The Story of a Door

The Story of a Door

One hundred and eleven years ago, a man built a house. He put a beautiful mahogany door on the front of the house. It was massive, with a large beveled glass window in it. It was handcrafted for the house. A knocker, brass handle and a twist-type doorbell completed the masterpiece. 

A door. A doorway. Brides carried over the threshold. Babies born and visited. Children played on porches, uncles smoked and told stories, funeral meals were taken, good news and bad news welcomed through its portal. Lives born, lived out, extinguished. Time, weather, more weather. Someone painted the door green. And then black. It weathered some more. Thankfully, an expansive porch protected it from most of the elements. It stood proud, with a handmade screened door between it and the world. Then an owner came that stayed almost thirty years who rarely, if ever, used the porch or the door. The door was locked, with acres of beautiful antique furniture inside blocking entrance or egress. It sat still, old but perfect, not moving, not aging much. Then one day the door was opened, and all the furniture that had taken up the house like a warehouse was moved out. The people left for the mountains. The house was still again. Empty. Waiting. All those years, the doorbell unused. Another year went by, with many people going through the house, some lookers, some buyers. Offers given, refused, disqualified. 

Then we came, new caretakers grateful for the love and protection given the house and the door over these many years. The door gained a lively new life, not so protected anymore. Children passing through, slamming, adults banging on it, youngsters twisting the doorbell and driving everyone to distraction. The old black paint started to chip and fall off, exposing wood to the world.  So I stripped the door. The old wood did not want to be naked. It didn't want to be stained or polyurethaned. It cried out and told me that it was meant to be painted. Since it was rare and beautiful, it deserved all the glory I could give it. So I painted it red. Bright red. A siren song red. It was a thing of beauty. Happy, unashamed, just-a-singin'.

Then we painted the rest of the front of the house. The red glared and looked vulgar against the warm historical colors I brought the house back to. Everyone knows that a door holds an important place in the face of a house. It needs to pop, to say "Come on in, ya'll!" So I thought, "Yellow!" I bought little buckets of yellow paint, painted big poster samples and set them up against the door. Looked at them for a week. Yellow, right? That's an autumn color. It should work. People pay me to pick colors for them, so how could I go wrong? I started painting the door with my quart of high-quality oil paint. I do this for a living, remember? I have had only a couple of accidents in 30+ years of painting. But somehow, some way, I tipped the whole quart of bright yellow-gold paint onto my porch. I slopped up as much as I could with my dropcloth and headed out to the yard with it, dripping all the way. Dripped it onto the porch, the concrete, the ancient bricks, the shrubs, the grass and me. My new tennis shoes (don't ask). My clothes and hair were covered in it. I look over at my Australian Shepherd and saw that she had plopped down right in the middle of it.  This is oil paint, people. You can't clean that up with the hose. I whip out my gallon of mineral spirits and try to mop the worst of it off the brick and concrete stairs, praying no one decides to use the tiki torches later and incinerate the house. After much consternation and internal swearing, it gets somewhat cleaned up. I start over. Given drying time and two coats later, it's done. I enjoy a few days of opening the door and seeing that happy yellow face every morning. A couple of weeks go by. I still enjoy opening the door to the joy, but when I drive by my house or walk the dog in the front yard, the yellow up against the other colors begins to irritate me. Badly.

What's an artist to do? I can abide a foot-high pile of papers on the kitchen table for months, dog hair on the carpet or that infernal mess that's all over the inside of my car....but don't irritate me with a color hitch. So I prayed. Yes, I finally resorted to that. Shoulda done that before I started. Ya'll think I'm kidding, but I'm not. He never misleads me on these things. Yesterday's exciting job was to buy yet another quart of paint (that makes three so far, in addition to a grocery sack of paint samples). Today's exciting job was to paint over the infernal yellow. But of course it rained and it's supposed to rain all week. With oil paint, you better wait for low humidity or you've got a permanently sticking door. I can't disrespect the door that way. I'll make myself wait.

So what is the new color? Sherwin Williams Roycroft Copper Red. From the historical collection. Red with some brick-ness in it. What was I thinking? Of course the door had to be red. Didn't it tell me that in the first place? I just had to find the right one. I guess if this one doesn't work out, I'll have to resort to stacking furniture in front of the door.

Magnolia Street, Villa Rica

A little over three years ago, when we sold our home in the middle of the Winston countryside, I thought I was going to die from grief. We had virtually put our heart and souls into a gorgeous piece of land in 1996. That's a whole book of stories that can't be pieced together in one column, but suffice it to say, out of necessity we sold our life's dream and began hunting for a new place to live, with the cash-out of 30 years of sweat equity to pay for it with. I have my real estate license, so was able to do my own looking without bothering anybody else. My husband, Ken, and I had a system: I would preview the houses and then drag him around to the ones I found interesting. Thankfully he is a wise man and has usually trusted my instincts.

I put in all the parameters of what we could afford...which was an exercise in restraint. We looked at dozens of homes, scads of them. Nothing really stood out and nothing spoke to us, but we were willing to buy a simple, sound home in order to be at a more peaceful financial place in our lives. Coming up short, I started thinking about where we would like to live, rather than just a dollar sign on the page. So I put in "Villa Rica" as my criteria and began looking through the homes available. I had always liked the small-town feel of Villa Rica. It seemed more peaceful and more hopeful than some of the other towns around us. Up popped this adorable Victorian house, charming and quaint...but out of our price range. I decided to look at it on my day's wanderings. I believe I looked at twelve houses that day and it was the last one. 

I pulled into the driveway behind the house. The yard was as big as two city lots and looked like a park. Two massive pecan trees hovered over the back lot like a set of grandparents pampering their progeny. The house, even the backside of it, was darling from the street. The lockbox was on the back door. I was stunned by the door itself. It was indescribable...a whimsical, sweet confection of stained glass and Renaissance revival carvings. Then my jaw dropped at the star-like light fixture hanging in the laundry room.  The laundry room! Each corner I turned had surprises in store. Inlaid floors, five fireplaces, huge windows that seemed to pull the outdoors in. Stained glass, pocket doors, leaded glass, a massive porch, a sweet wrought-iron gate and fence, woodwork still in its original state, a giant built-in china cabinet in the dining room, and a freshly-renovated lovely kitchen. It even had a little room on the back that I could use for an art studio. The last owner (and probably many other owners) had taken loving care of the house. It was hard to believe a 100+-year-old house could be in this kind of shape. So why wasn't it selling? Besides the fact that God was keeping it for us, the walls were dark and ugly, dated with decades-old wallpaper and colors. Each room had its own color scheme, with no rhyme or reason as to why. There was no flow and it felt cavernous. I have spoken to numerous people who said that they loved this house and wanted to buy it, but they just didn't know what to do with all the clunky colors and walls. How thankful I am that they didn't! Because that's exactly what I (and we) do -- I am a decorative painter and have spent the last 30 or so years buying and selling homes, fixing up, painting them and repainting them. My husband said of one of our houses, that we would be safe from nuclear fallout because of the nine paint jobs that I layered in the master bedroom...in nine years, no less. Now with so many years of practice, it doesn't take me several layers before I know what looks right, fortunately. So this was no problem, in my book. But there was the question of Papa Bear -- what would he think? I had two houses in my mind that would work for us -- this one and a different one in another town (that was smaller, not that old, and a lot simpler). I took him for the next round of house-hunting, showing him several. I said very little about any of them, hoping to get his gut reactions.....and of course, saved the Victorian for last. When he saw the house, it was over. He was in love. I even tried to dissuade him with arguments about the age of it, the upkeep of it, etc., but all he could focus on was that this was to be our Grandparent House (even though we had no grandchildren at the time).

Next problem: the price. Oh yeah, that. We knew exactly how much we would have, after the sale of our other house. And with the downturning of America, the loss of a 23-year-career through downsizing and outsourcing after 9/11, medical bills and the influence of God and Dave Ramsey, we offered what we had left. The homeowner came back willing to owner-finance, which we quickly declined. There were other houses we could buy. We didn't have to have this one, though we really wanted it. But God moved the heart of Pharoah and they took our offer. 

There are many more stories since that day, but I'll hold those for later. Now, every morning we wake up in the sweetest house (that feels like a Bed and Breakfast) and sit on porches that catch the breeze perfectly. We have the best neighbors you could ever hope to have, we walk to town with friends and loved ones and enjoy all the loveliness of our precious town, Villa Rica. Ken says they're going to bury us in the backyard. Best of all, God has sent us four grandchildren in less than eighteen months. We are wearing this place out.

Mrs. Keener's Pound Cake

I am not that old, but have already reached my cake quota. Well, I'll make a list...I've reached my pie, candy, chocolate, ice cream and popcorn quotas as well. That doesn't mean I'm not having any more. It just means I probably shouldn't.

I have a bit of a love affair with cake. Who doesn't love a yummy, slightly-warm, buttery piece of cake (except for my eldest son Jon)? Somewhere along the way, I probably ruined it for him. I bake pretty wedding cakes for relatives and loved ones, but I quit doing it for strangers as it dawned on me that it was a very real possibility that I could ruin a bride's whole day if I messed up her cake. Hopefully, loved ones will give me a pinch more grace if I mess up theirs? But before I had that epiphany, on "cake days" I would become a shrieking diva, freaking out and making my whole family miserable (see above note concerning eldest son). It started with cake-decorating classes and my oldest nephew's wedding and then with realizing that decorating a cake is like an adult excuse for playing with playdough.

Besides all the art and playing, I stumbled upon three of the best four cake recipes in the world (because I already had the fourth one). This wonderful, delightful lady on the internet shares her recipes with everyone. She is retired, lives in Texas, and is honestly the Queen of All the Wedding Cake Makers. Her name is Miss Earlene and that's all I'm going to tell you about that....you'll have to google and dig to find her. Her cakes are moist, yummy and have special ingredients that make you have to sneak into the liquor store to get them. She is a precious Christian lady and when you think about it, what was Christ's first miracle?!

Which brings me to the best pound cake in the world. 

When I was a child, our dear friend, Mrs. Keener, lost her husband. Mrs. Keener is a true-blue country gal who is still kicking at 92, working on her farm. (When my husband met her after hearing years of stories, he introduced himself and she just about crushed his hand, which is no small feat since he's got hands like a lumberjack.) Back then, she had a massive garden. As in -- several acres worth. A few families began helping her with it since her husband had died. Mama and us kids would go to her farm very early in the morning, while it was still dark. We would pick whatever produce was ready -- corn, peas, green beans -- and then dump the contents under the trees by her house, where she had strategically placed plastic tablecloths on the ground. When it got close to lunchtime and things starting heating up, we would leave and go home. My Mama would make us clean up and lay down for awhile. That evening, we would go back over there for a potluck dinner, everyone bringing a dish. We would eat and then proceed to the backyard where she had lanterns hanging and we would process the day's produce....shucking corn, shelling peas, stringing beans, etc., while the Moms got everything ready to freeze and can. Mrs. Keener always had this giant pound cake on a stand on top of her refrigerator. It was so good, so moist, perfect every time. And as soon as one was eaten, she'd bake another. Such happy, uncommonly contented times we had and not really that long ago (I'm telling myself that). I ran into her grandson a few months back. He said that she is still working rings around him on that farm. 

So I've decided: that's why I'm fat. Cake = happy times and memories. Or -- it's possible I'm an addict. I have a disease and some Cake Genie forces me into the kitchen and stuffs my face with cake. Or maybe, all that cake never really ever leaves my body. It just floats around in there making cake babies and crowding out my kidneys.

With 33 years of marital bliss and a large family around me, I've had my share of company, potluck dinners, family reunions, church picnics, not to mention thousands and thousands of meals cooked for my super-human-sized offspring. When I make one of Mrs. Keener's pound cakes, it gets wolfed down within about 24 hours. Just like it did at her house. And my Mama's house. Some people think it's "Rose's Pound Cake" but then that would just be false pride. I must say that it's never the same way twice, for some reason, when I bake it. I think that's because I'm really an artist, not a baker, and I'm always tweaking things too much. That just means I don't like to follow directions. So today I am going to bless you with this time-honored recipe. You can thank me later:
Mrs. Keener's Pound Cake
310 degree oven (or thereabouts)
8 (or 9) large eggs
1 cup shortening
1 cup butter
2-2/3 cups sugar
3-1/2 cups plain flour
1 Tbs real vanilla
1/4 cup milk (or maybe a little more)
Separate and beat the egg whites with 6 Tbs of the sugar. Put aside in a separate bowl. Cream remaining sugar with the butter and shortening. Add egg yolks, flour, milk and vanilla. Fold egg whites carefully into batter. Pour into greased bundt or pound cake pan. Bake for about an hour (sometimes a little less). 

You want it almost underdone. Then it's great with strawberries and cream or coffee or for breakfast or lunch or dinner in spring or summer or the first of May. 

They have 12-step programs for people like me.