Puttering My Toast

Puttering My Toast

by Brunonia Barry

 Okay, so we left town with all the best intentions. We would head up to the cottage in New Hampshire for two weeks of much needed R&R: no TV, no cell phones, no computers, just books, bathing suits, and a new kayak.

I wasn’t just burned out, I was toast.  I’d been on book tour since May 4^th when The Map of True Places was released. The book tour was actually the easy part. It was the months leading up to the tour that had sapped my strength: editing, promoting, editing the edits. William Morrow wanted to push up the release date to get The Map of True Places out for Mother’s Day, and I had done everything in my power to make it happen.

I know that no one will feel sorry for me, and I’m not complaining at all. Everything that has happened to The Lace Reader and to me since 2007 has been life changing in the best possible ways.  The only thing is, it hasn’t let up, not for a minute. All stress is not bad stress. But eustress can wear you out just the same, though you won’t get any pity for it from your friends or family. Well, you might get some from your husband who knows exactly what this wild ride has been like, but even that isn’t going to last very long. And the truth is, I’ve never been happier. But the other truth is, I’ve never been as burned out either.

So I went to the cottage with the intention of swimming my stress away. We had two full weeks. The summer was a scorcher. What could be better?

We decided to stop at Windy Fields Farm to get some corn and early tomatoes before going to the lake. We also bought a farm baked blueberry pie and some ginger ice cream from the Sandwich Creamery (if you haven’t tried that odd sounding combination, I heartily recommend it). As they added up the bill, I was adding up the calories. I figured that one a la mode piece would equal another swim around the lake’s perimeter, and I decided it was absolutely worth it.

That’s when they told me the lake was closed.

In all the years we’ve been going to the cottage, and in all my mother’s, grandmother’s, and great -grandmother’s years before us, they had never closed the lake  for any reason. I remember one year when a lot of the fish died. They lined the shore, and we had to cart them away, the victims of too hot a summer and not enough oxygen in the water, or so we were told. But even with hundreds of dead fish, they didn’t close down the lake.  I also remember some runoff flooding that eroded our front yard and those of four neighbors and turned the water muddy for weeks. Still, the lake remained open. So what reason could they possibly have for closing it this year?

Turns out, it was a blue green algae bloom. At first, I didn’t see it in the water. Maybe it was over at the public beach, which is where they had tested. Maybe it was okay to swim in front of our camp. But as I looked more closely at the water, I could see the little green globules suspended just inches under the surface. They looked like little green peas, almost cute and certainly harmless, or so I thought. But the next day there were more of them.  The day after that, I decided to explore the lake by kayak, and realized that the little green peas were everywhere, thousands of them. Immediately, I broke my "no computer" rule and stole my husband’s laptop. How could this be happening to our beautiful, pristine, spring-fed lake?

I found a number for the State of New Hampshire and called to ask how this kind of thing could have happened. The truth is, no one knows. They just know that when the bloom dies, it releases cyanotoxins, a nasty brew that can kill your liver if you happen to ingest too much of the water or give you some very unpleasant skin trouble if you swim through it. Why is this happening now? There were lots of theories: maybe this summer was just too warm (algae live at the bottom of lakes, then come to the surface in blooms when the water temperature rises); maybe it was brought by Canadian geese (we’ve had more than a few visits in the last two years); maybe it was caused by septic tanks or house construction (we have had some construction on the lake in the last few years, and I don’t even want to talk about septic tanks); or by fertilizing your lawn (does anyone really expect anything more than a moss garden to grow up there?).  We all started speculating. Neighbors began looking suspiciously at anyone who was actually growing grass high enough to mow. Our suspicions were fueled by the fact that it was ninety degrees and muggy. All any of us wanted was a swim. We were grouchy and tense.

But no one was as tense as I was, and I knew I had to do something. I started out by reading some of the books I’d brought. I finished Nancy Pickard’s The Scent of Rain and Lightning, one of the best books I’ve read in years.  I started on Little Bee, which was my book club’s choice for August, but I put it down. Not that it wasn’t good, it’s a fine book.  I simply couldn’t sit still long enough to read it.  It’s difficult to read when you’re pacing the house and looking longingly out the windows at the water.

I had to find something else to do, and quickly.

That’s when it hit me. I would putter.  I come by it naturally as there’s a long history of puttering in my family, my father being the master. He owned his own business and didn’t have a lot of free time, but when he did, he was never happier than when he was puttering around the house.  He would whistle and hum and generally spread good will as he fixed an old screen or covered himself in paint chips by scraping his boat.

Now, it’s really important to make a distinction here between puttering and working. If something is on your to do list, it is not putter worthy. Conversely, just because you’re puttering doesn’t mean you aren’t accomplishing something.  The first rule of puttering is to remember that the day belongs only to you. You can do anything you want with it, and if you choose to weed the garden, that’s a great thing, as long as it wasn’t on some list. There can be no pressure, no “gotta get this done” when you putter. 

I started out by raking the beach and doing a bit of weeding. Sounds like work? It wasn’t. By weeding, I mean sitting in one of those low beach chairs in my bathing suit and picking whatever little weeds were within reach, shaking the sand out of their root clumps. There were a lot of them. After that, I was hot enough to paddle around in the kayak for a while. Then I headed inside.

Unlike our regular homes, summer houses have rules of engagement when it comes to puttering.  Since you’re not meant to spend much time inside, they generally aren’t what you’d call organized. They tend to collect whatever we leave behind, but, since this is a shared family space, no one dares to throw out what might be someone else’s treasure. So you have to be careful.

As a child, the only times I remember being in the house much was on rainy days, when we would sit at the big oak table and play games. So it was in the game drawer that I decided to begin my puttering. I sorted six decks of cards. Four of them had fewer than 52, cards, but did I throw those away? Never! Instead, I put rubber bands around them and arranged them neatly back in the drawer. Then I found an old Game of Risk given to the family when the game first came out by a neighbor who worked for Parker Brothers. I opened the board to find the signatures of everyone who had ever won the game and conquered the world. The signers were almost exclusively male and had signed in the countries where their games had been won. The one exception was a signature in Kamchatka, which belonged to my mother. I don’t remember my mother ever playing Risk. I remember her thinking the game was too long and a waste of time, but I wish she were still around so that I could congratulate her on her win. Of course, I wouldn’t have put it past her to just sneakily sign the board one day without playing at all.

After I finished conquering the world of games, I climbed up on a chair and set the old clock, something that hadn’t been done yet this summer. Then I moved through the house, room to room, opening drawers, finding trinkets and treasures, imagining where and from whom they came. A strange sense of satisfaction came over me as I closed the last drawer and knew that I was done for the day.

Unfortunately, the “No Swim” ban continued into the next day. I awoke knowing that I needed more puttering, and I needed it bad. I had exhausted the drawers and dresser tops the day before. As I reached for a cereal bowl, I decided I was going to  rearrange my great grandmother’s china cabinet. Not that it needed rearranging. It had looked the same ever since I can remember, but every year a few more dishes would break, and every year a few random ones would be added. This was my Mt. Everest of puttering. If I could pull this off, I would be a master putterer.

As I opened the glass paneled doors, I was flooded with both memories and curiosities. My grandfather’s coffee mug hung on a hook next to a shiny green cup that looked as if it had been sliced lengthwise and bore the motto, “just half a cup please.” There were  the jelly jars we used for orange juice and a set of dishes shaped and painted like potato skins that I guess were meant to hold potatoes but I don't think I’ve ever seen used for anything except ice cream. And finally, on the very top shelf, I found an elegant crystal punch bowl and a set of cups, which must have belonged to my great-grandmother, because I’ve never seen them used in all of my years at the lake. It makes me wonder about those people, the ones who built the camp back in 1905. Did they have formal parties where they served punch? It’s difficult to imagine that in this rustic place.  I got so curious about them that I spent the rest of the day reading their guest book, trying to imagine their lives, and their elegant  friends who once sat on this same porch looking across the lake at Mt. Chocorua while they sipped their punch. Really?  Or maybe they never drank punch at all. Maybe the punch bowl (like the random new dishes that showed up every summer) was just something that someone wanted to get rid of but didn’t have the heart to throw away. I would never know. But sitting here on the porch with the guest book and trying to imagine the scenario had succeeded in slowing me down.

I was still relaxing on the porch with the guest book when my husband remarked that I was no longer toast. He was right. I had puttered my way out of it, or as he likes to put it, I had puttered my toast.

So I want to give a nod to puttering of any kind. And I would love to know if any of you putter. And if so, what great puttering days have you spent?

On the last day of our two week vacation, they reopened the lake. As I took my first and final swim, a pair of loons surfaced near me and lingered for a moment. One of them looked at me for several seconds before he dove and disappeared. I gently treaded water until the ripples vanished and the water returned to stillness. Then I swam to shore. 

Comments

[Leslie]

I have found the wisdom of puttering. I left at the beginning of the month for school. An intensive residency. TO return to house that had been deep cleaned and with a new office space for me. Now when my brain is full and I can study no more I putter in all the lovely things that were unearthed. I don't have to go through them, but it is relaxing to lose yourself in just doing something. All the things that HAVE to be done don't help clear out my brain so I can think. But, you are so right, puttering soothes the soul and quiets the mind. I especially love to putter in the kitchen. Thank you for sharing the photo. I love how the cabinet looks. It reminds me of my grandmother's cabinet.

[nancy martin]

Maybe it's only because I've been dieting for weeks, but I think the ideal use of that punch bowl is to fill it with ginger ice cream.

Brunonia, our family uses the same cottage--except ours is in Canada. We puttered through the fishing lures one year--some of them were over 100 years old and looked like they were used to catch the Loch Ness monster!

[Margaret M.]

What a gently soothing example of making lemonade out of lemons, Brunonia. How admirable of you not to have wasted your two weeks sulking about the lake. Bet your puttering jelled a few ideas for the next book as well. I find it restful to clean out junk drawers, cull bookshelves, and alphabetize the spice cabinet.

[Nancy Pickard]

I feel rested just from reading about your puttering! It is truly so soul soothing to do as you described. I even find it so in writing. . .when all else fails, I can putter in a manuscript and it feels so good.

But the business about your lake. . .troublesome. The huge lake that Kansas City and St. Louis people frequent is The Lake of the Ozarks, which closed beaches this spring due to high concentrations of e coli.

(Thank you!)

[Nancy Pickard]

Sigh. "troublesome" was supposed to be "troubling." I should have puttered with my comment.

[judy merrill larsen]

Oh, Brunonia, I'm like Nancy, this calmed me down just reading it. I'm a putterer too--rearranging the pantry, cleaning kitchen drawers, organizing the linen closets . . . all of it, as long as it's not on a TO-DO list, relaxes me.

What a lovely post. Thanks.

[Kathy Reschini Sweeney]

I love this idea. I may start doing that in the middle of the night!

[Holly Gault]

Do you think that the puttering was even more relaxing because it is a shared house and so had more discovery going for it?

I'm so happy that you got your swim. May you have many more, anyplace.

[Laura (in PA)]

What a wonderful blog! I loved the description of your puttering, and I agree - I think the many years and different people coming and going probably made it a lot more interesting than my junk drawer.

Thanks for this - I needed my toast puttered as well. :)

[marie]

When I lived in Canada I suppose I would have puttered among the pines trees or maybe the maples.
Houses did not have formal cupboard storage so mementos if kept were precious.
Now I would guess I would be puttering among the palms in California.
Puttering at different times and geographical locations summons up different feelings.
Avoiding too much puttering around photos and old letters has not been in my daily routine. I tend to go out a lot and if I get too sappy when I look at old photos I have to explain the tears to DH. DH does not do tears very well.
Brunonia, you are masterful at drawing us into your world. Thank you very sharing this blog..it is so special.

[margaret]

I've been spending about 4 days a week @ our lake cottage, a convenient 42 minutes from my other lake home but the mental, emotional, spiritual distance is vast. I'm writing this from New Hampshire's Big Lake where the algae bloom isn't a problem but we constantly monitor the little lake for it and so far so good this year.

The Big Lake cottage has been in my husband's family for many generations and has become a depository for objects of sentiment or other value for close to a century. Whenever somebody downsized in their year-round abode, the excess was delivered to Camp. Now we find ourselves doing it, too.

At both houses I've been actively, even obsessively engaged in "productive puttering." This results in regular trips and generous donations of household items (plus, I confess, a fair number of never-ever-used wedding gifts) to the "Swap Shop" at the Town Dump, or to use the more genteel terminology, the Transfer Station.

I don't often eat toast, but I truly love putter.

[Harley]

My children returned yesterday from Nicaragua (safe and sound, except for some Stomach Issues) so my 11-day puttering streak has ended. But I've discovered a brand new puttering device, or at least new to me: roses. I can while away so much time with a pair of garden gloves, a really good clipper, and a yardful of rosebushes. I never cared about roses before, but I discovered them last year and got on a buying binge and now I can't stop clipping. It's hypnotic! And I never, ever put them on my To Do list, so it really does count.

Brunonia, I have a strange little confession: 2 days ago, while dusting bookshelves, I thought, "Risk. I've heard of it, but never played it. What IS the game of Risk, I wonder?" Perhaps on the astral plane I was reading your blog as you wrote it?

[gaylin in vancouver]

There is nothing like a good putter! I have been doing a lot of that this summer and with only 700 sq ft, that is an accomplishment.

When I was a kid it was 'you can't go in the ocean, there is a red tide'. That didn't bother me at all, I liked river swimming better anyways.

[Brunonia Barry]

I'm glad to see I'm not alone in my pursuit of puttering. We're heading back up to the lake this afternoon in hopes of more swimming. I hear it's still open. If not, I will putter away until next Thursday. I forgot to mention that puttering is also a great way to avoid working. It's especially fun when you're supposed to be writing!

[marie]

The banks of the Ottawa River in Ontario offered little strips of beach where each summer truckloads of sand would be dumped to make a beach experience.
To get into the water to swim stepping over rocks and sliding around to get into the water was an intrepid experience.
Walking down with my friends and sharing a couple of hours on the shore was great fun.
No SPF then but the sunshine was so short lived that we treasured even the sunburns.

[Karen in Ohio]

Ah, Brunonia, what a lovely way to start my Saturday. Except for the part about the algae bloom, of course. My favorite place to putter is my sewing room. I have patterns that date back to the 60's, some of which I made for my oldest daughter (who was born in 1970), and fabrics I've collected all over the US and Europe. That room always seems to need straightening, and it's very soothing to envision projects, but without actually having to do anything about them. I often find that making a list late at night calms my monkey brain and lets me finally get to sleep.

[Marie-Reine]

Brunonia, your blog brought so much to mind-- good memories and gentle thoughts of relationships. One of these was of my great-grandmother and a day we spent puttering together. I was visiting her in her old house on Lafayette Street in Salem near the college.

I had walked over from Marblehead. Yes, it is a very long walk from Crocker Park. We lived across from Mr. Hereschoff's "castle," and he had just chastised me for something... skipping school, probably. I walked over to Salem where the old Parker Brothers building let me know I was going in the right direction.

My great-grandmother was from Quebec but, like most of French family in Salem, she moved back and forth, determined to keep her identity. She also passed it along to all of us and nurtured it in any way she could. For me, that day, that meant puttering in her pantry. We spoke French, and that determined the content of our day together. I can't remember exactly what we did for puttering, but it involved food, dishes, and Canada.

We ate slices of cold pork pie, and she told me how to make it. We talked about Oka and the Cloutiers, Quebec City and Abraham Martin, and Saint-Jean-Port-Joli where all the streets have our family names-- Langlois, Chouinard, Durand, Belanger, Dube, Dupont, Ouellet, and more. I guess we puttered names and family history.

Thank you, Brononia.

[Jeanne]

Ahhhhh, Sandy. Rick loved and remembered the cupboard you puttered in (and the potato dishes). And the clock on the wall...we have one from Marblehead that must be by the same clockmaker! I have been puttering in my Inn for the past four years trying to put things in order for when we sell. My advice on the packs of cards with less than 52....toss them! Glad the algae cleared so you were finally able to go for a dip.

[storyteller Mary]

I love your making something restful and healing out of the disappointment of a closed lake -- what are we doing to our beautiful planet? The cupboard looks wonderful, just waiting to set an informal table for a loving gathering.
(My gaming friends would advise against rubber bands for games and cards -- over time rubber turns into nasty stuff stuck on the paper. I know this only because I use plasti-bands because of my latex allergy, and they commended those for their "archival" qualities).
Harley, yogurt for those stomach issues . . . and bananas. They gave us bananas in Honduras when we were sick -- I miss bananas. When traveling in those warm places, drinking coconut water straight from the coconut is a very safe and healthy hydration trick, so pure that they can even be used for i.v.s.

[kbm697]

What a skillful author you are to be able to bring us along on your vacation and have us puttering and discovering right along with you!

[Elaine Viets]

Puttering is such a relaxing pastime. Glad you could enjoy it.

[Hank Phillippi Ryan]

AH, so nice, so nice, so nice, thank you. We're not taking a vacation this summer, so thank you so much for bringing me with you.

Brunonia, the loon. Oh/ Even my study is now still.

[Brunonia Barry]

Thanks for all of the great comments. We just arrived back a the lake. It is open and everyone is swimming! To Marie Reine: My college roomate at UNH (and later in New York) was French Canadian from Manchester, NH. She used to make the best pork spread (I can't remember the name of it, so I'm going to call her today to find out). To Jeanne: So glad Rick remembers the camp, you have to come visit sometime. To storyteller Mary: thanks so much for the tip about rubber bands. I never realized! Harley, I second the idea of the bananas. It seems to work. Going for a swim now. Then I'm going to putter a bit before dinner.

[Mo]

I bet the name of the pork spread is Gorton. It is wonderful, yum yum. Ground pork butt with onions, cinnamon and cloves, slow cooked for hours down to a smooth spread. I grew up in southern NH and half my family tree is French-Canadian. We always called gorton a poor man's pate.

[Brunonia Barry]

Gorton! That's it. Very much like pate. That brings back great memories. I'm going to try to coax a recipe from my friend. I can't trade much, though. I am about a quarter French but that comes via Ireland. Half English as well, but again through Ireland. My recipes are good but limited and quite well known already. I think Gorton is a secret passed through the generations.

[Marie-Reine]

Brunonia, that's great. I am half Irish, but memere and pepere would have none of that Anglo stuff in their house! My Irish side, and they are legion, are still fighting for my identity.

My memere used to make that pork spread, but I think she called it cretons-- not sure.

I went to the summer youth music school at UNH... loved it there but was grounded the whole time for giving another camper a buzz cut. It might not have been so bad if she weren't a girl.

[storyteller Mary]

Marie-Reine, you are too funny!

[Dianne Herlihy]

Brunonia, I grew up in the French-Canadian neighborhood of Salem, MA. There are only two of us left (in the family), who still make the Gorton, oh, so delicious! I make it for my brother every Chrismas.

~ Dianne