Fishing In My Stream
Some things you let float by
Others, you hope to catch and hold on to
In 2011, we attended a workshop in Pennsylvania. While visiting the tiny town of Jim Thorpe, we stayed in a charming B&B on the north side of the river. The innkeeper, Mary, was a sweet retiree from New Jersey making a go of it with the home she had inherited from her mother. Except for being a bit overbearing, she was great. And a good cook.
Mary insisted that we be at breakfast at 9 o’clock sharp. This isn't unusual for a B&B—breakfast is usually at a set time—but Mary required us to be at the table at 9:00 a.m., no earlier, no later. This posed a particular problem for us, as we had class each day at the studio across town at 8 a.m. We tried to explain our predicament and begged off breakfast, but Mary wouldn’t have it. She seemed genuinely hurt by the idea.
As the week went by, she devised various schemes to keep us at breakfast, offering coupons to other local spots or encouraging us to adjust our schedule to fit her morning ritual. I began to suspect her motives as she spoke constantly about her “fine china,” recently acquired from an estate sale—“an entire matched set! Have you ever heard of such an amazing accomplishment?”
At one point, we even found ourselves photographing her breakfast table settings, promising to send her the photos. For some reason, we never did. They were good photos, but we’ve been procrastinating for three years. She shouldn’t give up, though—it could still happen.
Over time, we became friends with Mary. She got on my nerves, but then again, most people do. I have a passive-aggressive personality with a deep streak of sociopathy. The more difficult someone is, the harder I smile and make polite conversation, only to complain about it bitterly later. My wife loves it. The more intense the personality, the more she bends like a reed and laughs at my take on the situation.
Our room at the inn was tiny. Old homes generally have spacious rooms, but this B&B had been remodeled to serve as a hotel, meaning a carpenter had added a full bath in the bedroom, swallowing precious real estate with walls and doors. This was particularly challenging for two artists sharing the space and constantly working on projects, trying to get the most out of the workshop. Thankfully, I managed not to destroy the room with spilled paint or other disasters.
I was suspicious and slightly jealous of the other guests, certain their rooms were bigger than ours. They only stayed for a day or two at most, while we were there for the full seven days. Perhaps that meant we were given a less ideal spot in exchange for a longer stay.
The beauty of Mary and the B&B shone through when we needed an extra night. Our plan had been to leave and head back to Philly on Friday evening after the final critique. But, by then, we’d found all sorts of reasons not to leave the quaint little town. Unfortunately, Mary, the enterprising warden she was, had already booked our room for the weekend. We were homeless.
We pleaded for recommendations, but Mary just looked at us with forlorn, puppy-dog eyes. Shaking her head no, we thanked her and said we’d be back for our bags at the end of the day.
At lunch, Mary called. Heartbroken, she told us how much she liked us and wished she could help. Finally, she made an offer: the attic.
Most people (myself included) think of attics as sweltering, drafty spaces full of ductwork and insulation. But this was different—Mary had remodeled it to live in while converting the house into a B&B.
“When you come by to pick up your luggage, you can check it out. If you don’t like it, no harm done. If you do, you’re welcome to stay for the night.”
What did we have to lose? I’d been nice to her for a week; one last look couldn’t hurt.
The door to the attic was a curious one, about a foot off the ground at the far end of the stairway where we’d stayed all week. I’d assumed it was a utility closet, not realizing it was the bridge to Terabithia. As soon as Mary opened it, we saw the carpet—no longer the carefully chosen decorator rugs but instead a short, royal blue sculpted carpet that brought back memories of childhood. Things only got better as we climbed a very steep, narrow stairwell that lifted us into what felt like a secret hideaway.
The attic was a magical space, fully finished with two-foot-high walls and a vaulted ceiling just high enough for me to stand upright. It was equipped with an air conditioner, a full bath, and quirky, eclectic furnishings. The room’s layout consisted of four long areas, each more eccentric than the last.
Despite being filled with stored boxes, it was easily the best room in the house.
I told Mary she should rent it out to creatives, just as it was (minus the boxes), and call it “the Artist’s Suite.” I doubt she ever did, but she should have.
We had a ball. It was like camping in luxury—a perfect finish to a perfect week in Jim Thorpe, PA.
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