Good Morning, Springboro! An Abandoned Farmstead

My original watercolor painting for this week depicts an abandoned farmstead in April. Surrounded by a tangle of shade trees and shrubs, the neglected house floats like an island in a sea of land soon to be tilled. Nature seems to know that, before long, a tractor will begin preparing the ground for planting soybeans and that she must work quickly, decorating the soil surface with purple deadnettle, the flowers of which form pink bands across the field. The scene is to be as colorful and pleasing as it can be before the beans are introduced to freshly turned earth. Warm breezes from the southwest toss the newly leafed tops of trees toward the northeast.

Abandoned Farmstead Near Springboro, Ohio

Original Watercolor Painting by Robert T. Rhode

 

The house may be empty, but, at this time of the year, it seems cheerfully occupied. Have the spirits of distant generations of family members returned to play games, sing songs, and care for one another amid the rolling pastures they once looked upon with eyes like yours and mine? It certainly appears so! In springtime, the house does not exude the lonely atmosphere of winter.

Bright clouds modulate the light on their steady passage overhead. Everything is expressed in tones of promise for a happy summer, just around the corner.

Springboro retains its small-town aura while hosting numerous subdivisions, all of which are nestled within a vast quilt of farms, woods, and creeks. A short drive from the village brings you to joyfully winding roads that lead up and down over low hills. Delightful views wait around the bends in the byways.

Had the Brontë sisters lived outside Springboro, tourists would come from countries far away to see where the authors had lived, and the travelers would not be disappointed, finding that, by pointing their cameras in any direction, they could frame memorable landscapes. Perhaps it is as well that Emily, Anne, and Charlotte did not pen Wuthering Heights, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, and Jane Eyre here; in the absence of droves of tourists, you can go wherever you want without the inconvenience that they occasion. By all rights, though, the alluring scenery of Springboro should have been immortalized in literature as it is most assuredly deserving of such honor.

So you are free to spend April afternoons driving along country routes that entertain your eye with successions of picturesque prospects. As Springboro is celebrating its bicentennial, this would be an excellent time to appreciate the locale by exploring the districts that surround the historic downtown.

If you would like to purchase one of my paintings from this blog series, send me a message through my website at roberttrhode.org or via Facebook.

My Sacred Places: Minnie Dunn's Inn Near Ogunquit, Maine

I hope I am remembering all of this accurately. Many years ago, I visited a friend who, at the time, was living in Dover, New Hampshire. She encouraged me to spend a night at Minnie E. Dunn’s inn near Ogunquit, Maine. My friend explained that Minnie represented the last of a kind of northeast coastal innkeeper and that her inn was a magical place.

My friend drove me and my luggage to the inn, which was located on Route 1 with a mailing address of Wells, Maine. We took a narrow road toward the ocean. At one point, the road arched up and over an earthen barrier, a defense against an angry Atlantic. Soon, we pulled up behind a three-story Victorian house, not large but certainly tall. It stood all alone with a sandy but rocky beach in front. It had perhaps two distant neighbors of similar construction; they were fairly far down the coast in either direction. Minnie met us at the door that was up a short flight of stairs. She led me into a dim hallway. Even though it was dark, it felt cozy. A small lamp cast an amber glow above a guest register that she asked me to sign. I could hear her breathing. The only other sound was the drone of the sea.

Minnie Dunn's Inn Near Ogunquit, Maine

At the End of the Tourist Season in 1985

(Front and Back of Photograph)

Putting down the pen, I took my first good look at Minnie. She was diminutive. Bright, friendly eyes peered at me from a face that must have spun heads in her direction back when she was a recent graduate from secondary school. Her hair was a billowing white. She smiled and spoke with a deep Maine accent, “May I show you to your room?” Up the stairs and up the stairs we went until I was tucked away at the top of the inn. My windows faced the ocean. I had a tall bed and an ancient bureau. I was surprised that, at her age, Minnie climbed all those stairs without complaint. “Come down to the sitting room when you’re ready,” she said, turning to descend.

Minnie Dunn on the Right

(At the end of her note, Minnie writes that

her tabby “comes 1st now I have him. I believe

you have pets. They come first, or don’t have them.”)

My friend beamed: “Isn’t she wonderful?” I nodded, unsure what to think. “You’re really going to enjoy this,” said my friend reassuringly.

We followed the sets of stairs back to where we had started, and my friend abandoned me, promising to retrieve me the next morning. I was alone in the sitting room with Minnie. She served me tea. The surging of the waves was ever present. Minnie politely explained the rules of her house, such as how to knock the sand off my shoes before reentering her inn. She asked me questions, explaining that she always wanted to know her guests. Gradually, I warmed up to her charm, and I asked her questions. She had been an outstanding student in secondary school in the early 1900s and was a passionate reader. Her original paintings hung on the walls and were lovely. The scent of oils with maybe a hint of turpentine wafted from her workroom. As the afternoon was well advanced, Minnie suggested that I walk along the coast until dinner. She said she had asked a neighbor to bring freshly caught lobster for our principal course.

I strode beside the water’s curling edge while clouds rushed overhead. Toward the north were dark gray boulders. I could easily imagine that I was in a scene from Wuthering Heights. My mind incrementally accepted the thundering of the crests as the natural accompaniment to this place. I saw no other human being. For all I could tell, I was the only person on that stretch of earth.

The time flew. Soon, Minnie and I were seated at her dining table in a topsy-turvy room packed with antique furniture and knickknacks. She patiently taught me how to eat a lobster: “You can eat that part if you wish. I never do, but others say they like it.” We laughed and chatted and had the best time! (Years later, Minnie Dunn was the central character in my first attempt at a novel. While my book was not well written, I think of it with a certain fondness.)

That night, I slept so soundly that I never once awoke until the alarm rang on the bedside clock. I felt perhaps the best I have ever felt in my life! Maybe it was the lobster, or maybe it was the salt air. Whatever it was, it was a tonic to my soul. Rather reluctantly, I packed my overnight bag. I greeted Minnie in the sitting room. I now recognized that she was one of a kind, the last of a Northeasterner of her generation: gracious but firm in her opinions, keen but not inclined to boast, familiar but not too familiar. I heard my friend’s car outside. I settled up for the cost of the room and dinner, and I said my goodbyes. I expressed my hope that I would return.

Letter from Minnie E. Dunn on Christmas Eve, 1985

(Minnie’s closing sentence about rabbits refers to

the greeting card cover that is not shown here.)

After many years elapsed, I did return to Maine. At first, I had a difficult time finding the road to Minnie’s inn. Everything had changed! The sleepy towns that I had visited had become big cities with development in all directions. Eventually, I discovered the road to the coast. I saw new hotels—many of them—about as far as the eye could see. There were people everywhere! I tried to accept the stunning changes, but I could not. I mentally thanked my friend from years before, who had exhibited enough foresight to urge me to stay at Minnie’s inn before her way of life came to an end. Later, I discovered that Minnie had died a few years after she had taught me how to eat lobster at her dining table in her comfortable room with her happy paintings smiling back at us.