I explain to Rosalind what she can expect in Cracker’s Neck Holler. It’s hard to believe, but she’s as excited to visit our home as we are hers. “This is Spencer Drive, and we’re at 145. Here we are.” Rosalind makes a quick right turn in to their driveway. “We’ve known the neighbors a hundred years; Arthur Kerr is our close friend. He’s next door at 147. He’s handy when anything goes wrong with the plumbing, and he’s an excellent bridge player. If you don’t know how to play, I’m sure he’d love to teach you. He visits a lot. I hope you don’t mind company.”
“Not at all,” I tell her. With drop-in visitors, Aberdeen is sounding an awful lot like Big Stone Gap.
The house is situated on a winding street that seems to go on forever. There is no sidewalk, just a walkway lining either side of the white gravel street. The house is adorable. It’s stone, with dark green wooden shutters, a front door that has wrought-iron details (including a scooped handle where the doorknob goes), and a gingerbread window filled with rose-colored stained glass straight out of a Hans Christian Andersen story.
The front yard is wide and deep. There are several flower beds carved into the grass, with a rickrack of bricks defining the borders. There are two circular gardens and a long rectangular bed in front of the porch.
“Oh, these are the gardens?” I ask Rosalind.
“These are just wild beds.” Rosalind points to a mess of leaves that look like tangled lumps of green yarn without their blooms. She smiles. “The sun and rain are all they need. The real garden is out at the back.”
I look at Jack, who winks at me. “I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. Okay, put gardening at the top of the list.
Donald Philip Stoneman greets us at the door, dressed for travel. I went online and ordered a few of his plays to read before meeting him; he’s a beautiful writer. The multiscene family dramas feel like a little of Chekhov and a lot of Samuel Beckett. Donald is a modern playwright, but he looks old-school. I laughed when I read the last line of his impressive theatrical bio: D. P. Stoneman still has all his teeth.
“Mr. Stoneman, I’m a fan of your work,” I tell him sincerely.
“Thank you, dear.” His green eyes crinkle shut when he smiles. He’s lanky, with a shock of white hair, a bulbous nose, and a nice grin. He appears to be about ten years older than his wife. He extends his hand. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Stone House.”
“That’s funny. We call our home ‘stone house’ too.”
“Well, then, it is all fated, isn’t it?”
Donald and Rosalind take us on a tour of the house. “Say hello to Sir Charles Randolph Wright.” Donald points to a black-and-white cat who appears to be about the same age as our Shoo. Sir Charles is absolutely bored at the sight of us.
Rosalind laughs. “Mr. Personality.”
The living is done on one main floor; the second floor is accessible by a ladder, and it’s strictly for storage. There is a large, comfortable living room at the front of the house, with a fireplace open on both sides. To the right of the fireplace is a short hallway that leads to two bedrooms. The guest room is simply adorned, with two twin beds and a floor lamp and straight-backed chair between them. The master bedroom is a bit more ornate, with a double bed, a large bureau, and an easy chair for reading in the corner. The one bathroom is off the master bedroom, and it’s almost the size of the bedroom. It has a claw-footed tub and a bench. The commode is behind a screen covered in an ivy-print wallpaper.
We make our way back to the living room. On the other side of the fireplace is the kitchen, a well-appointed room with a wooden table set for four in the center.
The loveliest element of the house is a glass conservatory on the back. There is another table and set of chairs here (for all that bridge playing, I suppose). Plants grow lushly in their pots, set neatly against the glass. “This is our herbarium.” Donald chuckles. “I encourage you to use the herbs when you cook. They are identified with markers. See?” He shows us the handprinted stakes in the dirt. “I am partial to rosemary. When you bake chicken, just pull some of these leaves and sauté them in butter, then dress your bird,” he advises. “Delicious.”
“Donald, hurry along. We’ll be late for our train,” Rosalind reminds him.
We follow Donald out the conservatory door to the backyard. It isn’t a yard; every inch is marked and planted. There is a small path around the outer edge to walk, but the expanse is pure garden.
“This is the vegetable garden. If I do my job this time of year, the vegetables last all summer, and what we cannot consume, we put up for the winter. Don’t be shy; there are plenty of yams, onions, and potatoes down in the basement. If you don’t mind, as the weather warms, there are some seeds to plant, and if you’d be so kind, I would like you to get a head start on my lettuce. This is an organic garden.” He points next door. “Old Arthur has a garden too. If you have any questions, he can help you. We make our own batch of compost, and we alternate-plant to keep the soil rich. He can explain all of that.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” Jack promises.
We walk Rosalind and Donald to the front porch and help them put their bags in the taxi. “Have a wonderful time in Big Stone Gap,” we tell them. We wave until they disappear down the lane. I turn to Jack. “What do you think?”
“I’m going to build a fire.”
I put my arms around him. “I think I love it.”
There is nothing like a new setting to revive an old marriage. Jack and I get up early every morning and take long walks, strolls, really, where we stop and look at architecture and gardens as though the city of Aberdeen were a feast prepared just for the two of us. We talk about everything. Jack is much more loquacious than he is at home, what with work and general exhaustion. It’s not that we ignore each other there, but we’re so familiar with each other’s rhythms. This is the perfect spot to reinvent how we treat each other. It’s reconnecting us. We sample the local cuisine: Jack falls in love with haggis (not me), and I fall in love with proper tea at four in the afternoon.
There is a familiar rap on the front door. “Come on in, Arthur!” I call out.
Arthur Kerr is a handsome eighty-year-old who moves as though he’s fifty. His girlfriend, Edith Emerald Turner, is a Scottish beauty of sixty who runs the local painting club where they met. Arthur has already become a regular visitor here.
“Where’s Jack?” he asks me.
“He’s at the university library. He thinks he’s close to finding his family’s roots.”
“Everyone in America is Scottish, eh?”
“Lots.”
“I’ve always wanted to be Italian.”
“Why?”
“It’s warm there, and the food is good.”
“Two excellent reasons.”
“And there’s a third: the women. I don’t have to tell you about them.”
“Arthur, are you flirting with me?”
“At my age? I hope so.”
“I accept your kind aspersions,” I say. I pour the hot water from the kettle into the teapot. I arrange some delicate butter cookies from the local bakery on a small plate, and on another, four small sandwiches made with fontina cheese, cucumber, and white bread. I put these on a tray with our plates, cups, and two linen napkins. “Come on, Arthur, let’s go to the conservatory.” Arthur pulls out my chair at the table. I sit. He sits across from me.
“Jack and I took a ride up the coast to the fishing villages. We stopped at Cullen.”
“Delightful.”
“I love the colors of the houses on the sea—pumpkin and turquoise and bright lilac. Why do they paint them such vivid colors?”
“To be seen. It’s a style called paintworks. The paint is treated with different elements to make it stronger; it actually coats the house against the weather. Some folks put finely ground sand in their paint, while others texture it with a resin that makes it so thick you almost have to wallpaper it on. It’s quite ingenious, really, and practical.”
&
nbsp; “It’s so quiet on the coast. It’s undiscovered, isn’t it?”
“It never gets too warm up there, so the thundering herds stay away. Aberdeen is a busy place because of the university—it always has been. Of course, the university is five hundred years old. Everyone knows someone who attended sometime in their family history. Have you visited the grounds?”
“No, but Jack keeps telling me I have to go.”
“You must.”
“I got an e-mail from Rosalind. They’re having a wonderful time. Last week they went to a Baptist tent revival. I couldn’t believe it.”
“They are good travelers. They do a lot of it. She danced with a folk troupe in Russia when they visited Saint Petersburg. Old Roz will try anything.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Thirty-five years.”
“Wow.”
“All their lives, really. It hasn’t always been easy for them.”
“The theater life is tough—and I’ve only been involved on the amateur level.”
“Their professional lives have gone quite nicely. It’s the home life that’s been difficult—or, I should say, was difficult.”
“What happened?”
“They had a daughter, Elspeth. She died when she was at university in London,” he says sadly.
“No.”
“She was eighteen years old. It was a car accident. I wish you would have known Donald before it happened. His hair was the color of coal, and his posture was as straight as a plank. The loss aged him considerably.”
“I know all about it.”
“Rosalind told you?”
“No, but Jack and I lost a son. Our Joe was just a little boy.”
“Awful.”
“What can you do, Arthur? Nothing at all. You have to let life play out the way it’s going to, and hope that those you love are somehow spared the painful parts.” I pour myself another cup of tea. “What’s your sadness?”
Arthur sits back in his chair, his spine straightening as though he’s been insulted. “What do you mean?”
“Terribly American of me, isn’t it? To just blurt it out.”
“It’s a bit off-putting.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a Yankee for you. Though we’re not called Yankees where we’re from. Yankees are ferriners from the north. Because I’m Italian, I’m considered a ferriner.”
“Who married a local.”
“Right.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. “I’d rather not answer your question, Ave Maria.”
“That’s a blunt answer to my blunt question.”
He smiles. “Right.”
Jack holds my hand as he leads me into the main quad of the University of Aberdeen, where he’s arranged for us to have a private tour of the grounds and buildings. The interior court is the site of the Crown Tower, which is an actual sculpted crown of sandstone, suspended in the air by six ribbons of white stone. The edges of the stone are mottled from the weather but otherwise sturdy. Sunlight pours through the open vaulting, throwing shadows onto the courtyard.
Jack tells me, “This was built in 1500. It was preserved during a squabble with the barons of the Mearns, who came at night and stole the bell. The principal armed the student body with weapons to protect the crown, which is why it’s still here. I’ll show you the library where I’ve been doing my research.”
Jack leads me into the library—modern by local standards, it was built around 1700. The oak panels and some of the tables and chairs are original. In every corner, students work on their laptop computers. It’s a crazy sight to see: antiquity and modernity moving in harmony.
“Hello, Jack.” A beautiful blond woman in her twenties greets Jack. Her blue eyes and champagne-colored hair crackle against the dark paneled walls. It’s as if someone opened a window and a yellow butterfly flew in.
“Paige, this is my wife, Ave Maria.”
She extends her hand. “I’m Paige Toon. I’m in charge of genealogy research here.”
“So you’ve been helping my husband.”
“I am giving it a try.” She smiles. “Ave Maria. What an interesting name. Did you know the University of Aberdeen was originally called Saint Mary’s College?”
“I didn’t know that. With my name, I fit right in.”
“Brilliant!” she says. “Follow me.”
I let her take the lead and whisper to Jack, “Now I see why you spend so much time at the library.”
“With all the reading, I need to rest my eyes once in a while,” he says, and gives me a teasing wink and a quick kiss.
Paige leads us into a research room and closes the door. “I thought it would be fun to tell you what we’ve found in our hall of records.”
“Let me guess. Jack descends from a clan of thugs and deviants.”
“Close. They were educators.”
“Really?”
“Are you surprised?” Paige asks.
“Jack’s family were all laborers in the States,” I explain, then turn to him. “Were there any teachers in your family?”
“Not that I know of,” he says.
“Here’s the MacChesney plaid.” Paige shows us a picture of a swatch in the book. It’s a red and yellow plaid with a black repeat weave.
“But it says McGuiness.”
“Somewhere between here and there, McGuiness became MacChesney.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“More than you know. I often think your processors at Ellis Island must have been hard of hearing. It’s not a common name—and as far as I can tell, your people did not emigrate from Ireland. We found McGuinesses in Surrey, which is fairly close to London. That also happens. You have to be hardy and persistent to stay in the north. The summers are cool, and the winters are frigid.”
I say, “So that’s why people are so obsessed with their gardens. Signs of spring and life and color. You need them after a long winter.”
“Right. I rather like the winters, though—I love to build fires and ski. It all depends upon your point of view, I suppose.”
We follow Paige to Mitchell Hall, where graduation is held. It was built in 1895. “This is a baby building,” she says.
I laugh. “In America, this would be ancient.”
Paige takes us on a tour of the meeting hall, where Queen Elizabeth herself delivered an address to the Scottish Parliament. I take a picture of Jack at the podium where she spoke. Paige shows us the Cruickshank Botanic Garden, which makes the Stonemans’ conservatory look like a countertop terrarium. “This garden was founded with pure organic ideals in mind. Since we live on an island, essentially—the UK, that is—we have a sense of the preciousness of every bit of land. It’s different from having limitless space, like you do in the States. We have to respect every leaf on every tree. There’s only so much to go ’round.”
“We have some organic farming in the United States,” I say.
“It’s all we have here,” she says.
Students mill about between classes, looking very much of their moment, but there is a hushed reverence here that can only come from five hundred years of scholarship.
A few days later, Arthur and Jack are shoring up the irrigation ditches in the garden. Arthur shows Jack how to make the pits in the earth with a long, thin metal pipe. I watch through the conservatory as Jack perfects the technique, with Arthur supervising. My husband is down on his knees, and when he has to attack another patch of ground, he springs up to standing. He looks as young as he did in high school, and I’m not exaggerating. This trip has added years to his life.
It’s only now that I can see the rut we were in back home. We had stopped dreaming, Jack and I, and begun settling into the terrible place called “for all sakes and purposes: practically old.” Arthur is eighty, and yet he stays mentally agile by playing cards and reading; he paints to soothe his soul, and he works the garden to give himself a sense that he is responsible for his own survival.
“Gentlemen, dinner is served,�
� I announce from the garden gate.
“We’ll be right there, honey.”
Jack hasn’t had a man to look up to, to learn from, since his father died so many years ago. He revels in his friendship with Arthur. They do things together each day. Jack even went to the art institute to watercolor with him. I don’t know what they talk about, but I’ve never seen Jack so chatty. It’s as if he’s found his oracle.
For supper, I made roasted chicken with rosemary butter, per Donald Stoneman’s instructions. I slow-roasted root vegetables, plentiful in the basement bin, with olive oil in the fireplace oven. It took me a few tries to get the hang of it—I burned plenty of yams and red beets—but now I’m a pro, making certain to heat the oven with a roaring flame for a good bit before I put in the iron skillet. All the things I’ve learned from living in this wonderful old house will be forgotten once I return home, but it’s been great fun to experience them and live as the Scots do.
I’ve learned about my husband, living here for the past month. I see a lot of his behavior in his fellow Scots. They have great enthusiasm when it’s called for, but most of the time, they are introspective. They are also, like the mountain folk back home, extremely wary of outsiders. This probably is a result of generations of war, in which they were called upon to constantly defend their homes against mighty oppressors looking to control the mysterious sea that lies east and north.
You always feel the water around you here. So much of travel and movement is predicated on the fog and rain, which roll in abundantly during the spring. Jack has yet to water the garden—he doesn’t have to, since the morning rains give it a good dose. He has also learned to work the garden at the end of the day, at Arthur’s suggestion. “The earth is more open to manipulation then,” Arthur told us. “The earth is like us; it needs sun and water and, most importantly, rest. We have to nourish it.”
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