Soul Trees

You can expect just about anything up at Richard Richardson's place. Tonight was his annual solstice party, with a Goddess band, another, bluesier band, fire dancing, a groaning board of interesting food (like simmered collards, homemade ravioli, wild rice with sweet potatoes, red tomato pie) and drink (umeshu plum wine, raspberry cheesecake pudding shots, mead, and of course plenty of merlot), etc., etc. Perfect opportunity to wear your feathered headdress, your kilt, your vest made of leaves, or your entire scarf collection. Richard had an arresting new shirt--you could spot him from two football fields away. Brighter gold than his newly-painted house (see above) with a mesmerizing pattern which resolved itself, once your eyes adjusted, into a tiger staring out at you from his midsection.

We didn't stay too long. I had already spent a full day in Connecticut before heading up to Goshen, Alma had poison ivy in her eye from working on the set of Labor Day, and Chris was worried about leaving his dog alone for too long. We had eaten and drunk our fill, danced, sat around the fire pit with old friends, scored a couple of deep massages, seen Richard's latest installations, and watched the moon rise. We were picking our way carefully in the pitch dark, trying to find our car, and this is what we stumbled upon. A woman watering metal trees in the moonlight with a big watering can.

The woman is Antoinette Reed of Cummington and the sculptures are part of her exhibit of "Soul Trees," with Robyn Cummings. They're mostly copper, with glass, marble, and found objects worked into them. Anyone who's been up to the Three Sisters Sanctuary will understand how well these fit into the landscape there. And anyone who hasn't visited really should. There'll be an opening June 30, catered by Bread Euphoria (yum), Blue House Café (yum), the Old Creamery (yum), and Sherry Berry Catering (don't know them, but I assume yum). The event's from 2 till 8, so you won't need a camera flash to see what's in the garden.

Dumb Irishwoman Goes to a Party

I never partied with the Shah, or with Andy Warhol, or with Malcolm Forbes. But hey, they're all dead, and I'm still here. The tent city of Persepolis has gone back to sand, the Palais Mendoub is a government residence, and the Factory's been torn down. Fortunately for me, the Three Sisters Sanctuary is going strong, Richard Richardson throws amazing parties, and I'm always on the guest list. This time it was a St. Patrick's Day party...a couple of days late, but that was more than made up for by its being Saturday night AND the night of the Supermoon.

I can't think of a better place (that I could get to without a jet) for watching a full moon. Richard's land looks to be a former cow pasture, in the middle of nowhere with no other houses or streetlights or other signs of human habitation. One of the draws, particularly of the warm-weather outdoor parties, is the darkness. You stumble around on paths lit only by torches or jack o'lanterns. You can hear the drum circle or the bluegrass trio, but you can't figure out how to get to it. You huddle by the fire-breathing dragon for warmth, and see eerie shadows flickering over the visages of your fellow revelers.

But this wasn't that. This was a comfier, cozier party, with the Guinness flowing freely and the tables groaning with food. The magnificent woodstove was stoked at one end of the great room, and Phyllis LaTaille was playing Irish music at the other. Two of Richard's recent creations, "Birch Boy" and "Festive Empress," eyed each other shyly from opposite sides of the room. Leprechauns abounded. A multigenerational family of females came dressed as colleen pageant queens, their winning years proclaimed on their banners. I was in green from my hair ribbons to my boots, but my outfit paled before Richard's gem-encrusted green top hat, tie, jacket, and felt leprechaun shoes.

When the moon rose, the party moved outside, and a spontaneous group howl erupted. I howled along enthusiastically. Sorry, Mr. Lussier. I'm just a dumb Irishwoman, I guess.