Coal Stove Sink

At some point I realized that I had come a lot farther than I’d planned to.  First it was the signs for famous civil war battlefields, then it was when I had to stop to let an oncoming car use the one lane of a small bridge.  But I was glad I made the trip — I couldn’t have asked for a nicer experience.  My hosts were extremely generous, and took time out from their busy lives to put up with me.  The farm is wonderful, the guesthouse is beautiful, and there’s even a giant Steinway in the middle of it.  (Which I would have liked to play, but I probably wouldn’t have done it any favors).

We did have a few worrisome minutes when the new puppy disappeared during a walk through the fields next to the farm.  With the busy river on one side and the ornery-looking cows on the other, there seemed like plenty of room for a dog to get in trouble.  But she was just a puppy and had decided to go home without us.  Not bad.  My New York City-apartment dogs would have lasted for about ten minutes on a farm.

A few miscellaneous thoughts:

• I wanted to find something nice to say about artichoke bitters.  Unfortunately I can’t.
• Always bring your towel into the shower with you.
• If the bull comes at you, you’re supposed to hold your ground.  Do not run.
• There have been some amazing technological advances in the area of wood fire starting, at least since I was a kid.

Thanks again for the wonderful evening.

I just got back from a nice two day stay at the guest house. It was a lot of fun, especially for a city boy like me. Besides a nice place to rest with a very warm bed, there are numerous opportunities for outdoor adventures. Situated on a small country road, adjacent to a river, be prepared for some outside fun. Having only dress clothes, I borrowed some boots and went on an enjoyable hike along the river with the host and four dogs. The walk included seeing some abandoned houses, some cows and bulls as well as hoping over some fences, one with barbed wire! Quite an adventure for someone whose typical travel problems don’t get any worse than trying to figure out how to turn the shower on. Besides the hiking, there are also some farm animals to visit, including horses, pigs, goats, and chickens. I got to try to start a fire in the fireplace, which more or less worked.  However, the best part of the stay has to be the meals and hospitality provided by the host family. Great people, lots of fun. I hope to visit again, but this time I’m packing some more suitable clothes for the outside.

He set off in the tiny, cheap rental car in a driving rain that pounded at the windscreen like a thousand nails protesting the warm summer air. Pushing the nails side to side, the ragged wipers paced back and forth, back and forth, marching in an endless cycle waiting for some new, less ragged, rubber blades to come relieve them from their duty.

He drove out of the city, out of the park, out of the suburbs, out of the way and onto a road that seemed to stretch forever. The trees got taller, the road got narrower, the cars slowly evaporated leaving him alone on the road in is tin can with terminally ill windshield wipers. The clouds ominously darkened as he drove — deep into the west — the rain pounded harder, harder, harder; the wipers wiped faster, faster, faster — until suddenly — the rain gave up.

It won.

He turned off the road onto a narrow winding street enclosed cavernously by thick foliage. Strewn about the street were casualties from the weather — branches and leaves everywhere like it had been snowing plants.

The car limped up the narrow drive to a brick house that sat comfortably on a hill, surveying tree limbs scattered around it. As it crept to a halt, a collection of dogs sauntered over, barking gently, partly concerned for the driver but also curious if he brought food for them.

There was nothing tasty in the car.

Immediately losing interest, the canine court dispersed as he trudged from the car into the quiet, no, silent estate, up the hill onto a boardwalk occupied by the Host. As he walked, his feet left their best impressions in the path to the house. Invited in, he looked down when he failed to politely remove his shoes, noticing they were fifteen steps behind him clinging to the muddy drive. They’ll catch up, he thought, in due time.

“Power’s out.”

He was shown the guesthouse — a brilliant cabin, inviting and cozy with fixtures for a luxury estate, some chimeric like the Coal Stove Sink. Secretly, the piano that sat in the middle of the room filled it with implicit music sight-read directly from the books shelved on the wall. He smiled.

They took advantage of the break in weather and broke a path to the river with aimless comfort out of a Twain novel — a grown Huck and Tom let the quiet river flow past them, carrying away the conversation with aid from what they drank.

After some time and a blur of events, they had dined and drunk their way to playing pirate.

Yo Ho!

Mount Gay Rum on the high seas of forest and grass! Sailing through a storm and taking over the needless immediacy of the city, far away; looting worry and leaving comfort. The crew of the ship was on top — of the waves, of their marked ships, of their worries, of needless concern, and of tomorrow. Surrounded in the spoils of their enterprise, the pirates looked at the bottom of the bottles and heaps of treasure, feeling fulfilled.

Accomplished, he retired, with spoils of the evening, to his stately quarters surrounded by soft implicit music rocking him to sleep, those chimeric fixtures and a peaceful slumber — a stay in what was exactly everything the city is not. A repose.

I have slept in the mountains; slept in the swamps; slept in the Black Forest; and slept in more than one dessert. Rain and shine, hot and cold, in bed or on the ground, but until now I have never slept in the secret place. After a long night filled with wholesome discussions added by libations, the bed in the woods, on that cold night, became a welcome haven. There is rest for the weary and wicked.

For an adventurer, the guesthouse offers the conveniences of nature without the explicit dangers of the wild. As someone who spends many nights in tropical forest resting on nothing but a sleeping pad, every bed seems welcome. However, a bed in the guesthouse comes complete with a gem of a host and hostess, so be ready for good conversation and company. Close enough for a quiet car ride to DC (outside of rush hour), this nice spot is a vast upgrade for the sprawling Hilton downtown where I usually stay at. I would recommend a few nights there for anyone who likes nature, bourbon, and stories of computer security and robotics…

Wes

Imagine waking up too late, and it is raining, then you miss the train, and your umbrella breaks. And that report is not due next week but tomorrow. You forgot your lunch and eat something from a vending machine. Returning home at night, imagine the grime of the construction site next to your home, and the wrappers and cans left on the lawn. And somebody turns on the radio but you can only hear the drum and the humming of voices.

No, none of that.

Instead, imagine waking up in peace, sunshine filtering in, a wagging dog prowling around outside, the horses just awake, too, a bit further off down towards the smoking river where cows occasionally take involuntary baths as they try to  find their way back to their side of the fence. In the kitchen, coffee, breakfast, and a gem of a host, reading his email. A bath after breakfast, but no cows that time. Then off, ah, you wish you could stay longer.

Markus Jakobsson

It was a warm Sunday morning in the spring of 2010.  G fed us up on very good eggs hollandaise, thank you, then led us to the cabin.  We were a large crowd for a small cabin, eight of us, our hosts, the boys, Gilda and I, and Maddie McKelway and her father.  A ninth presence, ominous and scowling, the Steinway grand on which G’s grandfather had practiced for his boyhood debut at Carnegie hall towered in the middle of the room.

Maddie, a friend of the family, a fellow student at school with the boys, and the daughter of a very nervous father, was to play pieces from her recent piano recital.  The little cabin fell very quiet as she sat down at the giant seeming Steinway.  Would it grow stubborn, tighten up its keys and strings?  Would Maddie grow cold, stiff, frightened?    I could hear here father’s nerves ticking.  I could hear the tiny mouse in the wall nibbling his tiny breakfast.  Of weed seed?  Of wood mites?  Of the rust on nails?  What do they nibble on?  I could hear the small breathes of all the assembled crowd.  I could hear his nerves ticking.

The silence before serious music in serious concert halls has about it a cough or sneeze making facility.  Is pre-music silence even louder in even smaller venues such as the cabin?  It was silent in the cabin.  For Maddie’s sake, please, may no one sneeze, cough or make other unauthorized bodily noises. May the mouse remain mouse-quiet.  May lightening not strike nor thunder roll.  May her father’s nerves quiet down.

Maddie was calm.  Maddie was at peace.  She was all youth, beauty and charm.  She was not nervous.

As we all know from our lifelong intimate studies of the brain, it is a big thing.  It’s bigger than from here to Awxiphaniz.  I’ve always liked words with A’s, X’s and Z’s in them together.  I like syzygy.  I wish my name were Axel.  The brain is big and it rambles.  It’s like a giant sponge in that it has millions of holes in it.  In each of these holes, or chambers, there are throngs of little people yelling at each other in as many different languages as there are people.  In other chambers little people rehearse the things that might trip us up, such as coughs and sneezes in small concert halls where pretty girls are about to play Scarlatti and Beethoven, Grieg and Pieczonka, Grenados and Debussy.  In other brain chambers are little mice practicing their squeaks.  And all manner of noises are being practiced all over the terrain of the brain.  May they not erupt this morning.   May Maddie have peace.

The Steinway relaxes and spreads welcoming arms.  Maddie plays.  She plays very well indeed, fistfuls of fingery notes that would make a father nervous.  She is, or appears to be, all serenely confident.  She is all lovely, lovely and makes all present oldsters hanker for the days of their youth.

Then Gilda coughs.  She cannot help it.  Up goes the hand across the mouth, up springs the good lady and rushes out the door, red in the face, embarrassed.Maddie does not flinch.  Her father does not panic.  All is well, Maddie plays on, her recital is a great success, and all the assembled crowd, and the Steinway, have had a nice morning.  The eggs hollandaise rest peacefully in us.  Gilda returns quiet and forgiven.

Thank you, Maddie.

Decades down the road, when the little mouse in the wall is sleeping the long sleep in a nutshell half, when the boys are in Rome, or Paris, or Silicon Valley, or New York making computers that are half the size of a mote of dust and twice as powerful as the sun, when a wizened A and a wizened G, she in a long shawl trimmed in lace made by that little lace maker in the cathedral square in Salamanca, he in a halo of white hair and dentures that slip and gurgle, their hands held out to the bright warmth of remembered days, then perhaps, if they listen with inward ears as they sit in the sweet darkness that is forever descending, they will hear flow out from the cabin walls and floors and ceiling all the notes of all the instruments that have every been played in the cabin, and there among them will float up Maddie’s Bach and Debussy, and the small squeak of the small mouse which A and G had not heard before.

Ken Allen

Maybe it’s the new bathroom… Maybe it’s the long talks on the front porch… Maybe it’s the strong coffee and fresh eggs… Nah, it’s that Republicans are now welcome. It’s not always been that way, but in this end of 2010 with political compromise – it’s time for a Republican to reach across the aisle on one more issue.

A bit of history is in order – it’s not always been so friendly for a Republican to venture a stay at the guesthouse. In guesthouse 1.0, it was down-right dangerous. See, it’s the dog: Skittle [ed: that would be Skillet]. He hates Republicans or at least mistakes us for fire hydrants or his favorite tree. My first stay at the guesthouse was marked by my “being marked” by Skittle [ed: still Skillet]. The host’s reply was simply, “He hates Republicans.” Now, I am from the People’s Republic of Massachusetts, but remember that we recently elected Mr. Brown to replace Mr. Kennedy.

As you might imagine, I came down to visit guesthouse 2.0 (with bathroom) with much trepidation (and my rain boots). In the spirit of political compromise, I was ready to let bygones be bygones, but I was not so certain about Skittle’s position [ed: Skillet is all grown up now and has become a Libertarian Lab]. Gladly, he too was wrapped up in the spirit of compromise and my boots and worries were unnecessary.

Besides the air of political tolerance, there were generous portions of polenta and pork roast, tequila samples (or was it rum … well you get the idea), and a couple of indescribably delicious mixed drinks. You know, I can remember all of the food and the walk out to the bridge, but I cannot recall the business reason that took me there in the first place – must have been a great visit.

Here is one of the songs recorded in the guesthouse in June 2004 in preparation for going to the studio. Tuscon Tonight is on the sketches CD called “House of Cards.” Unfortunately we never made it into the studio to get this work finalized.

All told, we have written, hooked up, practiced and sketched 5 CDs in the guesthouse before heading into the studio to record them with professional help.

Coal Stove Sink? Guesthouse? Definitely some fancy pants naming going on! When I first spent a weekend at “Coal Stove Sink,” it was more like an extra attic storage area than an upscale country cabin. Not that I’m complaining – other than my very own bed in my very own home, it’s my favorite place to stay!

If this guestbook had begun several years ago, I would have been posting semi-annually with stories of music, merriment and the excellent cooking and bar-tending of the host. As it is, I’ll attempt to distill some of the highlights.

Said highlights definitely center around attempts to transform “Coal Stove Sink” from a storage shed littered with boxes filled with blankets, duplo (you know, the giant lego pieces made for toddlers), cassette tapes, miscellaneous computer parts from the 1980s, etc. into a “state of the art” (or “state of the host’s and guest’s budgets”) music recording studio.

Here are some of the ways the host and I have collaborated to get our signature sound:

Sipping Mount Gay Rum – Extra Old.

Placing the mandolin player at the top of a seven foot step-ladder in order to capture the proper balance of room reverberations, raindrops on the roof, cicadas in the trees, and yard-care machinery.

Enlisting the help of the host’s son to create extremely nuanced song-endings involving the squawking of chickens – ok, they weren’t the real chickens, but rather the musicians imitating the chickens that live in the other corner of the yard.

Sipping Mount Gay Rum – Extra Old.

Occasionally, adding Absinthe followed by a power crash until 4pm.

Post-midnight banter including quotes by Malibu Barbie and Mylie Cyrus.

Adding a room mic by hanging it from one of the rafters (used to be bare wood, now painted a tasteful cinnabar to offset the “Coal Stove Sink”).

Sipping Mount Gay Rum – Extra Old.

Sipping Mount Gay Rum – Extra Old.

Lots of guidance and traffic directing by band-mates during the recording of takes . . . “for God’s sake, come back in!”

Breaks to play in the open-air by the river.

Breaks to sip beverages while sitting in the river.

Spending hours upon hours upon hours playing, sipping, laughing, sipping and playing to get that certain “je ne sais quoi” that can only be captured in “Coal Stove Sink.”

Sipping Mount Gay Rum – Extra Old!

Even though the list could go on for pages, I’ll wrap things up by saying “Coal Stove Sink” no longer resembles an extra attic storage area. With the addition of the plumbing, the shower, the paint job and the general sprucing up, it’s now clearly worthy of being called a guesthouse. Perhaps when I’m feeling fancy pants, I’ll even bring myself to calling it Coal Stove Sink.

If you get a chance to stay there, try listening very carefully – you may even hear the faint echos of chickens, cicadas, or a mandolin being played seven feet up in the air!

– RS