Peyton Carmichael

In a shameless paraphrase of Joseph Conrad: Whenever I find myself dragged down and frowning; whenever it is a damp January in my soul and I have to call on my every strength to prevent myself from deliberately knocking cell phones out of people's hands or pulling them out of the ears of those who are walking around talking into the air, then I account it high time to get to the country as soon as I can. This is my substitute for drink and dissolution. I loaded up my van with all manner of Arches watercolor paper, Winsor and Newton brushes, about twenty canvases purchased in Alabama Art Supply's half-off sale, and my favorite pencils and sketchbooks. I plugged in my iPod and turned it to the Elizabeth Vandiver lectures on The Aeneid, a book I have yet to finish, and arrived at my wonderful old home at nightfall. I dislike entering the house in the dark - like most old houses it is creepy until all the lights are on. The ceilings are high and the shadows are deep.

The house is looking well, given the fact that it sits here all by itself for long stretches of time. It's been here since 1867, so perhaps it's used to the whims of humans. I came in making a lot of noise to make myself feel...what? Safe? I don't know. But I bustled around turning on lights and dumping coats and bags and supplies, moving briskly up the tall silent steps into the dark upstairs hall where it was freezing. I thought heat rises, but apparently not here. I went in all the upstairs rooms or I knew I would imagine noises in them all night. All was still and looked exactly like I left it three weeks ago during my last visit. I took the yellow bedroom for my room this time - there are so many bedrooms I kind of go from one to the other. I put my computer in the manroom, which is the big den where the hunting prints, television and bar are located. It is the only room in the entire house that has even a slightly modern look. Everything else is 19th Century. In my artist rags and sandals I am a living anachronism. 

Now I am going to bed so I can get an early start in the morning.  It crossed my mind that moving into a really old house in the dead of winter in the middle of the night is not the best idea in the world. I have the furnace turned up and I can hear it working but when I went out into the hall to turn off the lights  it was icey cold out there. I'll have to call Mr. Lee in the morning and get him to check on the vents. Till then, dear reader, I'm off to my great big four-poster bed and the warmth of some serious blankets.