Shortest day of the year

Less

time

to

rain!

Up on the rooftop...

I haven't made a roof report for several days. In my defense, there has been no sun in several days, and gloomy pictures do not make me happy.

Nevertheless, I went back out this afternoon.

This is for John Grey, who was feeling a little Bah Humbugy this  morning. He may be over it by now; morning was seven hours ago in Wales.

This lighted Christmas display has been on this house for the entire twenty five years I've been driving by.

This year the house is for sale.

I wonder if Merry Christmas...Bah Humbug is in the contract.

I've not had the heart, day after day, to post pictures of these fellows up on the roof.

Our temps still should be above freezing.

Obviously, not. 

In the morning they take off the tarps protecting the next day's work area and sheets of ice come down!

I know the flashing is copper, as are the little "dialogue boxes." The men call them "angels"; they are a guard to break up sliding snow.

All the copper will blend in when it acquires its patina, but for now it's rather showy.

The device in the picture had me stumped, so I took a crash course on slate roofs. 

It may be a soldering iron.

What to do with five to seven inches of snow

Same expected  tomorrow.

Be careful what you wish for

Long, long before I moved to Boston, with the Village of Peninsula in it, a visionary moved into the Village. A rich, architectural designer visionary. He surveyed the shambles of a formerly thriving canal and railroad town, spotted many architectural gems, and set about saving them. He considered himself the hero he might have been, had his ego been smaller and his love of community larger.

He passed away four or five years ago, and left all his holdings to be administered and perpetuated by a foundation, The Peninsula Foundation. It is worth a trip through the web site to see how much of the village the foundation owns, and has removed from the tax rolls through historic easements. This means all the other residents of Peninsula pay to plow the streets.

Designation of the downtown area of Peninsula as an historic district, too, probably did more harm than good. Not that not paying taxes for services is a good thing, by inference. There are so many restrictions on the area that innovation didn't come. Modern services like sewer and water never penetrated the village. Other than that, a lovely place.

I have a history with one building in town, the Wood Store. It is a building renovated by the architectural visionary, and, if you haven’t clicked over to the Foundation’s page, here are before and after pictures.

The pictures of the restored Wood Store above was taken when my friend Kathleen, from The Crooked River Herb Farm,  had her shop in the Wood Store, when I began as township clerk. I helped her there for several years, until, like much of Peninsula’s downtown, the rents exceeded her budget, and she moved on. In fact, the picture of the restored building was during her time. Her large shop sign hung from a bracket that is part of the lamp standard. Apparently it was taken down for the picture.

I took my camera the other day to the Wood Store. I wanted to take some pictures of the sandstone interior wall, and tell you about adventures like a flash flood that came through the wall one June evening, years ago, and the shop vac I sped home to grab and help stem the tide. The store currently is leased to another shop, LeSeraglio. The shop, billing itself a fair trade importer, previously was down the street, and I shopped there.

The windows, lovely for displaying lots of goods.

The sandstone wall of infamy. Leaks like a sieve on a good day, and can't stop a flood.

For several years I've had a problem with the store. The Wood Store is a beautiful example of 

Western Reserve Greek Revival style architecture.

The last tenant, a furniture store, was permitted, by the Foundation, to put up that horrid structure over the sidewalk. Since its construction I think of the Foundation's visionary founder, and picture him spinning.

But as I walked up the steps to go in and take pictures, I saw what is really wrong.

There is a long bracket on the lamp standard to hang any sign, LeSeraglio included.

But, they have BOLTED a very large bracket INTO THE TREE to hang their sign.

The principles were not on premise. I declined the clerk's offer of baklava, took pictures, left.

The next day I brought the bracket to the attention of the Foundation by email.

No reply.

I mentioned it to the Mayor of Peninsula, who signs off on all zoning variances.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's their tree."

I picture the spin attaining supersonic speed and delivering the Foundation's founder like a wrathful god onto Main Street.

In any case, my money won't go there.

A weekend on the tree lot

When I drop Emily at work on Saturday or Sunday, I drive up the hill and drop her at the barn, ready to work. At night I wait for her in the "Employee Parking Only" field at the bottom of the hill. At night a constant stream of cars goes up the hill and comes down with trees on top. 

But last weekend Aunt Beth and Uncle Bill went for a tree. I got right on board for a first hand view of  what it takes to man a Christmas tree lot. Or child labor it, as the case may be. Heritage Farms has jobs for any teen who wants to work.

Cut your own. "We give them a sled and a saw and tell them what field to use. If they come back with a tree we didn't tag in the fall, it's a two hundred dollar tree." OK, then, there are rules! And a lot of fun, too.

Trees everywhere! By the barn.

Beside the house.

On the front lawn, lashed to stakes that held the corn maze only six weeks ago.

The "shaker". It shakes the snow and loose needles from the tree by vibrating it mightily.

The "baler". The trunk of the tree goes in the large end and comes out the front, the tree wrapped tightly in mesh. I watched the boys reach in and grab one or two fist fulls of branches (technique) to bring  the tree through. 

We arrive, and see Emily finishing up her last sale. (The ground was frozen at 8:30 in the morning, by the way. A lot of feet have tromped through in the subsequent seven hours.)

She sees us.

This way, Uncle Bill. The Fraziers are right over here.

(Yes, blue in Caroline's hair.)

The tree is selected, shaken, baled, a receipt written. To the total amazement of one (at least) cousin, Emily shoulders the tree, takes it to the car. Up, up and away, she hoisted it to the roof.

And commenced tying it down from the roll of twine in her back pocket. She has her very own pocket knife, too.

This was a favorite picture and I thought I lost it! Caroline and Francis (behind Emily) studying technique. Emily has just made a knot she can use to pull the twine through and get good tension against the tree. Francis demands the knot's name. "I don't know. I learned it. I do it. Next customer, please."