graciously told me what to wear and where to buy.

Looking south toward NYC while crossing the George Washington Bridge.

The next big problem was getting to the city before the stores closed.  We had to hit the road before receiving the informational call, knowing our three-hour drive in weekend Thruway traffic doomed us to lose time.

Eventually we got a cell signal, got the information, parked in the designated garage, checked in to the Flathotel (one of those chic boutique hotels with moody lighting and where the bar seems closer than the front desk when you enter), and jogged two blocks to Anthropologie.  The guard declared they just closed.

I pleaded my case:  I was going to be on TV tomorrow morning, I raced here from 3 hours away, please help!  It worked.  In fact, every sales rep there and at Baker’s shoes proved enormously helpful with my situation.  The biggest help was my very dear husband, who toted Zuzu and Belle’s carrier and buoyed me with his cheerful spirit and patience.  He hates shopping, especially in crowded stores where the music is as loud as a club, but he never complained.  I treated him to a huge burrito at a take-out joint and he ate it back in the comfy hotel room.  We went over my talking points as I crashed into sleep.

 Exhausted, but a Duane Reade visit still needs to happen so I can get pantyhose and the toiletries I forgot.

Monday, 9 August 2010

The line for the live studio audience stretched down the street.

Our own little room on 'the green floor', with a TV showing the beehive of the set.

Zuzu greets staff member Rebecca.

Belle and Zuzu waiting for Mommy to appear on TV.

The hospitality of Nate’s producers and staff (all looked 30 and under and wore headphones) was as warm and fuzzy as my dogs, and it’s a great thing because I was anxious over hitting all the points they wanted.
My clothes were pressed while I got my hair (thanks Brigitte & Shelly!) and makeup done, and then I was informed Nate may not do it in the order we rehearsed.  I do not think well on my feet, and I started stammering and looking away in an effort to remember what to say, not showing ‘high energy’ like they needed me to do.  It unbalanced me when they’d talk (or listen) then press a button on their radios and seamlessly speak to someone else, apologize, then finish their sentence to me.

My King hugged me when it was time, and I scooped up Zuzu and carried her past the fascinating entry area hung with larger-than-life black and white photos of the early days at CBS, then tip-toed in my ultra high heels down a puzzle of hallways so narrow people had to flatten themselves against the wall to let us pass.
All the guests wait in a dark area behind the brightly lit studio with a single TV of the taping.  We can see the raw carpentry behind the high ‘walls’ of the set, a peek of the guests in the highest tiers, but nothing else. Robbie carries Zuzie back to Todd. Busted!  A sound tech fastens a microphone to my top, and asks me to count, laughing when I reply, “Eyns, Tsvey, Dray, Dupa!”   Someone goes out and involves the audience in trivia games while the sets are changed.   The backstage walls are draped in long black cables and electric lines, and perhaps a dozen producers and assistants in headphones stand or sit where they can, reviewing their clipboards and speaking in whispers.   They offer tiny bottles of water for guests’ dry mouths.

Nate’s taping a segment on yard sale finds, and I tell you the truth when I say this he is as sweet and funny off-camera as he is on.   The story before mine involves the tragedy of a young pregnant woman that lost her husband in the BP well explosion and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.   Now I know why they kept telling me to have more energy.

The hair and makeup team touches me up, a senior producer blazes a trail along the back of the set and its minefield of wires to a back corner, smiles like a mommy putting her child onstage, and instructs me to stand in a blind decorated like a fine hotel until Nate introduces me.   ‘Walk forward, there will be a pair of stools, can’t miss them, good luck!’ and she disappeared.

I can't see Nate, but his voice is strong and carries beautifully.  He’s telling the audience about me and my story.  My life flashes before my eyes.  He introduces me and I go out into the bright room while the audience claps enthusiastically.  Nate is what seems like a long ways away, holding his hands out.  I felt better.  He clasped my hands in his and told me how the Times story moved him with such candor it embarrassed me.  Even though he’s a handsome celebrity, I felt as safe and loved as I do with my family because he’s sincere.

The rest of the experience was the sort of blur that occurs during your wedding vows.  Nate made it easy.  I saw the “VT” (the producers’ abbreviation for “video tape”) for the first and only time before the air date.   I’m stunned with what Bryan and the whole team concocted.  My favorite part is when I cuddle Zuzu.

The weeks passed and I’m humbled and touched and giggly and in disbelief of the whole thing still.

Do support Nate and his new show!  He’s anointed as the next Oprah.  He celebrates enlightened content, and is always looking for hot tips from the blogging community!

Until next time, stay shabby!

My Country Victorian Shoot

Photos: Gross & Daley for Country Victorian, September 2010

All scans courtesy of Bella of Bella's Rose Cottage

I’d like to extend my warmest thanks to Steve Gross and Sue Daley, editor Janet Mowak for agreeing to feature me, and to writer Mara Bragg for such informative, concise text and to the art department for the harmonious layout and font choice.   All the phone calls and emails manifested in something to cherish!   Well, at least I will.   And Mom.

Freelance photographers Sue and Steve (if they sound familiar it’s because their work has appeared in Victoria) contacted me after seeing my Times feature to do a shoot for a magazine interested in showcasing colorful Victorian interiors.

The challenge for me was to break away from serene whites and use a lot of turquoise and bright pink.   What fun!

They arrived at our farm the 3rd of July with a darling old dog named Mabel and a basket full of props…in reds!   Sue Daley gave me a lecture on the merits of red and how it makes magazine pages ‘pop’.   A nice color to be sure, but in my realm of reticent pastels it’s objectionable.   I don’t live in a magazine, after all.

Photo: Gross & Daley for Country Victorian, September 2010

Zuzu patiently watches Gross & Daley before her nap.

The dark green quilt in the loft isn’t what I feel to be in harmony with the ‘vibe’ of my feminine studio, but it’s interesting in print and will make those that find all-white décor boring notice.

Photos: Gross & Daley for Country Victorian, September 2010

I took my Rachel Ashwell Shabby Chic ‘Amanda’ sheer curtain panels from my office, loving how summery they look!

The sun faded sections of them over the last five years since I bought them on Ebay for about $20 each.   But this, too, is shabby, non?

Photo: Sandy Palmer

One of my favorite bloggers, Sandy over at Paint Me White in Australia, hangs these in a summa cum laude example of shabby chic.

Do pick up a copy of Country Victorian—it’s published only annually and bursts at the binding with romantic décor and tips!

Update: The magazine is slowly making itself available across the nation.  In fact, it's not in any stores I've been in either Upstate or Long Island!  Fear not - it'll be displayed until January.

I'd love to include links to the incredible bricks & mortar shops listed in the feature:

New York Salvage, Oneonta, NY

Vintage Chic, Schenectady, NY

Andes Antiques & Art, Andes, NY

Silver Fox Salvage, Albany, NY

Until next time, stay shabby!

A Paper Slipper a la Marie Antoinette

...as if for dancing at a royal fete at Versailles in the last days of summer!

The form of a Tattered Vintage #199 template is cut with fancy scissors,

glued on cardboard, and white crepe paper from the dollar store is

fashioned in a bow and garnished with a vintage rhinestone pin.

Have you seen the special Victoria issue "Rooms of Bliss"?

It's relaxing and inspirational at the same time,

and mostly Toshi Otsuki's photographs. 

 

Until next time, stay shabby!

 

The Prettiest Blue and White Décor Ever: Victoria Magazine July 1991

Photo: William P. Steele

I’d love to share with you my absolute favorite feature in any periodical ever.  

Photo: William P. Steele

The symphony of stunning décor and sweet storytelling is more than an ode of the joys of a summer vacation home—it transcends that and becomes the archetype of a summer vacation home.   It beckons you to follow the lifestyle always.

The harmony and repetition of form and color in this kitchen is extraordinary.   The stripes in the blue and white wallpaper are echoed in the vertical strips of beadboard wainscoting, and the square floor tiles are sympathetic in color and shape.   There are more vertical elements – in the backs of all the mismatched flea market chairs, and the freshly laundered linens and curtains.

And then, there’s the opposite element: circular forms.   Feminine hats on the rack, a pair of platters on the wall, wildflowers including scabiosa and Queen Anne’s Lace tossed on a chair as if the picker just went to find an empty mayonnaise jar to put them in—all counterpoint the linear suite of the space’s backdrop.

An old house with a real butler’s party or larder.   Pure utility and luxury in the same place.  

Photo: William P. Steele

If you’ve never stayed in a vacation home for the summer (I haven’t), it matters not.   You will feel as if you have after reading.

This essay brings a tear to my eye after I re-read it twenty years after the first time it arrived in my mailbox when I was a freshly minted college graduate.   Written in the proper but warm tone of a Victorian lady penning a letter, it vibrantly depicts the ripe details of a fleeting thing as summer, and how they so permanently affix in one’s memory.


                                                *                        *                       *

Porch Swings, Old Novels, and Memories of Summers Past

by Catherine Calvert

(Originally published in the “Leaves” section of Victoria magazine, July 1991)

Though many a house has sheltered me in the course of summers past, one memory serves to tie them all.  It’s early afternoon, and all is sweet peace.  Just a shift of the pillows sets the porch swing swaying gently—pillows covered in faded chintz with the slightly musty scent that attests to their long winter’s nap in the shed.  The book lying tented across my chest is slightly musty too, foxed with the brown spots of age, since it was left downstairs in the bookcase 30 or 40 years ago.  You may be sure there’s nothing in it to tax the brain: it’s a romance and Cressida and Percy are settling their futures over a game of tennis.  But I shall simply revel in the pleasures of the present, listening to the burr of the lawn mower down the road, watching the hornets busy themselves with their nest, biting into the slice of lemon I’ve fished from my iced tea.

     Ah, the joys of a summer place!  Unlike year-round houses filled with serious furniture and serious concerns, this is a house that transcends utility, that summons up the joys of summertime when you cross the threshold.  Shuffle off your shoes and pad across the cool floors, search out the porch (there has to be a porch with the traditional blue painted roof).  Count the beds, with their white counterpanes and sagging springs—all is as it should be, as it was, and ever shall be.

     The proper summer house exists out of time and has a sort of parallel life to our own workaday existence.  I’ve been lucky living in some of the classics—breeze-swept houses by the sea in towns where generations of voyagers have spun out their summers under the maple trees.  Whether turreted Victorians or restrained 18^th-century houses with center halls, they had much in common.  You’d pry the door open, as it stuck from winter’s dampness, and be met with that curious scent of past summers, compounded of damp bathing suits and Sunday morning bacon, dried wildflowers forgotten in vases, and sofa cushions that had seen too many wet towels.  The floors were usually broad expanses of painted boards, so welcoming to sandy feet, with dust kittens rolling about under the furniture, testimony to haphazard housekeeping.  

     Everyone would claim a bedroom, searching out the one with the mattress that least resembled a hammock and longing for the sound of the sea singing in the ear at night.  The kitchens and baths were mere utility—if that.  Many of these houses were old, having belonged to families who’d farmed potatoes in the neighborhood for 200 years.  If they were content with a toilet the rumbled and a stove that spit, surely these city folk could make do.  And who planned much time inside anyway, when beach and meadow summoned?  

     Summer houses serve as the last repository for many families:  Grandmother’s parlor suite sits next to a 1950s plywood table, and always wicker squeaks under its layers of paint, a protest, perhaps, against generations of spring spruce-ups.  Any decorating scheme is as much a matter of memories as of material possessions.

     Making our home our own was always easy.  We could add what we liked—and subtract.  Sometimes we’d spend the first few hours hiding the owners’ plastic lobsters, fake fishnets, and seagull mobiles in a deep dark closet to allow a clean sweep of our time there.  There was always the delicious sense of being temporary, of freedom never knew at home.  Drape a Marseilles spread over the sofa, swap the lamps around, drag the softest chair into the landing that overlooks the lake—all is permissible, all is comfortable.  The point is to put one’s stamp on the house and settle in.

     As June faded into July and then August, each house would become more and more ours.  Our accumulations grew, the sum of summer days.  Someone would gather a bucket of irresistible shells, as pink as the first light of morning, and scatter them along the mantelpiece.  There were always tomatoes ripening on the windowsills and handfuls of berries found on country lanes.  A seagull feather was dropped on the duck decoy, and wildflowers filled every jelly glass, shedding their petals on the table.

Books mounted on every surface.  My favorites were the long-forgotten lode in every bookcase, the frothy reading of previous generations, school stories and adventure tales, courtly romances and memoirs of the Spanish American War—all to be gobbled, as they had originally, while we were ensconced in the porch swing.

     We’d line the sideboard with jars of beach plum jelly from the Ladies Beautification Committee Fair and hang a watercolor of a rose discovered at a tag sale—and consider all of it quite beautiful indeed (if anyone had paused to look in between dashes to the tennis courts or bike rides to the beach).

     The most important piece of furniture in the house was undoubtedly the dining room table, which was large, square, and surrounded by ten mismatched chairs that wobbled when discussions grew animated.  Dinnertime was precious, and not a few morning hours were devoted to driving to the lobster pound and idling in the farmer’s market, hefting the green bundles of basil, or eyeing the corn with the concentration of a connoisseur.  At twilight, an intrepid friend would crouch, under the cover of rising mists, and scratch through the neighboring field for forgotten potatoes.  After that, the whole glorious pile of provender would be cleaned and steamed and served, with rivers of butter and some herbs, to the impatient table.  Conversation dwindled as everyone ate, the only arguments rising over whether this was, in fact, the best corn all summer, or whether lobsters should be plunged into cold or boiling water.  Then the evening would spin on, as the fireflies flashed through the screens, and everyone talked through the night and felt the glow of sun-warmed skin and good friendship.

     Thinking back, I realize that the only time I ever really looked at any of our summer houses was on the last day, just before I turned the key in the lock to go home.  My ostensible mission was to search for anything forgotten, but that final survey was always poignant.  The house never seemed so tidy—already the tides of family life were receding.  I’d walk from room to room, looking at and then lowering the windows and pulling the shades.  In the kitchen, I’d reach for the bouquet of wildflowers, then leave it there, knowing it would surely wilt on the journey home.  But I would seek out one last shell from the mantelpiece to carry with me, my fingers searching its cool, smooth contours, a shell as empty, and as beautiful, as that tall old house by the sea.

by Catherine Calvert

(Originally published in the “Leaves” section of Victoria magazine, July 1991)


                                                                        *                            *                            *

Photo: William P. Steele

In the spirit this essay, I switched out my pink things and to “allow a clean sweep” 

in honor of late summer.  

Rachel Ashwell pillows from Mervyn’s I bought on Ebay nearly ten years ago for $20 each.  

I sewed her ‘Brolly Blue’ ticking poplin on the reverse as I never cared for

the original sprigged print because there was too much red for me.  

The swatches from my ‘idea folder’ during my blue and white stage.  

From left to right: Ralph Lauren’s “Saratoga Toile” in blue, Rachel Ashwell’s

Simply Shabby Chic “Amanda” fabric from a shower curtain, Ralph Lauren’s

“Sarasota Stripe” wallpaper, and Rachel Ashwell’s “Brolly Blue” poplin ticking. 

The only way to get these would be on Ebay as they’re no longer offered 

with the exception of the “Saratoga Toile”.

Sometimes, a little powder blue makes pink prettier. 

Book cover graphic: Tattered Vintage #308 $3.75 

My dogs show up outside my screen door, meaning My King wants me down to share “the whole glorious pile of provender…steamed and served with rivers of butter and some herbs at the impatient table”, so I must blow out the candles and descend from my hillside accompanied by fireflies and cricket song to join him.

Though my style no longer is so ‘farmhousey’, I never tire of staring at the home featured in Victoria, for when I was working, dreaming, or renovating and felt discouraged by the long way I still had to march before I reached my goal of a home of my own, I’d take this magazine out and gaze at these pictures.   And I’d feel at home.   This is the magic of Victoria.

Catherine Calvert is Victoria’s Writer-In-Residence again, so we may enjoy more of her prose once more.

What is your favorite Victoria article?

Until next time, stay shabby!

I'll be sharing this with:

A Delightsome Life

for Victoria: Return to Loveliness

My Summery Blue and White China

Old or rambling roses left to right: Apple Blossom, De La Grifferaie, and Constance Spry.

I haven’t collected blue and white transferware china in a decade.

As a native of Long Island, NY, I was attracted to it for its sea-and-sky colors.

Burleigh Asiatic Pheasants Platter with phlox, nepeta, and a bud

of the climbing rose New Dawn in a craft store julep cup.

Photo: Troy Campbell for Creative Home 2007

An oft-seen picture on the Web: Nikki LaBelle’s dreamy beach house.

Romantic perfection.    I ached for this so badly!

Fabric: Urbangardens Textiles “Ribbons and Roses #15”

My public library didn't have a book including these marks, but my friend and follower Jacqueline found it online.

The mark is from Davenport Brothers, a Greenwich Village, New York department store that imported the Staffordshire pottery of Joseph Clementson (1794-1871).   The pattern is called "Claremont", and it’s considered to be ‘light mulberry purple’ transferware, both are rare and highly collectible.   The diamond-shaped British Registry Mark indicates registry on 30 April 1856, Bundle no. 7.

But, I saw this cute little plate depicting Greek amphorae in a classical setting wreathed

in old roses at a yard sale for $1, (got it for fifty cents), and thought how nice it would

look with my sweet peas, hosta, dame’s rocket, hydrangeas, nepeta, and wild ladybells.

Sweet Peas (lathyrus odoratus) sown back in March.

Over the years, I’ve come to favor ultra soft colors in my personal garden.

But, something about these colors we have around the barns

and on the side of the lane are so right in late summer.

I am re-reading Rachel Ashwell’s Shabby Chic Interiors, and cannot stop gazing

at her homey blue-based linen closet.

Photo: Amy Neunsinger from Shabby Chic Interiors by Rachel Ashwell (Cico).

So, I took out all my blue and white and had

one of those perennial summer events – a reunion!

Unmarked transferware creamer with Burleigh Asiatic Pheasants platter.

Until next time, stay shabby!

A Late Summer Evening in My Screen Porch with Anne of Green Gables

I have a 1920 (48th Impression or printing) edition of L.M. Montgomery’s

Anne of Green Gables, bought for a dollar at a yard sale during the town of Andes’

Community Day two Augusts ago.   The sewn binding is separated from the linen cover,

the pages--foxed with age spots and frayed along the edges--are soft as fabric.

It’s even more magical reading the story with an old copy.    My dream of having my own

little house in the country first began after I read this excellent novel as a child.

Asters and a sunset in August.

I privately call my loft ‘the east gable’, after Anne’s room at Green Gables,

her very first personal space in her whole life.   After my internet and farm chores were done

for the day, I went there to settle in my twee bed and down pillows with my doggies curled up

on either side of me to have a good re-read by the light of an antique lamp

of that most charming story.

But, the loft space gets very hot by the end of a summer afternoon, so I decided to make

a bed in my screen porch storage room.    It’s so tiny my cushions filled the whole thing!

I strung up white and pink lantern lights to read by.    They make the porch look like an

Oak Bluffs summer cottage .    I could feel the breeze coming across the mountainside,

rustling the firs, and hear the crickets, an owl, and most pleasantly of all my stream.

I’ve revered this book above other ‘important’ writers-- you know, usually those who write

sad tales with unhappy endings.    I did my thesis on Canadian writer Margaret Atwood,

and I wished so much Montgomery, also Canadian, was considered as important in academia.

It is a heart-warming tale of hope, with vividly drawn characters, and nature-centric prose as

delicious to drink as raspberry cordial.

In 1985, when I was going through a very difficult time, even Kevin Sullivan’s film adaptation

could transport me away from my problems.    I haven’t read all of Montgomery’s other

books so I can look forward to savoring them for the rest of my life!

Graphic backgrounds from Tattered Vintage

Until next time, stay shabby!

Links

Anne of Green Gables (Wikipedia)

L.M. Montgomery Literary Society

Anne of Green Gables – the Kevin Sullivan movies

I'll be sharing this with Show & Tell Friday over at My Romantic Home,

please join Cindy's party!