Leaving the place on Providence Street was as hard as leaving a summer love. Sometimes, in the dead of winter, I dreamed I was still there, revelling in the cat fluff, dryer lint, and convenient master bath.
When a reasonable summer rental came along in New York’s Hudson Valley, my husband Peter and I jumped at the chance. Who would have known that we’d end up falling in love with the place by the time August rolled around?
The rental dates were unconventional — the last week in June through the last week in August — because Mom was a kindergarten teacher and had to be back before Labor Day. Dad was a landscape artist. Their daughter Heather was an adorable, studious child who played the violin. It was our good fortune that the trio scooted off to their cabin in Vermont for the summer.
We met in May, sealed the deal, got the keys, and took the 50-cent tour. The house on Providence Street seemed ideal: newly renovated, Frank Lloyd Wright-esque open floor plan, set on a private acre on a quiet street, all within walking distance of town and the local pool.
You learn a lot about people when you live in their home. The Taylors seemed to lead a joyless, Spartan existence. There was no sugar in their kitchen cabinets, but there were four cream of tartars. I also found candy wrappers stashed behind Heather’s headboard when I changed the sheets. What was up with this aversion to sugar? To me, sugar equals joy.
Upon closer inspection, the Taylors' house was pretty messy. The gleaming wood floors were coated with cat hair. As was the sofa and most of the furniture. How could one small cat have so much fur? Peter and I spent most of the first day cleaning up the mess, and the rest of it reorganizing. Why didn’t they have any top sheets? Why were all of their pillows flat as pancakes? Didn’t they realize the pleasure in a good pillow, much like the joy sugar brought?
After a few days, it was clear that we took better care of the Taylors' home than they did. I started to feel we deserved it more than they did. Maybe that we even loved it more than they did.
Before we knew it, the end of August had arrived. College kids returned to town and the restaurants were no longer tranquil. Instead, they resembled the Mos Eisley Cantina. We had to give the house back to the Taylors, who obviously didn’t appreciate it the way we did. Before my tearful farewell, I left a stash of Starbursts and Skittles in Heather’s sock drawer, two of her favorite sneaky sweets.
Leaving the place on Providence Street was as hard as leaving a summer love. Sometimes, in the dead of winter, I dreamed I was still there, revelling in the cat fluff, dryer lint, and convenient master bath.
We rented the Taylors’ beautiful, if under-appreciated home for six summers. Judging by the new paintings on the walls each year, Nelson seemed to be descending deeper into madness with his Cezanne-on-acid landscapes filled with agitated, ultraviolet brushstrokes. Jeanne seemed to be descending deeper into depression, as evidenced by the family snapshots in the junk drawer — she didn’t smile in any of them. (Yes, I confess, I snooped! How could you not?) Pre-pubescent Heather grew pleasantly chubby, hopefully from the candy stash I left at the end of each summer.
The summer rental was a big luxury. We enjoyed the hell out of it and loved sharing it with our guests. Brooklyn kids got to experience the county fair, the town pool, crickets at dusk, a night sky crammed with stars, and the owl’s song. There was a tire swing, carriage road hikes, 4th of July fireworks at the fairground, antique fire truck musters, and Rail Trail Pale Ale with fresh blueberries at the local brewery.
One summer, I was hugely pregnant, and by the next, our 8-month-old son accompanied us for his first summer. In the twilight, a doe nursed her fawn as I nursed my son, both of us watching each other. In heat waves, David ran around diaper-less. It was the best of both worlds: getting to be city and country mouse.
In August of 2002, we managed to find our own little piece of heaven in a town a couple of miles away: a single-wide on a few acres. That was the last summer we rented the Taylors’ house, and the last time it probably had a thorough cleaning!
We visited the Taylors once afterwards, when we had time to kill before a puppet show nearby. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, the lunch and probably the breakfast dishes were still in the sink. There was visible cat hair and crumbs on the sleek granite countertops. It was like seeing a summer fling who had gone to pot after your dalliance. The only bright spot was seeing Heather, and the knowing glance we both exchanged — she knew that I knew that she knew I’d left the candy in her sock drawer.
In a way, the house on Providence Street held our hand until we were ready to get our own place. But like all things summer, it had to end.
