Disclaimer

Silly me!

I wrote the previous post in response to an email I received from a Southern woman who had chanced upon my blog, and wanted more detailed information about portières than I had supplied. I decided to write my response in the form of a blog entry....she's not the first person to have googled "portière" and ended up here, and presumably won't be the last. For purposes of economy and clarity, I concentrated on the details of construction, glossing over the checkered history of its creation.

Did this abridgement slip past my eagle-eyed brother-in-law? No way.

So, I'm posting the following disclaimer:

For "I" in the part about the sewing, read "my little sister, Leslie, who can sew circles around me blindfolded, with both hands tied around her back." For "I" in the part about the doorstop, read "my handy friend with tools, Brian." For "I" in the part about the hacksaw, read "my son." For "I" in the part about mislaying the bracket, read "I." For a picture of Leslie sewing the portière, see my post of 11/24/06.

Come to think of it, my friends Priya and Donna, as well as Donna's Aunt Eldora (may she rest in peace), also struggled with some of the measuring, pinning, cutting, and sewing of the portière.

An historic home like mine takes you over in the best possible way. I don't think of myself as "owning" the Emory House, but rather of being its steward. In my very first blog post, I declare my resolution to make a portière. In the third, I detail the assistance of my reclusive neighbor Ken in repairing my stairwell. Living in this house has helped me to forge connections with the past, present, and future. This roof has united my poet friends, my book club friends, my neighbors, my relatives, my childhood friends, my workmates.

I use my front door a dozen times a day. I never look at the portière without thinking of Leslie, Bill, Brian, Ali, Priya, Donna, and Eldora. I never sit on my glider without thinking of all the people with whom I've shared it. I never go to bed without a passing thought of all the people who have lived in, slept in, possibly died in that room. That's the gift, and also the curse, of history.

Overachiever

She can knit; she can crochet. She can embroider and cross-stitch and quilt. She can sew--not just dresses and suits, but bridal gowns with ten-foot trains, encrusted all over with beads and seed pearls. Plus all the gowns for the bridesmaids, maid of honor, and flower girls. Bathing suits for the kids and tailored suits for her husband.

She can make stained glass--not just suncatchers and little objets d'art like the kaleidescope that sits in my library, but the rose window in her church. She can bead: not just bracelets and necklaces and earrings, but ornate collars of 24-carat-gold seed beads.

She can cook. Not just a mean dinner, but all the food for a wedding party. All the lunches for the kids at the school she helped to found. The daily quota of cinnamon rolls for the coffeehouse/restaurant she owns. She's the woman who says, "If you're going to light the oven to make a pie, you might as well make six."

And this is what she does in her spare time. She has a job, after all.

If she were my older sister, she might get obnoxious about it. But she's my baby sister, so in fact she's real sweet about her accomplishments.

She showed up two days ago, and she's already whipping my house into shape. It looks like the portière might get crossed off the list of resolutions after all. And the sit-down dinner for 30 is not going to be anything to panic about. Leslie is in the house.