Whatever you think of him as a person– and he seemed pretty flawed– I am fascinated by Frank Lloyd Wright. I have a DVD on his life, I’ve read Loving Frank and The Women. I’ve visited his home and studio several times; I’ve been to Taliesin in Spring Green more than once, and I’ve always longed to see Falling Water, the house Wright built for the Kaufmans, a wealthy family in Western Pennsylvania, in 1935. Falling Water, the house Wright built on top of a waterfall and into the side of a hill!

I often thought of going there and I finally got my chance with a recent business trip to Philadelphia. I ordered a house tour ticket online before I left and learned he had another home, Kentuck Knob, down the road. My plan was to take care of business in Philadelphia and then drive to Mill Run, Pennsylvania and spend a day touring these two houses. I understood the drive would be 3 ½ to 4 hours.

I picked up my rental car (lesson learned:in the future, have the rental agency show me how to work the car; I did ask if the car had a manual and the desk guy chuckled at that, as if it were a ridiculous question, and said no). At around 2:00 PM on a Thursday afternoon, I headed to Mill Run. It was an overcast day and before long it began to rain. The 3 ½ hour turned into 6 hours — somehow I got that wrong (lesson learned: do better research next time) and by the time I found my Holiday Inn hotel, I had traveled dark, hilly Pennsylvania roads, sometimes in fog with little visibility. I was thrilled to park that car, shut off the engine,check into the hotel, and call it a night. This better be worth it, I thought to myself, more than once.

Quick digression: Without that manual, I experienced an adventure of trying to figure out how to open the car’s gas cap. After a 20-minute exploration, I recruited the woman behind the counter at the gas station and she also couldn’t figure it out. Then she finally hit the gas cap cover hard with her fist and it popped open. We said to each other that we are bright women; it’s not us, it’s the car, and laughed it off.

I woke up on Friday in my Holiday Inn room to a gorgeous Autumn day. The sun was shining. The sky was bright blue and clear. I grabbed some breakfast in the hotel and got directions from there to Falling Water. It was a short drive and I found the place easily (phew).

I parked the car and started down the path to the visitor center which I began to see the closer I got. The Falling Water Visitor Center is an open one set in nature. I felt an immediate sense of Wright at work already – this visitor center is in harmony with its surroundings, a beautiful wooded area. I felt calm.

I checked in at the visitor center window and was assigned to a group that would tour the house in 10 minutes. I wandered around and went into the gift shop and café, and soon our group was called to gather for our tour. We headed down a dirt path and I caught myself, pausing in my mind, realizing and relishing that I was about to do something I’d wanted to do for years. I felt the thrill of achieving a small dream.

We walked down the road and soon there it was in full view: Falling Water, a beautiful structure standing amazingly and proudly on top of a water fall. I’ll let my photos speak to describing the place. I didn’t expect the house to be in such good condition. The house overall and its furnishings looked pretty good.  No doubt the $23 tickets and gold mine of a gift shop do much to support the place.

Traveling through the house, I could hear the sound of the waterfall in every room. I looked out of the many windows and while I was inside, I felt so much like I was outside. That was Wright’s goal and I experienced it.

The Kaufmans gave Wright a budget of $10,000 and he proceeded to spend $150,000 (imagine that amount of money in 1935!). When you signed up with Wright, it seemed you were in for a ride. I have read  about Wright’s stubbornness and insistence on having his way, and it sounds like Mr. Kaufman was equally stubborn. Oh,to have witnessed the spats between those two!

I enjoyed the house tour very much and then wandered around the grounds, taking my time. I soaked in the experience and was pretty happy with myself. Yes, the long, grueling drive was worth it. And Kentuck Knob house, a short drive down the road, is also an amazing house. It’s hard to compete with Falling Water, built into a hill on a waterfall, but Kentuck Knob has its own unique beauty, charm and Wright-ness.

I left Kentuck Knob and drove around the area, taking in the farms, the hills, and the woods in all of their colorful displays.

The drive back to Philadelphia the next day was smooth. I was stunned by the Fall colors. I have seen photographs of trees in all their Autumn glory and have wondered if the color had been artificially adjusted. I now will believe those colorful scenes because I have witnessed them. I tried once to snap a picture on my iPhone through the windshield but when the car swerved, I decided that this time, all of this Autumn beauty has to be captured in my mind.

I’ll end by adding photos of the house and hope they speak for themselves.

A (Still in Progress) Character Sketch: Dad

He was full of himself ” is how Aunt Peggy answered my question when I asked her, so what was my father really like?

John Patrick O’Shea, born in 1920 in Ballydavid, Dingle, County Kerry, Ireland. I remember Dad getting indignant when, in 1997, my husband Bill and I could not find BallyDavid on a map of Ireland. “There are two pubs and a post office!” he said with pride and as if describing a major metropolis.

John Patrick O’Shea, the fourth child of 13 children born to Patrick and Catherine O’Shea in this harsh, rural, Gaelic speaking part of the world. I say harsh because I’ve been there and experienced how the cold and the wind and the rain sometimes never let up and make you want to curl under a blanket and never come out. There was beautiful land and water for them back then, sure, but nothing to amuse — no theaters, no roller skating rinks, no swimming pools. Just beautiful fields and hills, stone walls, old houses and churches. And John had a tough father. The kids called him Hitler. there was a story about how my father and uncle Jim were goofing around and broke the plow. It was so hard to get the right piece and repairs in those days. In anger over the broken plow, Hitler threw the two of them out of the house to survive as best they could among the cliffs. This is a much told story and the details are hard to come by. Uncle Pat said he snuck food out to them. Eventually the plow was repaired and the two sons returned.

There were too many mouths to feed and there was some type of lottery system in that house that’s never been clear to me. It was a way to decide who stays in Ireland and who goes to the US. My father was to go. My Uncle Pat was to stay back but the departure day came and Uncle Jim who was on the “to go” list got sick and stayed back. Uncle Pat went in Jim’s place and I think it broke his heart to leave.

In his younger days John was tall, about 6 foot three, dark and handsome. He had lots of thick black hair. I remember he used some kind of hair pomade to keep that mop in line. He had dark brown eyes. He sang beautifully and did so in the church choir, at weddings and picnics, and very often in our living room. Mother encouraged him. Dad would make Mother a high ball and grab a Guinness for himself and these two homebodies spent many an evening together, he the entertaining singer and she the eager audience.

Born and raised on that beautiful Dingle Peninsula and having spent most of his life outside in the fields or fishing in big open boats on the waters of Dingle Bay, Dad had a hard time working inside. He gave up a factory job at Brach’s Candy and exchanged it for the outdoors as a line man for the Chicago Transit Authority (CTA).

When my father first left Ireland in the late 1940s (???), he spent a few years in England, then made his way to Pittsburgh where he stayed with an aunt at first. He then moved to Chicago and joined his brother Pat and eventually two sisters joined them. I hear Dad was a big hit at the Irish American dances where he met my mother.

In many ways my father never left Ireland. Case in point: the Irish breakfasts he cooked on Saturday and Sunday mornings, and he went all out with the sausages and bacon, eggs, black pudding and fried potatoes. He drank tea, lots of it, and strong stuff. He listened to WPA Chicago, the Irish hour radio station that I believe he helped found. He read Irish newspapers. He went to places that broadcast Irish football games.

I understood his Irish brogue and didn’t realize that it was still thick and some, including my husband, struggled to understand him. Bill admitted that on occasion when I left him alone in a room with Dad, that he felt a little anxious without me, his interpreter.

Dad grew up speaking Gaelic but we never heard that language at home in Chicago. On his only trip back to Ireland with my brother Kevin he didn’t say hello or show any affection to his brother Jim upon their arrival. No, instead he broke into Gaelic immediately and loudly, chastising Uncle Jim for not taking better care of the family house.

As a child,  I remember Dad going to work every day. The man would never call in sick. And remember, he chose that outside job which in Chicago means extreme temperatures in the summer and winter. So he was hard working all week. In the evenings he’d have his dinner, then his tea, and then either watch TV (he loved Laurel and Hardy, Red Skeleton, I Love Lucy and Mayberry RFD) or he would read.

My father loved to read, but not fiction. We used to say that Dad must have read every nonfiction book in the Edison Park Library. He especially loved adventure stories especially the ones about Shackleton and trips to the South Pole.

On Saturday mornings Dad could be a little bit like Hitler. He worked us kids hard. Chores until noon no matter what. We’d dust and vacuum, clean and rake and paint. It seemed at times he was making up jobs just to fill the time until noon.

And you didn’t dare cross him. In our house you’d get yelled at and hit if you misbehaved.

On Sundays I remember Dad in his crisp white shirt and tie. He’d have a couple of little shaving nicks on his neck or chin and he’d put a little piece of Kleenex on the red blood. He seemed to forget about those spots and go out looking like that. I remember some after shave, probably Brylcreem, a popular scent from the fifties. A devout Catholic, he never missed mass on Sundays and holidays and he made sure we didn’t either.

End of draft one…

On Tommy’s Boat

 Against the grandmother’s wishes we went.

Aboard the large wooden boat.

Gaelic-speaking fishermen all around us in rubber boots and caps.

They mostly ignored us, but no doubt were amused.

Two young American girls, perhaps a welcome distraction to the hard-working day.

 We were excited!

Savoring every moment.

This was the real deal.  An authentic fishing expedition on Dingle Bay. 

 Out on the water we went.  It was cold. The winds were strong and the waves were high.

Such a thrill to experience Uncle Tom in his element.

So very at home here on the wild sea.

 Far from the dock, the hardy, weathered men pulled in large, full nets.

Oh, what we saw! Flopping piles of fish.

We two sisters clinged to the boat, looking at each other in wonder and delight!

Water and fish all over the deck!

Eels slithering away.

Crabs running about.

 Were we in a movie?

Was this a tiny version of “The Deadliest Catch?”

But there were no TV cameras here.

Only the wild sea and these working men

Gathering their catch,

Throwing back the oddities.

We loved every moment.

Hung on every Gaelic-spoken word.

 Back at the pier our uncle told us to hold out our hands.

We did, while he hacked off the limbs of several crabs and placed the claws in our hands.  They continued to move.

“Run back to the house, “ he shouted, “and”boil these up.” 

 We ran back, fighting against the strong winds, laughing. 

To the big grey O’Shea house that was starting to feel like home.

We feasted on these delectables from the Irish Sea,

 on a day we’d never forget.

 Out to sea!  The real deal!

A Favorite Place

It’s a place I can go to in my mind. I have often had the sick thought that if I’m ever in a coma or in any state where my mind is active but my body is not, I will go there.

The Little Red Schoolhouse Nature Preserve. When I lived in Oak lawn, Illinois I went there so many times. Mostly on weekends, early in the morning 7 AM-ish. I would go there in all seasons but I especially loved the woods in winter.

I’d wake up extra early, get out of bed, quietly get dressed and head down the stairs. I’d eat a quick bite in the kitchen, throw on Bills big old down jacket, grab my coffee and head out the back door.

It was a short drive, maybe 12 minutes, down 95th St. past stores, restaurants and other closed places of business, and then suddenly I was surrounded on both sides by frozen marsh and more and more trees getting thicker as I drove on.

A left hand turn on Willow Springs Road and then, soon a righthand turn into the preserve. There were not too many cars in the parking lot at that hour. Just us few crazies.

I forgot to mention the nuts. Unsalted peanuts were stowed in the car, ready at a moment’s notice.

I place the baggie of them in my pocket and get out of the car. The grass is frozen, white tips standing upright in the early-morning light. No snow yet. Just hard frozen ground.

I make my way to the path, passing a group of birdfeeders the park ranger has put up. There is a lot of activity — cardinals, chickadees, blue jays and other birds dart here and there, from bird feeder to branch to the ground on this frigid morning.

I continue down the path to the big lake and pause. The water is mostly frozen over with open water here and there. A few ducks swim in the open spots. Most of the ducks rest on the ice, heads hidden, tucked deeply inside their feathers to keep warm.

I walk on and hear the tramp, tramp of my boots crunching on the frozen ground.

I follow the old split rail fence and walk to and through the entrance, the opening of a tall chain-link fence, and into the deep woods. The trees in here are old. At the crossroad, I turn right. I know the way well.

I proceed down the path and begin to hear it, a loud nasally insistent birdcall and this little guy is yammering away. I continue walking and my eye follows that sound to a particular tree. I see movement! A small, blue and grey clump, moving jerkily down a tree trunk. It’s an eye catching movement and one you also hear as little bird feet scrape their way down the tree.

I’ve read how this smart little guy travels downward like that on purpose to catch any delectable treats left in the bark by those traveling upward.

Now I see the second one. I always find them in pairs.

I come closer and know they have spotted me. These beautiful white breasted nut hatches with their black, gray and white markings are very familiar to me, and I to them, on these weekend winter mornings. I wish they’d recognize me, but I’m certain it’s the big blue coat they’ve come to know, and the food.

I get close to the tree with the birds. I take out the baggie of nuts, put a few in my gloved hand, hold my arm out and stand still, like a statue in the woods.

It’s extra cold this morning so this will go fast. I stand perfectly still.

In a matter of moments one of these beauties alights, grabs a nut and darts off. That’s their way. They don’t eat the night right then. I don’t see exactly where the bird goes but it seems to fly back up and tuck the nut behind a piece of tree bark.

These nuts are unshelled so I’ve saved them some work. Nuthatches get their name from jamming large nuts into tree bark and then whacking the nut with its beak as if it were a hatchet. Nut. Hatch.

That’s their job, to hatch big nuts and seeds. Mine is to stand still, nuts on flat gloved palm, and wait. I know from experience that this fluffy creature will be back shortly.

It comes back right away, or maybe this is the second one, and this time it pauses on my hand. It’s getting used to me. The bird is finding my open palm to be a safe place to land.

I just soak it all in, the wonder of this bird resting on my palm. I feel my blood pressure lower.

I stay as long as I can in the bitter cold. The pair of nuthatches return time and again, each grabbing a nut in their little beak every time. Other birds watch and some will brave the landing on the flat glove of the human bird feeder. Chickadees brave it, as does the titmouse. A woodpecker comes close but simply won’t chance it.

Soon business slows and I’m freezing. Time to close up. I put any remaining nuts on a rock nearby and continue down the forest path.

I’m still a rookie with this blog but here goes.  I wanted to say more about the weekend away.  We started at the Lighthouse Inn in Two Rivers with a good ol’ Wisconsin fish fry, I had perch and Bill had haddock with cole slaw and baked potatoes.  It was great.  Then a walk along the beach in back of the hotel.  We have stayed at the Lighthouse Inn many times, but always in winter to break up our drive to Door County, or in May for the light house fest.  We’d never been there during a summer month and I was shocked, in a good way, at the change.  The place was much livelier with people enjoying the walk in back, the beach and some rode bikes on the trail.  Insects chirped and sang loudly, making a nice summery background noise.  The moon cast its glow on the lakes’ waves.  And in one big storm cloud, lightning kept striking inside the cloud.  It was something to see — a bright lightning bolt lighting up inside a cloud.  A couple sat on a big swing outside and watched the show.  What great entertainment, I thought.

The next morning we enjoyed breakfast in the restaurant there which is perfectly set on the rocky shore of Lake Michigan — it’s quite a view to start your day.  Then we drove the short distance to Algoma and found the Ahnapee bike trail head.  We rode for an hour through farmland and wooded areas.  We stopped at a couple of parks.  It was a beautiful day with temperatures around 80 degrees.  Dragonflies accompanied me here and there.  A tiny baby rabbit darted across the path at one point.