Category Archives: architecture

Oct19

we live here…

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Bitch, please…I grew up in Detroit. For those of you who are not familiar, or accept the cultural collective’s jokes and voodoo euphemisms of Detroit, you’re missing out. Detroit is the heart and soul of America. It is fu@king awesome. Go. Stay in the New Center area and spend a couple days at the Detroit Institute of Arts. Drive around and take in some of the most spectacular historical architecture in the United States. You won’t see it all in that time, but enough to enjoy yourself enormously and appreciate it’s beauty and world-class culture.

Then take yourself “up north.” This is where I have lived the past 40 years. Let me tell you a bit about how I came here, and why I stay.

My father grew up on a farm outside of Traverse City, where my Irish ancestors had immigrated and settled during the potato famine. About to enter high school, his father moved the family to Detroit during the automobile boom. And so I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit and often visited my great-grandparents and aunts and uncles on Long Lake, west of Traverse City, in the summer months. By the time I was in my early twenties I would spend as much time as possible here, staying with my great Aunt Edith, my grandfather’s sister, in the old farmhouse out on Cedar Run Road. My young son had baths in the big iron sink after I pumped water from the well and heated it – on the stove I’d built a fire in. I would put on one of my great grandmother’s old house dresses, crank up the Victrola, and dance around the living room…romantically imagining I lived in a simpler time…way back when. Until Aunt Edith became impatient with my immature fantasies and reminded me that we had no trash pick up or mail delivery – and I needed to get my arse in gear. Those errands were not going to do themselves.

I have about a million and thirty stories I could tell that depend on the geography of both places, and all around the Great Lakes. There is nowhere else like Michigan on earth. And while it is great, not all of my childhood was great. I came from a big dysfunctional family that often settled differences with fist fights and spent years stubbornly not speaking to one another, depending on the current offensive issue. This blog is full of many – by no means all, of those stories, from day one, back in 2012. That was when I began to write as though my life depended on it, not knowing how true that was.

The move from Detroit to Traverse City was purposefully to get my child away from my family, and their drug and alcohol-induced violence. To be safe. To start over. It was the naive plan of a young woman suffering from PTSD, not yet aware of her ADHD, her mental and emotional limitations. It didn’t work. Not only did I not escape my own demons, but my family members were inspired by my new life and followed me. Over the course of the next few years they all moved north, too.

We live here now. Now I actually live about 50 miles west of Traverse, near the shore of Lake Michigan. My son grew up here. We have both traveled some; enough to know this is home. But home has come to mean an internal space for me as I age. It’s funny, the name of this blog…a painterly home. I thought it would be about interior design. Little did I know it would be about interior design – as in, my spiritual interior. There are so many more stories to unpack and share. I’m grateful beyond words for this journal and your readership. It continues to save my life on a weekly basis.

Today I am grieving as my sweet familiar, Chewy, is dying. I’m not ready to lose him. Many of you know that I had two elderly dogs I cherished when Chewbacca the cat came to live with us. I was asked if I could please help out a friend and foster him for a couple of months about 8 years ago. What a blessing he has been. He fit right in with the dogs, becoming immediately inseparable from my little beagle, Odie. I’ve written other posts about them, of course (see Sept. 9, 2025, Chew de Monk). I never would have chosen these silly names for these magnificent beings. But they were already displaced and going through enough adjustment to impose any others unnecessarily. For starters, Chewy became known as a catdog. He did not know that he wasn’t a dog. Since we lost Odie in 2020, Chewy has seldom left my side. Like the dogs, he feels it is his duty to be constantly underfoot. He follows me from room to room. He insists on touching while we sleep, just as he did with Odie; he extends one of his back legs and pushes it against my thigh. I will aver that he understands English perfectly. All of it. Only an hour or so ago I mentioned out loud that I would give him a bit more liquid and medicine in the syringe again, hoping he can rally. He begrudgingly pulled himself up and walked the few steps to his water fountain and took the first drink he has had in two or three days.

Yesterday doesn’t count. We spent the day at the emergency clinic while he got IV liquids, a warm enema, pain and diabetes meds, in an attempt to save him. We came home last night exhausted. He has barely moved and still isn’t eating. I haven’t given up. I keep telling him that I won’t ever give up on him, and that if he can pull through this I will do everything in my power to improve the quality of his life. I’ve promised new toys. I also told him that if he is too tired he is free to go. I will miss him every day for the rest of my life, and I will remember daily all the joy he brought. Rejoice at the thought of he and Odie together again. Still in a magnificently beautiful place, with all the loves that I don’t know how to live without.

Sep21

until now

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“Enough is abundance to the wise.” – Euripedes

Do you have enough? That is a different computation for each individual; surely we know this much. I am struggling financially in the later years of my life, now moreso than ever. My friends are concerned and petition me to sell my house, invest that equity for some security in the event, or inevitability, of illness. Of the need for long term care. And no, I am not showing signs of dementia – not yet, anyway! My recent doctor’s exam revealed that I am much stronger than most women my age. I’ll take it. I’ve slowed down, and once you do that it’s difficult to get back to your previous pace. I’ve come to terms with that, as I have with my financial limitations.

In a recent post I talked about denial, but I don’t believe that is this. I think, I meditate, I read and study upon my circumstances; I cannot muster a sense of poverty. The bank account, the numbers, say I’m poor by whatever standards economists measure. I don’t feel poor. In fact, quite the opposite. I feel abundant, blessed, overwhelmingly grateful. My body does not seem to harbor any fear. At least not at this time. That could change, certainly…let’s not plan for it. Let’s not project fear, or False Evidence Appearing Real. Let’s not make shit up.

Just this week I heard Elizabeth Gilbert quote an acronym I’m adopting as my new motto: PAUSE: Perhaps An Unseen Solution Exists. Or as the Mad Hatter (or was it Alice?) would advise: always leave room for magic. Carolyn Myss, one of the most respected Christian mystics of our time, would say: always leave room for God. This attitude toward life has been serving me well thus far for over 70 years now. Maybe there is something to it.

Would I like more? You betcha I would. More money to live on and share, more security, less stress. More room to paint and more paints. More flowers in the yard….”more.” “Of what, Eeyore?” asked Pooh. “Everything…” But do I have enough? I do, indeed.

Am I willing to give up my peace of mind and embrace fear? Nah. It’s not my style. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, this morning I found this to share with you. A beautiful artist and writer walks us through her home, built for “every open soul that finds it’s way here.” This 12 minute video has so motivated me. I’m up on the step ladder, singing to the music playing, painting my living room and rearranging all the furniture this weekend, while soup simmers on the stove. It is making me so darn happy. My home, my sanctuary, my altar, my endless source of beauty and inspiration.

May our open souls always find their way, regardless of our circumstances. May we always know we are loved. And may we always know we have enough. Thank you for being here.

Sep3

home is a many-layered thing…

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First journal? Scrapbook? We were kids when we started, eh? With a diary in grade school. So, for me that was the 1950’s. Although I was drawing as soon as I could hold a pencil (per my mother), magazine tear sheets wouldn’t come into being until I was in high school in the 60’s. But once I discovered magazines a whole new world opened up, quite literally. The world became a much smaller place once it was delivered to the mailbox.

It began with Seventeen. Barbie grew up and dressed in Betsy Johnson. But it wasn’t long before art and shelter magazines like Metamorphosis and Architectural Digest and Rolling Stone broadened my horizons. And then The Sun.

Suddenly my life was too small. I couldn’t wait to leave the boring suburbs for real life in the city. Little did I know…I wouldn’t get too far too fast, probably a good thing. Family kept me close and I set aside the acceptance letters to RISD and Parsons and New York School of Design for Wayne State and Center for Creative Studies, known then as Arts and Crafts. It was across the street from the fabulous and inspiring DIA, to this day one of the best art museums in the country. It was my familiar stomping ground as I would often skip high school (I still got A’s & B’s) to spend the day roaming the galleries, dreaming and sketching. Other days you’d find me on the 13th floor of the J.L. Hudson Company, moving from vignette to vignette in the furniture and design department, imagining what I would do with that room.

It had never occurred to me that I would be anything but an artist or a writer. It wasn’t what I did; it was who I was. Fast forward five+ decades and I look back, longingly some days. At the life I sidestepped somehow, too young married and mothering and clambering for survival. The demons were lurking in the shadows, fighting amongst themselves for attention. They were not to be ignored. In retrospect, I wouldn’t trade any of it – but that realization happened just the other day. It’s a process, like me. I’ll have to keep you posted as to when I solidify.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (has that euphemism become old?!) some things have not changed much. I’m still obsessed with art and music and design. As I said, it is who I am. I was born this way. That’s why I keep insisting that you cannot miss your purpose. You don’t need to search for it; God hardwired it in. You can miss the option of different vocations – but your purpose is not a job. It’s who you are. It’s your calling. And spirit – your spirit – will nudge you toward happiness and fulfillment ceaselessly. Every day every day every day. You will realize yourself one way or another, sooner or later. And you will relax into being. You are whole. And holy. Right here, right now. Try to enjoy yourself already.

Aug15

“you’re messy & you talk too much…”

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Terribly neglected, Catlips woke me at 4:30. His bowl was empty. I gave him a quick little spit of his soft food, hit the loo, and headed back to bed. His highness let me sleep until after nine. That felt luxurious. I love waking naturally when my body has decided it is done dreaming for the night. That is one of the greatest pleasures of no longer getting up for work every morning, and I do not take it for granted.

Another of life’s greatest pleasures is coffee. Admittedly, I am an addict. I began drinking coffee around the age of 4 or 5, when I would beg my parents to share this magic elixir. Watered down with lots of cream and sugar I suppose, I was immediately hooked. Anyone who knows me knows that I wish everything tasted like strong coffee…maybe with some milk, hold the sugar. As I used to order it, “blonde and bitter – like me.” Since my hair is white now I can no longer get away with that.

But lately, ill with pancreatitis after passing gallstones, I have not been able to enjoy coffee. I haven’t been able to enjoy much actually. This morning I am feeling better and I am having a cup of coffee. The morning is sunny and cool, the cat sleepy, and life is good. Splendid, in fact.

And I am going to enjoy my coffee while indulging in my not-so-secret guilty pleasure of watching house tours. Bed ridden and searching for entertainment this past month, I’ve been down the interior design rabbit hole. Three weeks ago one of my favorite YT channels featured a writer’s home. I love anything to do with books and writers. Enter the bestselling author, Mary Kay Andrews, “Queen of the Beach read”, as she’s known. She doesn’t drink coffee, but I guess I like her anyway.

I’ve now read 3 of her novels in the past couple of weeks. She is not a literary giant like my favorite authors, Joan Didion and Toni Morrison. But she isn’t trying to be like them; and admirably, she’s a savvy businesswoman. Her stories contain some history and mystery, yes, but are also given to include romance. Romance doesn’t interest me, but we’ll forgive her that also, shall we? They are quick, easy reads, well written and enjoyable when I’m unable to concentrate and need short increments of distraction. But her home, well…that is another story. I’m obsessed.

Now I follow her on IG also. Of course she is a thinking woman, which to my mind means politically liberal. Outspoken and so creative. She reminds me of my southern Mimi, my maternal grandmother, who had a fabulous sense of style. And also of my Mom who had a great wit, such a warm smile, and curly red hair all her life. Mary Kay Andrews and I are the same age. Both animal lovers. Jesus wants her to have nice things. She’s been told she’s messy and she talks too much. Ditto. Let’s not even talk about our china hoarding issues. She speaks my language; we have a lot in common. And I am enchanted by her humor, taste and charm. Unbeknownst to her, she just might be my new best friend.

Find Mary Kay on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/marykayandrews/

And we both have a problem with aunts. Those darn judgey aunts…I don’t usually like commercials – but this one is hilarious!

Mar18

Facing East…

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So, I’m home. And I am wanting to experience the full meaning of that. Whoever said, “Home is heaven for beginners” got it. It means the world to me. It is truly my sanctuary. Please allow me a little artistic indulgence today as I am still resting up…

I remember house hunting years ago with my then husband, and our realtor was a long-time friend of his. Which meant they were a) men, and b) a generation older than me. Anyway, I could list a thousand reasons why we weren’t on the same page. My criteria was like science fiction to them. For starters, the front door needs to face east. What kind of trees are on the property? Don’t show me another house without windows in the bathrooms. Not skylights – operable windows. “It’s an energy thing.” That’s also why the kitchen sink is under a window, always. Nothing contemporary, thank you. Nope; no tri-levels (that was a real stumbling block…) Needless to say I usually ended up doing some remodeling. It was far more important to me than to him.

The home I’m in now is my very least favorite style, MCM (mid-century modern.) Maybe because I grew up in the 50’s and 60’s. It was just everywhere. I have no use for it whatsoever. But this was the right house, at the right price, in the right place at the right time. Most of the original features had already been stripped out here, but the basic architecture is still apparent. I can live with the wide prow of the roof overhang and the expansive glass window walls. I won’t remove any of the remaining features; I’m decidedly against bastardizing a homes’ original architecture unless you have the means to take it to the studs and rebuild in another style altogether. No hybrid architecture for the most part. So I will also live with the open floor plan and the sandstone fireplace wall for now, although I did paint it.

It means that my beloved crystal chandelier remains in it’s packing, and my traditional English country decor gets thrown into an eclectic mix of old and new, at least for now. I do have a lot of avocado and chartreuse, my favorite colors. Actually, I like any color. As long as it’s green.

Butter Wakefield’s London townhouse is my inspiration. Black, white, green all day long, please. With some bright red-orange scattered about…how delightful! Although, I wouldn’t have the grey walls of the sitting room. I’m about to paint my interior walls my go-to favorite of the last few decades: Benjamin Moore’s Mystical Powers. It’s a soft off-white that reads a warm blush pink in certain light. Pink is the forgotten neutral. I’ve been waiting all winter to be able to open the windows and have fresh air and a fresh palette.

Dec14

Gloria!

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“If we are lucky not to be displaced by war or poverty, the places we live are like bird’s nests.” – Gloria Steinem

I have long since lost count of how many times I have moved. Here’s a confession few know about me: I have been married four times. Three husbands, four marriages. All four ended in divorce. My first husband was a high school boyfriend. My parents had agreed to send me to boarding school after I threatened to run away – and I did so one summer. I managed to hide out for a couple of weeks in friend’s basements before a friend’s mother agreed to intervene on my behalf. By the age of 15 I couldn’t live at home any longer. I instinctively knew the situation was abusive, although it would be decades before I even began to unravel that situation.

I was 18 the first time I got married, and it only took a few months to figure out that my husband had a drug problem, and a few more months to realize there was nothing I could do about it. So I went “back home” to my parents, but only for a few awful days before finding a girlfriend I could rent a room from. And I never looked back, although I did go back again and again to pack up my younger siblings one by one and move them out. Not soon enough, of course, as the damage was done. Scrambling for survival myself, a safe place to sleep was all I had to offer.

By the third time I got married in my forties, I was no longer enduring physical or sexual abuse. That marriage would also prove intolerable, and not once, but twice. To this day we are still friends, and to this day he yet fails to comprehend any responsibility in it’s failing. As he so often said, we didn’t have a problem. I had a problem. As it happened, he was right, and my problem had a name.

The first fifty years of childhood are the hardest. I survived them by being scrappy. For the first 3 decades of living on my own I was able to find decent work, and when an emergency or large expense threatened my housing and independence, I would supplement my meager income by selling off family heirlooms, primarily beautiful antique furniture. I wish I could have kept it. Only a few small momentos still exist.

But this way of life (which I am only grateful for) leaves it’s scars. One of mine seems to be a deep, simmering grief for the home – THE home – that I have never known. It is truly all I’ve ever wanted for. A home of my own. Safe. Clean. Beautiful. A nest. Perhaps that is why I have always been fascinated by bird nests?!

In October of 1990, House and Garden magazine published an article by Gloria Steinem about her newly decorated NYC apartment, ‘Ms. Steinem on the Home Front.’ I still have that magazine. Somehow weird items have survived all the relocations…but in truth, this article made my heart sing. It has continued to inspire me all these years.

This morning, the 12th of December, 2024, I opened my YouTube feed and found this story. Gloria Steinem talking about her home of 58 years. I am watching through tears. If I had no other inspiration at all, Gloria would be enough.

Oct14

an artist lives here…

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Okay, well. As a general rule I do not like anything modern. Give me cabbage roses and old wicker any day. Maybe because I was born in the 1950’s and lived in a chaotic household? I am not knowing. Modern, contemporary, mid-century architecture and interior design gives me the willies. Like fingernails on a blackboard. But here is an entirely modern home filled with colorful art, and I quite like it.

In the interest of curiosity, and to challenge my creative limitations, I watch videos like I used to read shelter magazines, and still do read design books: I imagine myself in the space. I walk around, sit, sip, and relax myself with the use of my imagination. I learn a lot this way, both about how spaces can work, and even about myself. It’s what artists do…

But truth be told, while I can appreciate much about Margo Selby’s home, I’d be much more comfortable living in something more traditional. I will always be grieving the loss of Julia Reed, even though I did not know her. I loved her books and her attention to detail. She was a friend of the late Furlow Gatewood and wrote a gorgeous book about his houses, One Man’s Folly. She called her NOLA apartment her cabinet of curiosities. Whatever, wherever, however you make your home, take this tip from Julia: surround yourself with the things that make you happy.

One Man’s Folly by Julia Reed, https://amzn.to/3zYI3gn The House on First Street, by Julia Reed, https://amzn.to/3U67LXg

Sep10

vernacular, vernacular, vernacular

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Renowned American architect and best selling author Gil Shafer takes us along to his vacation retreat in Maine. Shafer is known for his reverence to the historical beauty of traditional east coast style. I grew up in a Cape Cod cottage on water, and it would be decades before I acknowledged it’s profound effect on my psyche. I agree with Gil Shafer when he says, “you live differently in different places.”

Here he took the existing building, which he bought for the setting itself, and worked with it’s less than ideal structure by embracing it’s strengths. I relate to this approach as I, too, live in a mid-century cottage which I bought because of it’s location and setting, known as the vernacular. Mid-mod, as it’s called for short, is my least favorite style of architecture. It’s right up there in my book with overhead lighting and open concept floor plans – which is to say that I have absolutely no use for it at all. In my book it’s in the chapter titled What Were They Thinking?

Mid-Mod is experiencing a huge revival. But then, ya know, America is simultaneously experiencing the dumbing down of our culture and the fall of our empire. I’ll leave you to draw the obvious parallels. You might have heard me say “meanwhile, back at the ranch…” because, let’s face it, mid-mod IS a form of ranch, neither offering much architectural interest. They sprung up in the building boom of post war industrial America for a reason, mainly that it was fast and cheap to build. Think plywood. That’s one of the reasons it was popular in the deserts of the southwest – it’s termite resistant. Then all of a sudden some opportunist decided it’s a “style” and set about convincing us that it’s desirable.

That said, my little home is well built. It was constructed of brick and concrete in the year 1955. The scoundrel I bought it from (NOT Gil Shafer) was in the process of flipping it, and buying it unfinished made it affordable to me. However, he had purchased it from the estate of the builder’s deceased wife and proceeded to gut it, taking out most of the original features. Now it’s a sad no-style-at-all house. And I absolutely love it, albeit primarily for the views. Though much smaller and humbler than the home in the video I do appreciate that my home has large picture windows from which to enjoy nature. I have coyotes and wild turkeys peering in at me from the deck, as if to say, “whatcha got to eat?” An occasional bobcat racing through the backyard, a meandering bear, huge flocks of birds migrating up the coastline, and of course, families of deer all year round. I’ve been intimidated right backwards in the door by a startled buck huffing and stomping it’s hooves, and been eyeballed too closely by a pair of hunting bald eagles on the roof.

My roofline also extends out further at the top, mimicking the look of a ship’s prow. Although almost a mile from a port town and the water, I am perched high on a hill near the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. And almost completely surrounded by water that includes Lake Michigan, inland Crystal Lake, and Betsie Bay. I live between two historic lighthouses. The summers are heaven on earth and the winters are…daunting. But quiet. Thankfully my sturdy cottage is a formidable fortress against the elements. I can adapt the architecture. The 45 degree driveway pitch, not so much…you’ll need 4 wheel drive to visit.

Watching this video gives me so many new ideas. I’ll be going out for a can of paint tomorrow. But I especially love the suggestion of writing my house a love letter. How about you? Let’s write love letters to our homes, and let’s begin with gratitude.

Gil Shafer is one of my favorite design authors. His books, gorgeously published by Rizzoli, are available here through my Amazon Affiliate link: Home At Last, https://amzn.to/3B5PUZw; The Great American House, https://amzn.to/4gtBMd4; A Place to Call Home, https://amzn.to/3XCej1K

And here are some budget friendly ideas taken from Gil Shafer’s inspiration in this video. How about those bed curtains? For a fraction of the price of curtains, I would make them from painter’s dropcloths: https://amzn.to/4gftrJR. I love the sisal rugs throughout this home. Here is one example in a 4′ X 6′ size: https://amzn.to/3TqDqSH. I have an antique bottle that I’m making into a lamp, but it isn’t costing much less than this beauty: https://amzn.to/4d4Phge. But I am smitten with the mercury glass lamp we see in the bedroom. Here is a similar lamp I’m coveting:https://amzn.to/3Tob5wt. And you can never have too many wooden trays: https://amzn.to/3zkBfcr, or storage baskets: https://amzn.to/3MEXqx4. Have fun!